Chapter 42

042. Prodigy (5)

Journalist Seong-ryeong Choi entered a neat building.

The office of Sound Film Studio, which had recently moved.

‘This place must be a pleasure to work in.’

Indeed, it smelled new, thanks to the interior design. It smelled new.

She smacked her lips at the cleanliness, which was a stark contrast to the shabby building in Jung District where Monthly Audience's office had been for half a century.

Then, she caught a passing employee and revealed her identity.

“Oh, you must be the one who came to see Seoho today~! This way, please.”

The employee smiled brightly and led her to a door at the end of the corridor.

This was Han Seoho’s studio.

She felt a strange sensation.

It wasn’t as if she were interviewing a great figure in the classical world, yet she felt nervous.

Well, it was understandable...

She had clung to a single credit in the movie's ending, searching for him in Seoul like looking for Mr. Kim, and had come all the way here.

He was interesting, mysterious, and increasingly strange.

When she opened the door, she saw him sitting in the center of the spacious recording studio, looking like a young man.

Seong-ryeong Choi approached, and he stood up from his seat.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Seong-ryeong Choi from Monthly Audience.”

“Hello.”

He handed her a business card with a gleam in his eyes.

“After asking around so much about Seoho, I feel like I’m looking at a celebrity. Or maybe it’s just because you’re handsome.”

With a mischievous attitude, Han Seoho smiled awkwardly and had her sit on the sofa. Then, as he was about to pull a chair from the opposite side, Seong-ryeong Choi waved her hand.

“You can continue your work. After all, part of the interview is to observe you doing your job.”

“Then, I have something to do right now. Can we do the interview a bit later?”

“Of course. I can watch, right? I promise I won’t record video or disclose any information without prior permission. Just a few photos?”

She lifted her camera slightly and smiled, and Han Seoho also smiled and agreed.

While watching Han Seoho return to his seat, Seong-ryeong Choi looked around the studio curiously.

‘This is definitely Han Seoho’s studio...’

She had been to many larger and more luxurious recording studios while interviewing famous pianists. But this was the first time she had seen a high school student with such a space.

There was even a recording booth, and inside it was... Could it be a Steinway?

She let out a hollow laugh.

She would have to ask him later if he really used this place ‘alone’.

Meanwhile, Han Seoho was setting something up.

When he took out a camera and set it up towards the recording booth, she asked casually.

“Are you working on film music today?”

“No, I have to shoot a video.”

“Where will it be used? YouTube?”

Seong-ryeong Choi wondered if he had opened a personal channel.

“No. I’m preparing for my first competition. This video is for that.”

Seong-ryeong Choi, who was more familiar with competitions than film music, perked up and counted on her fingers.

“Wow, really? Let me think... Which competition has video auditions... UBC is already over, and Donghyeon Competition...”

Then, Han Seoho, who was setting up the recording on his laptop, said.

“The Tchaikovsky Competition.”

“...!”

Seong-ryeong Choi, who had been thinking of domestic competitions, paused. She hadn’t intended to ignore it, but she had assumed his first competition would be domestic.

“Alright!”

By the time she recovered, Han Seoho had finished all the preparations and entered the recording booth.

Seong-ryeong Choi, who had been dazed, snapped back to reality and started pressing the camera shutter.

Her mind was still filled with complex questions.

It seemed the interview would take longer than expected.

And the performance began.

Seong-ryeong Choi took a few more photos and then lowered her camera.

A small sigh of admiration was on her face.

The piece he was playing was...

Tchaikovsky’s The Seasons.

Specifically, March.

The left hand, like a grandfather clock, ticked steadily,

while the right hand played a beautiful but melancholic melody.

She recognized it immediately and was simultaneously puzzled.

She thought a slow piece wouldn’t fit a competition. In fact, she had never seen this piece played in a competition before. The most famous piece, “June, Barcarolle,” might be different.

But...

“Wow...”

The more the piece progressed, the more she was breathless at the emotions drawn from the keys. It felt like her breath was about to turn into a sigh.

Even the bright lighting seemed to darken,

and the comfortable temperature turned cool.

In the space where comfort had vanished, Seong-ryeong Choi took out her phone and started taking notes.

Since realizing that there were performances a writer covering music couldn’t express without writing them down, it had become a habit.

Tap, tap, tap. Like a stenographer, she wrote down the performance.

[...Walking down a dark, snowy night in Russia, hands in the pockets of a coat...]

