For The Musical Genius (Novel) - Chapter 88
Chapter 88
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Discord
“Fifteen years old?”
The teacup trembled violently.
“Director, with all due respect, this is Niccolò Paganini. The first virtuoso said to have sold his soul to the devil. Surely you know that no young violinist, no matter how talented, can replicate his playing—even if that violinist is the youngest Queen Elisabeth Competition winner.”
The actor had once majored in violin, so he understood the weight of Paganini’s name. In a project that could barely secure enough European masters, casting an unfamiliar Asian violinist must have seemed absurd. Especially since Hyun, the violinist in question, hadn’t held a single recital in two years.
“Look at my fingers. I’ve started playing the violin again—not just to mimic Paganini’s appearance, but to embody it. Didn’t you say it yourself, Director? The essence of a music film lies not in the actor, but in the unseen musician behind the scenes.”
His fingertips were calloused. A dedicated actor, indeed—one who understood his role and strove relentlessly.
“I’ve watched your La Vie en Rose countless times. The musician was undeniably brilliant. But Paganini’s playing is on a completely different level, isn’t it? Frankly, I don’t understand why you’re so insistent on that young violinist. France, Germany, even Italy—there are plenty of renowned maestros available. Other actors share my concerns.”
He knew. The murmurs among the staff were proof enough. Hyun’s performance in La Vie en Rose had been impressive, but it was far from Paganini’s dazzling virtuosity. If anything, it was marked by rich sensitivity and restrained delicacy—a completely different style. Just because someone excels at ballads doesn’t mean they can rock.
“Alessandro, care for a wager?”
“Huh?”
“If you hear his playing and remain unmoved, I’ll admit defeat. I’ll step down as director of Paganini.”
Alessandro’s face twisted in disbelief. His eyes seemed to ask, Do you trust him that much? But then, Paganini was said to have stolen the hearts of even those who envied him. Even the priest who spread rumors of his demonic pact had been mesmerized by his performance.
“You truly believe in him to that extent?”
From the moment they met, it had felt like fate. Jean-Pierre responded with a faint smile. Once Alessandro heard Hyun play, he’d understand—without a doubt, he was Paganini incarnate.
—
“Hyun, breakfast is ready—!”
Apparently, Russian roosters crowed earlier than Korean ones. Dr. Tikhonov had adapted perfectly to life in Korea—so much so that he’d rolled up his sleeves to help the housekeeper cook breakfast, refusing lodging fees in exchange. At this rate, he’d never starve.
“My best borscht and pelmeni, Boss.”
The breakfast table was now under Russian occupation. The housekeeper and even Grandpa had surrendered to Tikhonov’s enthusiasm.
“It’s delicious, Dr. Tikhonov.”
Tikhonov beamed as if he’d just commercialized graphene. The borscht and pelmeni were exceptional—his cooking skills were no joke.
“Hyun, you’re going to Pyeongchang-dong today, right?”
“Yes, Grandpa.”
“Good. Keep Grandpa Yoo-ha company while you’re there.”
It was their weekly ritual. The image of Chairman Wang—sometimes a charismatic tycoon, other times a mischievous grandfather—flashed in Hyun’s mind. Just then, Tikhonov stood up, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Now, I’ll prepare dessert!”
Despite protests, Tikhonov was adamant. In Russia, it was an honor for guests to cook. At this point, they hadn’t hired a chemist—they’d recruited a Russian chef.
—
“Student Kang Hyun, we’re here.”
They arrived at the grand Pyeongchang-dong mansion, now as familiar as the back of his hand. Inside the parlor, Chairman Wang sat not with a chessboard, but with an unexpected guest: Director Im Hye-ra.
“Student Kang Hyun, your usual juice?”
“No, white milk, please.”
A growth spurt was imminent.
“Hyun, it seems Grandma Yoo-ha will accompany you to the film set this time.”
“Huh?”
Director Im cut in.
