musicians of old

Chapter 944 "A Friend" (Part 1)
"December 20, 916 in the Gregorian calendar", "Janus", "San Pelto".

It was a bright and sunny winter day at the end of the month, just before the New Year. Piles of snow in the city reflected the dazzling light, and wisps of smoke rising from chimneys carried the faint, pleasant scent of burning pine.

Walstan Street, paved with neat rows of cobblestones, was bathed in the slanting afternoon sun, which carved distinct lines of light and shadow across the stones. The buildings along the street were mostly four- or five-story apartment buildings; there seemed to be fewer cafes and flower shops with more distinctive styles. The exteriors were mostly painted in shades of blue or light gray, and withered geranium pots sat on windowsills—their owners probably wouldn't tend to them until spring. Horse-drawn carriages passed by in twos and threes, their horseshoes striking the cobblestones with a crisp clatter. The drivers, wrapped in thick woolen coats, exhaled long puffs of white breath that stretched into the cold air.

Number 21 is a detached villa estate with withered rose vines climbing the cast iron fence. The villa's exterior walls are a warm ochre color, and the shutters are painted dark green. They are all open at this moment, letting the sunlight shine in as much as possible. However, the leaves of the few linden trees in the yard have long since fallen, and the bare branches draw slender black lines under the blue sky.

“That’s impossible.” Director Walter sat at a large mahogany table, his hair neatly combed, but a few unruly strands always stuck up on his forehead. He muttered under his breath and tapped a number on the table with the tip of his pen. “The number of people who have pre-registered for the piano exams in the San Pelto district next spring semester is 5,374? The last batch only had a little over 1,800.”

This is the second floor of the villa, a public area converted from a large reception room. A brass chandelier hangs from the central ceiling, but it's not lit at the moment. The fireplace is roaring, providing a comfortable temperature. The floor is covered with a deep red carpet, slightly worn at the edges, but very clean. The space is very wide and richly furnished, with areas for offices, tea breaks, relaxation, and rest.

Walter, sitting in the main seat, turned another page.

"Violin exams: 2,952 people; flute exams: 1,877 people." He looked up and called out towards the kitchen, "Mr. Congreve! What was the total number of applicants for the last batch of music exams?"

"I don't know, you should ask Olga." The sounds of glassware clinking and liquid gurgling came from the kitchen.

A gentle female voice came from behind the unseen bookshelf partition: "I remember the total number for the entire theater is around 72,000? You'll have to check the records for the exact number."

“Alright.” Walter put his pen down on the form and rubbed his temples. “According to this report, it’ll probably exceed 100,000 by the new year. Paper prices have gone up three times already. I went for a walk this morning and stopped by that textbook shop west of the church—do you know how much a ream of good sheet music costs now? Twelve shillings! Twelve! And ink, black drawing ink, used to be six shillings a bottle, now it’s nine shillings and six pence.”

He casually sighed a few times, flipped through the forms, signed several stacks of documents, had them taken upstairs, and then called over several department managers to look at the draft of the Turner Arts Centre’s annual audit report and the list of judges approved for the spring semester music examinations.

"Those who try to use connections to get away with things will not succeed. Audit problems vary in size, and those who try to cover them up are definitely dealing with big problems."

"Couldn't the judging panel invite Master Anton Conner to participate this time? With so many candidates, there's bound to be more objections, especially regarding the qualifications of the overall list."

"The master said that since it's cold, older people shouldn't go out," the manager said.

“How about having Caplun take some time to go and invite him?” Walter suggested. “We guys who are still ‘stuck’ in the Western Continent are too busy to handle this.”

“I’ve contacted Mr. Caplan. Well, what he meant was that the job itself isn’t of much interest to the old professor, and even if Professor Fanning himself went to invite him, he probably wouldn’t be able to get him to agree.”

"Alright, but I think Master Fanning can definitely handle it if he takes action himself, but we'll see."

The firewood in the fireplace crackled.

The violin melody never stopped. Walter looked up and glanced at Sheeran through the glass door leading from the living room to the outdoor coffee table.

The terrace faces south and is bathed in sunlight at this time of day. Shilan, wearing a light brown wool dress, stands next to a wicker chair with a violin on her shoulder and a white velvet mat between her chin and collarbone.

The Chaconne from Johann Sebastian Bach's Six Suites for Solo Violin, a work by the first luminaries of the Holy Sun Church and a musical giant, drifted in through the crack in the glass door, swirling in the warm air of the living room. A nice break from work. Walter closed his eyes and rested.

Then the kitchen door opened, and Congreve, the Deputy Director of Operations and Senior Tea Master, emerged carrying a tray.

Six large glasses, through the thin mist on the glass walls, reveal large patches of pale green avocado puree and a drizzle of dark brown chocolate sauce.

“Give it a try.” Congreve settled on a table in the tea break area. “Chocolate avocado juice, a revival of the South. Will your wife bring the children over for dinner later?” His last question was directed at Walter.

“She’s taking the children to a friend’s house today,” Walter shook his head.

Wrapped in a purple blanket, Joan followed Congreve all the way from the kitchen to this spot, and was the first to pick up a glass.

"Why are there cold drinks in winter?" Xilan put down her violin and bow and pushed open the glass door of the coffee counter.

“We should seize any opportunity when the sun is shining brightly,” Congreve said. “And I’ve always felt you’ve set the fireplace too high.”

Walter, Olga, and Roy also came from several directions.

"The avocado and cocoa mixture wasn't blended very well, it's a failure." Joan scooped out a large piece with a spoon and put it in her mouth.

"The taste of whole milk and the fat from avocado are too much of a combination. Ann and Luna said that the authentic way to make it should be with Palmira Ranch low-fat milk. It's a failure." She took another sip.

"The residue from brewing the herbal tea wasn't filtered out properly; it's a complete failure. Look, there's still a clump of it here."

Congreve seemed to want to say something, but the glass was emptied the next moment, and the slurping sound of the straw interrupted him.

"I can still smell an orange scent," Joan raised her final question. "Master Tea Ceremony, this cup probably wasn't washed properly before."

Sheeran couldn't help but cough twice: "Joan, you've already had four different drinks in the hour I've been practicing the piano. I think it's more likely that your mouth is just 'mixed' with other flavors."

The conversation at the tea break table quickly drifted off into other topics, but Roy picked up his glass and went straight back to the hemispherical sofa in the corner where he was sitting.

Today she wore a black knitted jumpsuit with a dark red down trench coat over it, her hair was pulled back into a simple bun, she held a stack of telegrams and letters in her hand, and her face always had a thoughtful expression on her face.

"So, wouldn't it be safer to wait for Mr. Fanning to return before making a decision?" Nicole, the blonde, blue-eyed female assistant, continued from the other side of the sofa.

“The problem is he hasn’t come back yet.” Roy rubbed his forehead. “It’s almost the end of the year, and a month has passed since the tower climb. Most of the people from the Bologna School, the Holy Sun Church, and the Special Patrol Hall have arrived, and even the musicians who went with us have started to show up one after another.”

"But there's no news at all about Pogrerich, Mr. Wax, and him—these three key people, the top three figures at the discussion group's roundtable."