The ellipsis stretched.

She wanted to write more, but there was something more profound she couldn’t quite grasp.

No words, onomatopoeias, or expressions came to mind.

If only she could draw well, it might be different.

Meanwhile,

the melancholic March came to an end.

And the next piece was...

Mozart’s Sonata No. 10.

A completely different atmosphere.

It felt like the place had changed entirely.

The Russian night street disappeared, and a European landscape in full spring was painted.

Seong-ryeong Choi marveled again.

There were simpler ways to connect winter and spring.

For example, playing March followed by April or May.

But by adding a Mozart piece, he changed not only the season but also the setting.

A more dramatic arrangement.

Seong-ryeong Choi wrote again.

[The performance... is luminous.]

She couldn’t find a better expression.

It was truly remarkable.

To play Sonata No. 10, often dismissed as merely educational, in such a way.

If Mozart had seen this, he would surely have been pleased.

...After that, more Mozart sonatas were played in succession.

No part of any piece was wasted,

and she struggled to express this feeling in words.

Finally, after 30 minutes, the performance ended.

Seong-ryeong Choi turned off her phone screen, which she had been tapping like a keyboard.

Now she was certain.

Today’s interview was the discovery of a new prodigy!

Excited, she decided to clap when Han Seoho came out. She raised her hands.

Huh?

Instead of getting up and leaving the booth, he sat down on a chair next to the piano.

Then...

he picked up a violin.

“???”

...A moment later.

Seong-ryeong Choi still couldn’t figure out what was happening.

He had gone in to shoot a competition video, played the piano beautifully, and then suddenly picked up a violin.

But the moment she heard the performance, it didn’t matter.

Regardless of where this performance would be used,

it was happening right in front of her.

She became an audience, listening to the rich violin sounds filling her ears.

At some point, she picked up her phone and wrote, as if entranced.

To describe what she was seeing,

nothing could be more accurate.

[...If Mozart were to be reborn, would he look like this?]

#

After shooting all the videos for the competition, the interview began.

And after a whopping three hours of talking, Seong-ryeong Choi left the studio.

Leaving a message that she was looking forward to the competition.

The recording was successful, and the interview was enjoyable. She had asked more questions than he had, making her wonder who was being interviewed.

Nonetheless, a pleasant smile came to her face.

She returned to the studio, edited the videos, and sent them to Professor Yun and Jin-gyu Lim.

The replies were similar to Seong-ryeong Choi’s message, thanking him for the interview.

They had watched the videos as soon as they arrived.

‘Is everyone free today?’

She had a fleeting thought but shook her head.

That was unlikely. They were the future of Korea’s classical music, the professor at the Seoul Arts Center and one of the top pianists in the country.

They must have been waiting for this video.

Professor Yun’s messages came in short bursts.

[Professor Yun: I wondered what he wanted to express with a slow and simple piece like March...]

[But the next piece, Sonata No. 10, perfectly expressed winter and spring...]

[The transition from the violin waltz scherzo to Mozart No. 21 K.304 was excellent. Two pieces that could decorate the beginning and end of a party, brilliantly linked...]

Meanwhile, Jin-gyu Lim sent a single message.

[Pianist Jin-gyu Lim: In a video meant to show basic skills, he made a whole movie. The music was vivid. I showed it to my colleagues, and they were speechless.]

His colleagues were likely the members of the Beinoff Symphony.

Knowing they had seen his performance made his heart race.

She wanted to hear more details, but something else was more urgent.

She hurriedly filled out the competition application.

Then, she attached her pre-made profile, Pavel’s recommendation letter, and the videos shot today, and sent them to the Tchaikovsky Competition organizers.

“Now, all that’s left is to wait.”

Of course, that was easier said than done. She didn’t have the luxury to just wait.

“Hmph.”

She stood up, gathered the sheet music next to her, and sat back at the piano.

She could handle the program to some extent, but this was still more familiar.

It probably would be in the future too.

She chuckled and looked at the notes on the sheet music.

Thus, she began preparing for the recording of the film “Soprano.”

#

Rosconcert, a public institution of the Russian Federation.

In the office of the organization responsible for music and festivals, an employee checked the incoming applications with a look of awe.

This was his first Tchaikovsky Competition, being only in his third year.

With enthusiasm, he started skimming through the approximately 700 applications.