“Your mother can’t keep traveling abroad. I’ll go instead. Contractually, it’s fine—I’m your legal guardian. But really, I heard from your father… did something happen between you and Yoo-ha at the airport?”
Hyun nearly spat out his milk. What does she mean, ‘something’?
“It was just a farewell hug.”
“And a kiss, I heard?”
“That was just a ‘have a safe trip’ peck!”
Director Im’s smirk deepened.
“On the lips?”
Chairman Wang stifled a laugh. Ah, right—the entire nature resort was under his thumb.
—
Niccolò Paganini was said to have suffered from a rare condition. His physician’s memoirs described his fingers as unusually long, with low bone density, allowing his joints to bend like a bow. His thumb could touch his pinky from the back of his hand.
Of course, his virtuosity wasn’t just biology—it was forged through relentless effort.
“Haaah… haah…”
Alessandro gasped for breath. Though now a Hollywood star, he’d once been a violin major. He knew Paganini’s legend better than anyone. Even now, his fingers screamed in protest as he mimicked the score.
“No wonder they said he sold his soul to the devil.”
Paganini’s techniques were now studied, but back then, his scores were secret, fueling rumors of demonic pacts. Even Liszt, a prodigy himself, had called Paganini’s playing “the devil’s melody.”
“Alessandro, working hard as always?”
His co-star, Martina. Normally, he’d bow politely, but today, he had no energy left. The closer filming got, the more his lips parched. Then, Martina’s next words doused him like ice water.
“Oh, that friend is visiting the set today. The violinist Jean-Pierre recommended—Hyun, was it? I don’t know much about violinists, but he must be famous, right?”
Famous? Two years ago, he’d shaken the classical world—then vanished. No recitals, no albums, just a handful of collaborations. Alessandro stared at his own ruined fingers, once devoted to the violin.
—
“President, aren’t you busy?”
“Hyun, ‘President’ sounds so cold!”
“But in public, it’s proper.”
Director Im was, after all, the gallery’s CEO, and Hyun its artist. This was a business trip—to Italy, no less, with two connecting flights.
“I’m curious about the set, and there are a few pieces I want from Italy’s auctions.”
Art auctions were battlegrounds for collectors. Each piece cost billions. As the plane descended over Rome, Hyun asked,
“Where to first?”
“The set. I told Jean-Pierre we’d drop by.”
Director Im’s secretary drove. To outsiders, Hyun probably looked like a son tagging along with his mother.
“Hyun, thank you for coming. And Hye-ra, I appreciate you making the trip.”
Jean-Pierre rushed out barefoot to greet them. The set was complete, its colors and antique props perfectly capturing the Romantic era.
Then Hyun noticed the actors—Hollywood’s elite, like Alessandro and Martina—rehearsing off-script. Their eyes met.
“Pleasure. You must be Hyun, the violinist Jean-Pierre praised so highly?”
The atmosphere was tense. Many resented Hyun’s involvement in the soundtrack.
‘A power play?’
Film sets were battlegrounds between directors and lead actors. Jean-Pierre, a two-year director, was no match for veterans like Alessandro and Martina.
“Sorry, Hyun. It’s different from La Vie en Rose, isn’t it? Some doubt you can handle Paganini’s pieces. They think an older violinist would be better.”
Hyun understood now. To outsiders, his hiatus made him an unproven wildcard—especially with his small stature.
“Director, do you have a spare practice violin?”
If they doubted his skill, he’d show them. The prop team brought out several violins. Hyun chose the most battered one—its strings frayed, its soundboard rusted.
“May I have your attention? I’m Hyun, a violinist from Korea. Since everyone’s here rehearsing on a holiday, I’d like to play a piece for you. May I?”
All eyes turned to the child standing confidently on stage. Even Director Im watched with interest. Hyun examined the violin. Its strings could snap any moment.
He’d once played for the London Symphony when a string broke. Since then, he’d practiced playing on a single G-string.
As he raised the bow, Alessandro leaned forward, intrigued.
The moment the bow touched the string—
“Zing—!”
The first string snapped.