When Yuki sees him for the first time her heart quickens, though she does not notice.
She is standing in the canteen, her hunger demanding food at all the wrong times, her internal rhythms still in sync with home. It is her second day on the summer course and she has excused herself during chamber group to use the bathroom, so she can find something to eat.
There were few things Yuki would risk embarrassing herself over, but food had always been one of them. As the violist struggled with the phrasing of the Allemande, Yuki had raised her hand, and the words,
Can
I
Use
Toilet
had fallen out of her mouth. The teacher, a short-haired, beaded woman had looked at her, round glasses glinting in the hard light of the piano room. Then she had nodded, smiling a little—a smile that had felt conspiratorial, as if to say, save yourself .
That morning, Yuki had quickly realised that she was the best player in her group. Not only did she pick up the melody, the pace of the piece, the fastest, but she also understood the textures, the story of the music, in a way that the other players didn’t. She admired the cellist for her accuracy, but her playing was ultimately dull. The other violinist was good in his own way, technical and precise, but, unlike Yuki, he was lacking in lyricality. As for the viola: she was graceless. She didn’t understand the beauty of B-flat. It was knowing this that gave Yuki the confidence to raise her hand. She recognised, with a grim awareness, that it was often only when others around her were falling short, that she felt good about herself. That was where her confidence grew, from the soft, loamy decay of others.
As Yuki gets out her mother’s purple coin purse, she wonders if that confidence has always been there, buried under versions of herself, afraid to be known.
She looks up. His back is to her. He bends down to take the fallen thing from the vending machine. He pulls back and turns around, not knowing she is there.
(There she is)
Their eyes meet. A shift in the air. He smiles, says,
Hello.
Hi , she says.
Because hello is difficult for Yuki to say without feeling self-conscious.
All yours , he says. Gesturing to the machine.
Yuki isn’t sure she completely understands but she nods anyway. He smiles again and passes by her. Yuki steps towards the machine, her hunger shifting. She turns her head and watches him go, as he turns his head and watches her watching. The space between them fills and sags with possibility. In the crease of his eyes Yuki sees a future.
Two days later Yuki is walking to orchestra, and this time she does notice the quickening of her heart. When she enters the hall their eyes meet across the music stands and cello bows, the language barriers and freshly waxed floors. Their eyes meet, green to brown. The seed of possibility that was planted days before, jumps, swells, then settles again, embedding itself. Snuggling down into the pit of her stomach, rooted and wild within her. When he speaks to her about the semibreve on the second page, Yuki’s head grows hot and she has to wipe her upper lip of sweat. When she catches his eye mid oboe solo, Yuki feels herself opening in places she thought were faulty to her. She wants to be close to this man. This man who is older than her. This man who does not wear a wedding ring. This man with kind eyes. She wants to feel his body against hers. She wants to know the smell of his skin.
*
It’s the Monday morning of the second week and Yuki is early. She locks her bike and walks to the Polish café with its red awning and black chalkboard. She pushes the door open and he is there. Sat in the corner, hunched over some work. He doesn’t look up when she walks in, so Yuki doesn’t say anything. She only hesitates, smiles tightly at his furrowed brow and walks, eyes down, to the counter. She stares at the dug-into carrot cakes, scones, the grey, wet sandwich fillings.
What can I get you?
Uhh. Mocha. Please. Takeaway.
She doesn’t like coffee so it’s the closest thing to sophistication.
And one. Please. She points to a croissant and shows the barista her student card.
That’ll be £1.90.
Thank you.
If you just wanna wait at the end. Be with you in a second.
She walks to the end of the counter and waits.
Her entire back is magnetised. On fire. She watches the man pour frothy milk into a paper cup, shake cocoa powder over the top.
There we go.
Thank you.
She turns and he is sat there, angled towards her, looking at her with an easeful smile.
Hi. How are you? he says.
Her face feels rigid, the muscles straining into a half smile. Good. Thank you. How are you?
Fine thanks. You wanna sit down? He checks his watch. We don’t start for a while.
Uh. She hesitates.
He pulls out a chair.
. . . Thank you.
She walks over and sits, unable to look at him.
How are you finding it? The course?
Good, she says.
He laughs. Not very exciting for you?
No, no. It’s good. You are good teacher.
You don’t need to flatter me, you’re a good enough violinist as it is.
He speaks fast, as if she were a native. Yuki thinks she understands the latter part, the compliment. Heat spreads up her neck.
He points a number one with his index finger.
I was thinking you should move to the first violins. I’ll make sure you do that for the next piece we work on.
Ah. Thank you.
Yuki’s cheeks flush. She takes a sip from her coffee cup and flinches, burning her tongue.
Have you seen a lot of London yet?
Yuki shakes her head. No .
You should, there’s lots to see. Where are you living?
Uh, Finchley.
Oh dear, not a great introduction to London!
Yuki smiles, looks down at the red speckled table.
. . . Do you miss Japan?
She looks up at him and holds his gaze. Shakes her head again. No .
Good.
He takes a sip from his coffee.
You know you should take a look at this music shop in central London. JP Guivier. It’s one of the oldest. A friend of mine works there. They have an amazing Bittig violin from the 1600s. It’s not a Stradivarius, but it’s as good as. Beautiful thing. He might even let you play it, if you’re nice.
. . . Stradivarius?
Well, this one’s from Geneva. Very, very expensive.
Okay.
Maybe you can have a play on it one day?
I play?
Oh yeah. Stick with me, kid. He checks his watch again. We should go.
He downs his coffee and stands. Yuki follows, standing abruptly, nearly knocking over her drink. Table wobbling.
Sorry . . .
He walks past her.
I’ll take you if you like? Friday maybe? A half day, so we could go around three?
I, ah—
The music shop. You want to go, right?
Yes. If—
Great. I’ll find you at three. Sorry, I have to run.
He leaves.
*
He talks to her as if English is her mother tongue.
Maybe he uses this to his advantage.
When she is older and alone, she will think,
(Maybe when words failed me, he used the silences to touch me.
Maybe that is all he wanted.
A silent girl with worship in her eyes.)