Prelude
Strings
"There are still so many beautiful things to be said in C major."
- Sergei Prokofiev
Strings
Chapter 1
Prelude
Of all keys Huang Zitao had known and played, there’s nothing more memorable than C Major. It sends him back to the prelude of his journey; to the exactly winter evening seventeen years ago, to a particular sidewalk blanketed with snow, and to the man who played the most beautiful pieces with his dearest cello. It’s the humblest key without any sharps or flats; even from the beginning to end. It’s the first key he memorised and fiddled with his tiny fingers, clambering its first time to grasp the fingerboard of Joonmyeon’s cello.
“Do you like the sound of it?,” Joonmyeon carefully shifted the boy’s finger to another tone of C major. His other hand was clasping the boy’s right hand like a shell, fiddling the bow softly to an exact sound of do re mi.
“Yes – yes, mister!,” he chirped.
Zitao was tip-toeing before Joonmeyon, almost hidden by the fat and tall instrument. The four-year-old boy was one of kind. Joonmyeon couldn’t defy other’s definite volition and attraction to this old, dull, and massive cello of his.
It began with an innocent peek which later grew to a curious observation. Joonmyeon was playing a musical piece at the sidewalk under the mild snow of evening –as usual, a rug under his feet with countable coins laying on it, and the boy he then subsequently knew as Zitao finally gathered his courage to approach him and his dearest instrument.
The boy’s oversized jacket, overused gloves and bare, clumsily ordered ebony hair without warm cap signified like a lost child or something; it managed to gather Joonmyeon’s curiosity.
“Aren’t you cold, kid?,” the street musician started the conversation during their uncertain encounter.
The boy however, faintly shook his head and replied with an infantile smile and beguiling orbs towards him. Arms were concealed by his back, clothed fingers were tugging as the boy was rubbing the tip of his shoe back and forth; drawing undefined lines against the mantle of snow. His curious, doe eyes seemed glued towards the man’s instrument without caring more and more snowflakes showering his hair.
“What is. . .that you are playing?,” the boy pointed directly to his instrument once ‘that’ escaped clearly from his mouth with a single swish before hiding his hand back shyly.
Joonmyeon chuckled quite to his surprise, “It’s a cello, my dear. It’s a musical instrument.”
“Ins. . . Insst. . .“
The other slightly laughed upon hearing the boy’s twisted tongue, “Just call it cello. A cel-lo.”
The hearty smile of Joonmyeon delivered enough sparks for the boy to raise upbeat skips with his toes. The air was brisk and sent energizing chills towards the boy, and he was more than ready to be introduced to Mr. Cello. With trust and thrill of the boy’s ingenuousness growing in his heart, Joonmyeon began to exchange name with Zitao, and conversing everything brand new to the boy who was genuinely curious about music.
Pieces by pieces, and notes by notes, Zitao studied the other’s vibrating fingers and skilful fiddling alternately with conscience reflecting in his orbs. Every move and pressure against the strings sounded like a lively breath; the breath of the cello itself, travelling through his ears with the sweetest and warmest melody he could ever imagined. Zitao’s head perked up and down when Joonmyeon’s fingers were sliding to press various tone to tone, slowly pulling a wide smile which was first begun unsure.
The boy admired the way the cellist swayed his torso in rhythm with his melody, closing his eyes with the most delightful smile as if he was in his magical world.
Joonmyeon took a glimpse, and expectedly recognised a confounded yet astonished expression of Zitao, companied with a mouth shaping an ‘O’.
“Don’t hold yourself to enjoy the sound, boy,” the cellist kept fiddling without disturbance, “Feel it if your heart asked for it.”
Zitao questioned himself -trying to comprehend his own emotion- before realising Joonmyeon travelling back to his world again. The boy settled down on the dark blue rug, gazing at the wooden cello only to found his eyes demanding to shut . . . slowly. . .feeling the euphony planting soft kisses to his senses.
Enthralled smile plastered the boy’s lips within scintilla of minutes, and his torso began swaying in rhythm together with the played piece.
It was true.
He was indeed in a magical world.
“Now this is B Major, remember? The key that I’ve taught you for the end of the day,” Joonmyeon slid Zitao’s fingers to press another region on the fingerboard and drag the bow to emit a sustained tone of do in B Major.
Zitao verbally sighed with disappointment knowing that his lesson has ended, “I want to learn more.”
“There are 24 scales that you can play with this instrument, Zitao, and you’ve known 23 of them. I promise I’ll teach you again tomorrow,” the street cellist gave an inviting nod as well as asking for the boy’s agreement. Joonmyeon’s eyes defined modesty, his voice was clear and tender; never got harried by Zitao’s infinity questions and troubles he made during the lesson.
“Promise?,” Zitao pulled out his finger, revealing his petite pinky –as usual. There were no days without stating a promise but truly, Joonmyeon appreciate and was glad to have a lovable company by his side, even though not always. The duo intertwined their little fingers and blithely shook them together as it was a handshake. Zitao bade goodbye for the twenty third time since their first meeting. His tiny hands danced in the air, waving and exposing fingers which were nocked with beginner’s marks made by the strings of Joonmyeon’s cello.
Never did he know that the slashes of beginner’s marks would shaped into proficient fingers in years, together with a little boy’s innocent passion which matured into wilder wondrous world.
