For The Musical Genius (Novel) - Chapter 83
Chapter 83
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Discord
“There are stories about Paganini that make you doubt your eyes. For instance, the ‘Miracle of the Black Crows.’ In a small town in Bologna, there was a belief that crows must appear during a funeral for the deceased’s soul to ascend to heaven. But on that day, it had rained for so long that not even a sparrow was in sight—let alone crows.”
Patter, patter— Right on cue, heavy rain began drumming against the window.
“The mourners tried everything to summon the crows, even putting out rotten pork, but the stench of wet earth overpowered it. They were devastated, fearing their father’s soul would never rise. Then, he appeared—Paganini.”
His dry lips twitched with excitement.
“Traveling through, Paganini heard their plight and immediately took out his violin. He began playing Largo, a slow, expansive melody that cut through the rain. Records say the downpour sounded like an accompaniment. The mourners, lost in grief, were so entranced by his music that they forgot to blink.”
And then—
“As if by magic, the crows—vanished until then—appeared. So many that the gray sky turned black!”
Adam Wischow, the chief editor of Gramophone, shook his head at the unbelievable tale. Artists’ legends were often exaggerated or fabricated, especially Paganini’s. Rumors even claimed he’d sold his soul to the devil—so much so that the Church denied him a burial.
“Director, you’re not seriously considering including that anecdote in the script, are you?”
“Why not? Do you think those records are false?”
“Audiences want to see the virtuoso who mesmerized Liszt, Brahms, and Mangore—not a violinist dabbling in black magic. This might alienate those expecting a musical biopic.”
He wasn’t wrong. This was the first film about Niccolò Paganini, after all. As the saying goes, the first button must be fastened right.
“Editor, I have no intention of fabricating anything. If the protagonist plays the violin and crows descend, that’s the scene.”
An absurd notion, yet the director’s face brimmed with confidence.
“Director, you sound as if you believe you are Paganini.”
“Not entirely wrong.”
“What?”
Just then, Jean-Pierre stood up.
“I must go find him now—the elusive Paganini, hiding in the shadows.”
—
The reception room was steeped in the scent of aged wood.
In my past life, I’d met powerful figures, thanks to my father-in-law, a three-term lawmaker. But this was my first encounter with old-world powerbrokers. Who’d have thought even these two were Chairman Wang’s scholarship protégés?
“We’re supporting the savings banks through special measures, but it won’t last long, sir.”
“How much time do they have?”
“Two months at most.”
If savings banks collapsed, commercial banks would follow.
“Asset-liability transfers will force mergers. We anticipate at least ten banks folding. As for leadership…”
“What about the current executives?”
“A mass purge. The media frenzy makes it untenable. They’ll count themselves lucky to avoid handcuffs.”
In finance, appointments were less about merit and more about the Blue House’s whims—especially during the era of government-controlled banking. The balding man before us held the financial sector’s lifeline in his hands.
“Outline the next steps.”
The dynamic resembled a subordinate briefing a CEO. The irony? Their deference made Chairman Wang seem like the nation’s shadow ruler. No wonder even his son, Chairman Son Il-seon, feared him.
“Korea Steel is just the beginning. Debt rescheduling and court receivership are delaying the inevitable. Major conglomerates are no better—their debt ratios exceed 450%. They’re already in default.”
Then Chairman Wang glanced at me. He remembered my earlier words.
“Hyun, you take it from here.”
All eyes turned to me. The two protégés stared, baffled—why was a child here, let alone speaking?
“Ultimately, they can’t save themselves.”
The balding man’s eyes widened.
“Go on.”
“They’ll need external help.”
“Is there no other way?”
“This isn’t an external crisis. It’s internal rot. How can a limbless man stand? The government will hide the bailout—to avoid panic.”
Shock flashed across Director Lim Hye-ra’s face. Only Grandfather and Chairman Wang nodded.
“Why would the government go that far?”
Officially, to prevent chaos. In reality? The backlash would be catastrophic. A bailout would come with strings: mass layoffs for “labor flexibility,” widening wealth gaps, and soaring interest rates. In short—
“Because the people will pay the price.”
The Blue House’s economic secretary and the Bank of Korea governor gaped at me as if I were a ghost.
—
Gulp, gulp—
The pond’s golden koi had grown plump from overfeeding. They swarmed the surface at the slightest movement, mistaking shadows for food.
“These fools forget their meals the moment they’re done. Quite dim-witted.”
Chairman Wang appeared beside me, watching the koi dart below.
“Hyun, humans aren’t so different. Those men we met earlier? They’re no better—always hungry for more. Endless greed, once habitual, becomes one’s nature.”
An autumn breeze rippled the water, scattering the koi.
“I often wonder about your nature.”
What did he mean?
“When you play the violin, your musical hunger is palpable. Other times, you’re like a monk detached from worldly desires. Some call this turmoil a crisis; others, an opportunity. What do you call it?”
To me, it was nothing. Unlike my past life, power and greed held no allure. I’d even prepared for politics as a congressman after exposing corporate corruption. I could list countless ways to amass wealth—yet felt no urge to.
But Chairman Wang seemed displeased.
“If another crisis arises when you’re older, I hope you’ll act. A capable bystander is worse than a fool. Only then can I entrust Yoo Ha to you with peace.”
Again, the conversation veered there. Then, his playful tone vanished. His gaze turned probing, as if dissecting my soul.
“Hyun, remember: money has no morality.”
His first piece of advice to me.
—
Writing sheet music, as always, cleared my mind. Notes on the stave seemed alive. When the final fermata marked the completed score, an unparalleled euphoria surged through me—a genuine fulfillment my success-driven past life never knew.
“Hyun, the score is finally done, I see?” “Ah, my apologies, Director.”
A guest had arrived early at the studio: Jean-Pierre. He’d flown from France for me, even urging me to prioritize composing over meetings.
“Now I understand why labels clamor to work with you. Watching you—it’s mesmerizing. Truly captivating.”
“You flatter me.”
“Shall we discuss the main topic?”
It was about Paganini. But the script contained eyebrow-raising elements—like summoning crows with a violin. Preposterous. Legends grew taller with time, but this? Unless Paganini had made a devil’s pact…
“Director, the crow scene feels like a stretch.”
“You think so? I’m surprised you’d say that.”
He was serious.
During La Vie en Rose, I’d learned of Jean-Pierre’s bullheadedness when fixated. What now? The Paganini film from my past life had no such scene. Another butterfly effect? Then came his absurd request.
“Then play for us. It’s been too long since I heard your Caprices. Preferably outdoors.”
“You don’t actually expect crows to appear, do you?”
His eager nod nearly made me laugh. Suppressing it, I took my practice violin. The gallery rooftop, open and wind-swept, felt like standing in a vast plain.
Zing.
I raised the bow against the breeze. The melody soared—Paganini’s Caprice No. 24, the piece I’d once played until my fingers bled at the arts center. My stiff fingers screamed, yet the notes were sharper than ever.
“Satisfied?”
Gulping air, I looked at Jean-Pierre. The cloudless sky held neither birds nor dragonflies. Obviously—I wasn’t the Pied Piper. Paganini’s tale was just that: a tale. Yet, disappointment etched his face.
“Let’s head down, Director.”
I hurried back before he could request another piece. Geniuses like Dr. Tikhonov and Jean-Pierre were all eccentrics.
Click.
As the rooftop door shut and their footsteps faded—
Flutter.
An unnamed bird landed where Hyun had stood.