He was filtering out applicants who didn’t meet the eligibility criteria (those without a recommendation letter from an internationally recognized musician).

Fortunately, there were no applicants who naively thought, “I don’t have a recommendation letter, but maybe they’ll let me in anyway,” or tried to pass off their professor from a prestigious university as internationally recognized.

However...

“What? These two... are the same person?”

He was puzzled.

He had never heard of this person during the handover,

and this was an unexpected situation.

“But both of them applied?”

After examining the applications for a while, the employee finally stood up and headed to the inner office.

The official, sitting with his back to the window, looked up when he felt the shadow.

“...What is it?”

“There’s an applicant who applied twice.”

“Didn’t you receive instructions on how to handle that?”

The employee, intimidated by the sharp gaze, quickly explained.

“But they applied for two different instruments, not the same one. I’ve never heard of such a case...”

The official’s eyebrows twitched.

“I haven’t either. It’s a joke. How dare...”

He growled and then said firmly.

“Reject them.”

“Sir, but... both applications have recommendation letters.”

“So? Are they from a master in America or Europe?”

“No.”

“Then...”

“Maestro Pavel.”

The official, who had been smirking and moving his fountain pen, froze.

He asked in return.

“...Pavel? Pavel Mamontov, the brother of the Beinoff Symphony’s director?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

The official snatched the application from the employee’s hand.

After scanning it frantically, he furrowed his brow and put it down.

“This... I need to contact the higher-ups. I’ll let you know how to proceed. You continue with your work.”

The employee bowed and returned to his seat.

“Phew...!”

A sigh of relief escaped him as the tense conversation with the official ended.

It felt like coming up for air after holding his breath underwater.

Still...

Han Seoho?

What kind of person was he to receive two recommendation letters from the conductor of the Beinoff Symphony, for two different instruments?

He secretly hoped for approval from the higher-ups.

Then, a participant who would make history in the Tchaikovsky Competition would be born.

A few days later,

the instruction came from above to follow the rules.

There was no clause in the application conditions prohibiting applying in two categories.

In the end, the videos in question were sent to the judges according to the rules.

#

“Wow, I didn’t realize it was so big from the photos.”

“Yeah, yeah. Look here. There’s even a humidity control system built into the walls to keep the instruments in top condition...!”

He was enthusiastically introducing the company.

Not me. Not his father. Not a company employee—

“Anyone would think you’re the owner here.”

...Joon-seo Kang.

When Jung-ah Shin hit the nail on the head, Joon-seo Kang smacked his lips and said,

“I’ve come here for Seoho’s lessons, so I’m introducing it. And what, do curators explain museums as if they own them?”

What was this sharp logic?

But it wasn’t wrong, so Shin Su-ah, who had been shooting barbs, was now in a rare state of confusion.

Shin Su-ah, with her usual hairstyle and cold expression,

suddenly remembered what the new composer from her father’s alma mater had said and glanced at her.

...Ahem, so there’s a humidity control system built into the walls? I knew that, but it’s still amazing.

She absentmindedly touched the wall.

If his cold gaze lingered for another second, it would have shot, “What are you looking at?”

“Have you eaten?”

“...Me?”

“Yeah.”

She stopped touching the wall and shook her head.

“No. Not yet...”

Then, his gaze shifted to the others.

“You guys haven’t eaten either, right? We have some time, so let’s eat first.”

...And so, they ended up having a simple meal.

The place wasn’t far from the old company, so choosing what to eat was easy. The usual place for noodles.

We caught up on various topics while waiting for the delivery.

The conversation flowed like a casual catch-up, and when it was my turn, the violist So-hyun Lee asked,

“By the way, the casting for the movie is over, right? Why are you already doing recording work?”

“That’s actually because of me.”

“Because of you? Why?”

“I don’t know where I’ll be from June.”

“Oh, are you going on a trip? Overseas?”

It’s similar, but different.

Joon-seo Kang, who already knew, was dying to speak.

“If I go, it will be to Russia, but it’s not a trip. I applied for a competition.”

Then, Joon-seo Kang chimed in, “The Tchaikovsky Competition! The Tchaikovsky Competition!”

As expected, the members’ reactions were enthusiastic.

It was an international competition, after all.

While complaining that he might not pass the preliminary round and might not go,

his cheeks felt hot, and he looked away.

Hmm...

What was this unexpected reaction?

Shin Su-ah was looking at him with wide eyes.

She looked quite surprised.