Bitterness develops once the cellist is in the verge of the piece’s ending, tugging himself back to where his feet stands; to reality.
The breath of his cello trails reminiscing voice as it sustains and gradually ceases to end. The cellist remains his posture still with his eyes shut until exploding waves of his Avenged Sevenfold’s Afterlife ringtone crumples the emotion away like a swish of wind.
Zitao couldn’t be irritated by the disturbance since he as well realises being late for over fifteen minutes to his first rehearsal.
“,” acrid tone escaped from his decent, bow-curved lips. His orbs glances at the time and the caller’s name, Sehun, twice before hastily pressing the screen against his ear.
“Where the bloody hell are you??!,” the speaker vocalised whispery voice.
“I’m sorry! I’m on my way now!,” Zitao single-footedly skips towards his shoe rack, sloppily clothing his feet without caring about the laces. He places his cello into its case with a thud, hurriedly descends the stairs and barges for the door unfortunately still with Kandy the Shih Tzu tailing his white, bouncing laces.
It has been more than ten metres away Zitao is kicking his feet on the sidewalk when he heard the puppy’s high-pitched bark.
“Oh, God!,” the cellist halted and swings back, “No-No-No! Kandy what are you doing?!,” he shoves a passing man’s chin with the edge of his instrument by his abrupt turn, “Oh, shhi—sorry!”
Zitao hunches to grasp his dog and amidst his way back he bows repeatedly, “Sorry! I’m sorry!,” he could somehow feel the man’s awful twinge. Lucky he isn’t far from home, because time is killing him right now. The cellist drags whatever foot arrives first to the unfold door, and carefully sets Kandy on the floor.
“Stay, stay,” the puppy greets him with another bark and active petite paws, and before the canine could bounce to him anytime soon, Zitao quickly shut the door and dashes like there’s no tomorrow.
His gasps trails vague white steam during his run, and the cellist finally arrives with sweat coursing in a form of drips. Wooden floor reverberates his stomping black sneakers as Zitao is scanning and seeking for the doors of the music hall. With laborious breath and massively heaving chest, he pushed the barrier only to notice a figure with arms folded standing right before his eyes.
Every living things within the room replied his arrival with silence.
A brand new face is staring at him. Zitao takes a glimpse at one of his friend, Sehun, who is already in his seat with his violin displaying a horrified, helpless look as he definitely mouthed the person by the door as "conductor”.
Zitao shifted his orbs back with the most, deadpan gaze he could ever release. Blonde, and professionally pushed-back hair never ever seems like a watchful lion. Austere and shrewd eyes doesn’t need its owner’s oral command to boot the cellist out of the room, especially when the conductor ganders Zitao’s body from head to toe, of course obviously judging the cellist’s rock ‘n’ roll apparel and –predictable– tattooed skin decorating up to his neck and wrists.
Oh, God. Sehun gulped warily.
“I’ve never seen someone so painted like that around here. Ew.”
“How did he pass the audition? Is he even that good?”
“He’ll probably get kicked out on his first day. Huh, lousy idiot.”
The light however, couldn’t cover who Zitao really is. It renders the glinting silvery piercings dangling from his ears and revealing black eyeliner which accentuates his distinctive, decently slanted oriental eyes. The pair would make a terrific gaze to slap someone tongue-less, but will not specifically affecting the conductor’s sinister orbs.
Awful, awful. For the rest of the members, the arriving punk would never ever fits the orchestra. Susurrus mouths are spreading with negative words as the two figures still exchanging a long, fixed look.
“May I. . .enter, Sir?,” Zitao really need to smack his head for not knowing the name of his own conductor. He eyed Sehun who seems to undergo a mind face-palm, “I-I’m terribly sorry –I wasn’t paying attention to the time–”
“I’m expecting a student. A cellist. Not a punk, tardy individual dressed like hooligan to my orchestra.”
The cellist baulks with definitive shock, lips are gaping.
The conductor’s voice was orotund and deeply accentuated, there’s no way to oppose such force.
“S-Sir, I’ve passed the audition and with all due respect, it’s my right to be in this rehearsal—”
“No, you will not step a foot to rehearse with a conductor whose name you don’t even know. Pack your filthy case and go home,” short, derisive snort accompanied with smirk embellished the conductor’s face.
The statement pushes the cellist back to where the doors belong, his pupils jitter while skimming the members’ disgusted countenance, lavishing him with shame. The blonde however, turns his back without further words and approaches his podium. His hand rises with a signature stance. All eyes are focalising on him, before the griming motion of his arms begins to produce blasting composition.
Even Zitao almost trip with the reigning level of his commanding hands.
The cellist bumbles as he steps out of the double doors, the grip on his case turns loose as he stares at the now closed doors. Dominating tunes are swaying within the air still with his anxious heartbeat, wholly beating vigorously with the beat of the melody. Despite of burning with rage and cursing at how foul he was treated by the conductor, Zitao is indeed falling fast and is rapidly engulfed by the herculean storm of melody.
He is falling. . .
too fast.
I didn't expect to have 9 subscribers and 2 upvotes! I hope I'm not disappointing you! Do take note that the music that I linked to isn't purely played with single cello. Oh, and another reminder, this story will not feature just classical music, so if you dislike listening to rock/alternative/metal music being played with classical instruments, please don't continue reading, I don't want to ruin your liking.
See you on the next chapter!
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