Episode 20 — Pavane for a Dead Princess

Not knowing what to wear to a concert hall, feeling like I’d be out of place in anything, I went in my school uniform.

The result, to state it plainly, was that I was hopelessly out of place regardless. The whole venue was wrapped in a kind of solemn hush, adults in formal dress everywhere around me.

Guided to my seat by an usher, it was the same — elegantly dressed women, men in sunglasses who looked like industry insiders. In the aisle, cameras large enough for a television shoot were set up. And there, sitting alone among all of it: me, in my school uniform.

I checked the ticket over and over, wondering if I had the wrong seat or the wrong venue. But the numbers on it matched the seat exactly. And in the programme handed to me at the entrance, the name was printed clearly: Kanzaki Shion.

There being no other name I recognised, I kept my eyes fixed on hers. She was eighth to perform, out of ten.

I had no interest in anyone but Kanzaki-san, to be honest, and wondered if I’d arrived too early — but I told myself this was research for the novel and settled into my seat. At that same moment, the buzzer sounded and a woman’s voice came over the speakers.

The first performer walked briskly to the grand piano on the stage — a well-built man in a crisp shirt. I checked the programme: the name beside his entry was written in the Roman alphabet.

And so the competition began, flowing straight into motion. The first note rang through the silent hall.

That single note pulled my gaze up from the programme entirely.

A dynamic, powerful performance. Wild, and yet not a note out of place. I know nothing about music — but the weight of each sound, the force and sheer scale of the playing, felt equal to Kanzaki-san’s. If not greater. I sat there overwhelmed, and before I’d properly taken it in, the performance ended. The hall filled with applause. The performer bowed, and the next one appeared — a woman with exceptional presence. The heat of the previous performance still in the air, the sound began again.

It was not simply that the first performer had been fortunate. The second had none of the same forcefulness, but more than made up for it in delicacy and elegance. The ordered stream of notes, their resonance — again equal to Kanzaki-san’s, or perhaps beyond. Again I was swallowed whole before the performance ended.

And so it continued. Performers of different genders, nationalities, ages, taking the stage one after another, each delivering something overwhelming. Sound that even someone as ignorant as me couldn’t help but be drawn into rang on and on, as a matter of course.

I understood it then, viscerally. How brutal the world Kanzaki-san had been fighting in all this time. What her mother had meant by the weight the Kanzaki name carries. And the gravity of Kanzaki-san’s decision — in a world like this — to try to quit.

Having to fight here. Of course she would want to run. And I had stopped her, out of pure selfishness. I had stopped her from quitting, and then I had taken her out to play after school — stealing time she needed to prepare for a battlefield like this. Kanzaki-san’s mother being so sharply angry was entirely understandable.

The regret arrived, belatedly, in full force. I pressed my hands together and dug my nails in, punishing myself with it. I had been doing nothing but regretting my own inadequacy and selfishness lately. Regretting, and feeling the ache of it.

And still, at the root of my heart, nothing had changed. I was still praying, selfishly, in spite of everything. I didn’t want Kanzaki-san to lose. I didn’t want to watch my ideal fall.

The time for that prayer to be answered came before long.

An announcement rang through the hall, still warm with applause.

“Number eight, Kanzaki Shion. Ravel: Pavane for a Dead Princess”.

With those words, Kanzaki-san appeared.

Dressed in a black gown, moving with a refined, unhurried step. Even from a distant seat, her beauty scorched my eyes. I couldn’t look away from her profile.

While I was still helplessly caught by that beauty, Kanzaki-san adjusted the bench height, settled herself before the piano. The smallest figure among all the performers who had come before. She drew one breath — and pressed her fingers into the keys.

In that instant, the whole hall, not just me, was swallowed by Kanzaki-san’s sound.

The sound was familiar. And I understood why before long. The piece Kanzaki-san was playing was the same one from the first day we met — the music that had made me call out to her, that had made it impossible not to. That same piece, played again. The raw, ferocious playing of that day. The anguished, helpless gestures, as if hurling grief at the keys for something lost. The overwhelming beauty that was not diminished in the slightest by dishevelled hair or hammered keys.

But now — it was also different from that day. Not the grief of loss, but a delicacy like holding something gently to your chest. And alongside that, the force of someone gripping what they’ve finally caught, refusing to let go. And woven through it, in sudden flaring passages, something close to madness. As if to let no one else near. As if to claim something entirely for herself.

In answer to all those shifting faces of the sound, Kanzaki-san’s beauty deepened. A performance like a work of art — untouchable, leaving you nothing to do but be overwhelmed.

If this performance, if what Kanzaki-san was holding to her chest — if that were someone — the thought alone was enough to scorch me with something like jealousy. That was how completely Kanzaki-san’s playing had seized the hearts of everyone in the hall. And as if toying with those hearts, Kanzaki-san played on, impossibly beautiful, a performance addressed to one thing — or one person — alone.

My ideal was proving, in this very moment, that it was truly beautiful. The elation and joy of that — and alongside them, a selfish, irrational grief, as though Kanzaki-san were moving somewhere out of my reach.

And Kanzaki-san’s playing was overwhelming enough to swallow even those small feelings whole.

That remained true until the final note — Kanzaki-san’s white fingers sinking into the keys, the sound holding its resonance until it faded completely.

Kanzaki-san rose slowly, as if savouring something, and bowed.

By then, the hall had erupted. Everyone around me was on their feet, honouring the performance with their whole bodies.

Only I — out of place from the start — stayed in my seat, unable to move. Too many feelings had rushed in at once, and all I could do was applaud, weakly. As if moving away from me, Kanzaki-san disappeared into the wings.

The applause in the hall didn’t stop. A single tear fell.

◇◇◇

Nothing from the performances after reached me. Kanzaki-san’s sound, her beauty, kept ringing on and on inside my head.

And then all the performances ended, and the award ceremony. As if it could only ever have been so, that name was called.

“Grand Prize — Kanzaki Shion”.

Kanzaki-san reappeared on the stage. Without a single smile, with precise, unhurried movements, she accepted the trophy from someone important-looking, enveloped in applause and cheers and camera flashes.

My ideal was being recognised. And in being recognised, it was moving further from me.

I was searching for names for all the feelings swirling inside me when — Kanzaki-san bowed, began to be guided off toward the wings. And then, softly and calmly, she shook off that guidance entirely. She handed the trophy to a staff member.

And leapt.

Her black gown sweeping brilliantly behind her — from the stage into the audience.

Through the murmuring crowd, walking lightly toward something, purposefully. My eyes went wide as the distance kept closing.

And then, drowning out the sound of my own heartbeat — Kanzaki-san came to a stop directly before me.

And.

A coolness touched me. Arms wrapped around me, tight. Close enough to feel each other’s heartbeat — a black gown and a school uniform pressed together. The beauty of my ideal, touching me.

Into my stunned silence, Kanzaki-san whispered:

“Today’s performance existed so I could stay with you. With Ogawa-san — with Uta”.