musicians of old

Chapter 973 Three Questions About Farewell

The side aisles of the stage were narrower than I remembered.

The walls were covered in deep red velvet, which absorbed most of the sound.

The gaslights provided very weak illumination, while the brighter light leaking in from the symphony hall cut a slanted ellipse at the entrance to the passageway, fading further in until it was finally swallowed by the darkness.

Fan Ning stood at the boundary between light and darkness, listening to the applause behind him that was unwilling to subside but had to gradually quiet down because of the "loss of target".

"Master Fan Ning".

"Master Fan Ning, it's an honor."

The passageway was temporarily filled with small recording devices, and in front of Fan Ning stood more than a dozen media reporters with long lenses and microphones.

Yes, there were only a dozen or so people, and behind these reporters, next to the curtain on the other side of the passage, there were also several theater security personnel standing in the shadows.

After careful collective discussion, the cinema chain still left the public with such an opportunity for interviews and exchanges, but the scale was strictly controlled to the point of being harsh—three media outlets were authorized to ask questions, three questions, each person was allowed to bring an assistant into the room, and less than ten other media outlets could send one representative into the room to record the proceedings, that was all.

The opportunity to ask questions is both an honor and a danger. Three questions are too precious to ask. If the media fails to reach the greatest common denominator of public opinion, or if it is later questioned that there are better options, even the most authoritative media may fall from its pedestal and be shattered.

Now these people are positioned on both sides of the passageway, like some kind of honor guard. They are dressed in dark suits, their ties tied meticulously. Their breathing is amplified in the narrow space, carrying an excited yet suppressed rhythm. The objects in their hands or the devices on the ground gleam with a cold metallic light in the dim light.

The figure of a senior executive from the cinema chain flickered behind the curtain; it was difficult to recognize who he was. He whispered a few words to the security manager, who then peeked in to signal him. As a result, three people in the interview queue finally took a small step forward.

The first person to ask a question was a young and beautiful woman with short, neat hair. She was holding a small tape recorder in her hand, with a red indicator light on the top of the machine, like a tiny eye. Her assistant, holding a notebook and pen, looked on high alert.

“Mr. Fanning, from Theoline Cultural Weekly, we would like to ask... why?” The lady’s eyes were filled with curiosity.

This is a common and old-fashioned question, but they have thought about it for a long time and asked many people. They feel that, and they are sure that, no matter how many answers people want to know, this should be one of them.

“Because beyond the kingdom of necessity, there is also the kingdom of freedom,” Fanning replied quickly and calmly.

The young woman hovered her finger above the pause button on the tape recorder, hesitated for a moment, and then pressed it.

The indicator light is off.

She wanted to ask further, but the theaters didn't offer that opportunity.

It was an extremely fortunate conversation, one that I will remember for a lifetime.

She nodded slightly and stepped back.

An elderly man with gray hair wore round glasses on his nose. He had no equipment in his hands, only a pencil and an old notebook with a leather cover.

His voice was steady, but his Adam's apple bobbed once: "The question that Southern Music wanted to ask Maestro Fan Ning was—in this era, what will someone who loves art very much but whose talent is not particularly outstanding ultimately achieve?"

“I’ve been asked similar questions before,” Fan Ning said.

"Huh?" the old man asked in surprise.

That's possible.

They were equally careful in choosing the questions they asked.

This kind of statement has indeed caused confusion among many people, even those from different social classes.

Because talent is something even more cruel than one's birth.

“One night, during a stroll, within a not-so-rich history, next to a city hall stands a church called Leipzig, a young man asked a similar question. My answer then was more complete; if anyone has the opportunity, they can read it and reflect on it.” Fanning smiled faintly, “But here, it only concerns ‘what is gained’—”

"A way of interacting with the world cannot be learned without this; the ability to love and be loved cannot be possessed without this; even a sliver of understanding or the possibility of reaching 'noon' is impossible without this."

Fanning's voice sounded deep against the velvet walls.

The edges of the notebook were worn and frayed, revealing light-colored fibers. The old man's pen tip glided across the paper, making a scratching sound for about ten seconds. He stopped, looked up, gave Fan Ning a deep look, and thanked him.

The third questioner was a middle-aged man wearing a dark gray overcoat, his hands empty. His question came last and was the softest: "The Voice of Janus wants to ask, will there be a return?"

The passageway fell completely silent.

Even the applause from afar disappeared; only the breathing of a dozen or so people mingled in the narrow space, creating an almost inaudible background sound.

The man who asked the question had eyes that were unusually clear in the dim light, the last glimmer of light from the entrance to the passage reflected deep in his pupils. “Perhaps he won’t return,” Fan Ning said. “Isn’t that the meaning of farewell?”

The middle-aged male reporter didn't move. He just stared at Fan Ning for a long time, so long that someone next to him shifted uncomfortably. Finally, he nodded very slowly, the gesture so small it was almost invisible, then turned and was the first to leave the passageway.

The media were directed to leave in the direction of the stage, opposite to the direction Fanning was leaving.

The others followed one after another, their footsteps absorbed by the velvet walls, like stepping on thick snow. One figure after another passed through the light spots at the entrance and disappeared in the direction of the symphony hall.

Fan Ning continued walking towards the inside of the passage and lifted the curtain.

The backstage area for the cast and crew, with its interconnected passageways and rooms, has been brightened again.

The white-gray ceramic walls are smooth and clean, adorned with framed photos of past performances. The floor, previously carpeted, has been replaced by polished wood flooring, which has aged considerably over the years, with some areas showing signs of wear and tear, revealing the original dark lacquer. The air is filled with a rich aroma of herbs and wood, along with the scent of old wood and a faint fragrance of pine and linseed oil.

The surroundings are empty right now.

It's quite empty for now.

From a distance around the corner, one could already hear some noisy footsteps and the rumble of carts; the musicians were coming from the other side, returning to their respective performers' rooms.

Fanning pushed open a heavy mahogany door, which was his former "tenor's dressing room".

The room wasn't very big, a small two-bedroom suite with a fabric sofa, an upright piano, a full-length mirror, a dressing table and a cabinet with many drawers, a desk, and a coat rack.

Fanning walked to the mirror and stood there for about a minute.

Then he bent down, pulled open the widest compartment in the middle of the drawer, and found a brown paper document bag lying on the red wooden surface. He picked it up, unscrewed the sash, and pulled out a sheet music book.

The cover is gray, the paper is thick, the edges are neatly cut, and it makes a crisp, dry friction sound when turned.

Fan Ning quickly flipped through it, then quickly closed it again.

The paper made a soft rustling sound, like a sigh.

He temporarily placed the sheet music on the table, took off his suit jacket from the performance, hung it on the coat rack, and changed into a dark gray overcoat that had been hanging next to him. The overcoat was made of thick material and the collar could be turned up. He looked in the mirror, straightened the collar, and then picked up the sheet music again.

After taking a few steps, Fan Ning paused again at the doorway.

He glanced back at the lounge—the piano, sofa, mirror, cabinet, water glass on the desk, the black suit on the coat rack—then turned off the lights and opened the door.

Turn off the lights first, then open the door.

Light streamed in, and the hallway outside the door wasn't empty.

There were more than twenty people standing there.

Finally, these are the closest and most familiar faces: teachers, friends, students, colleagues, members of the congregation, orchestra principals, and theater executives.

How fortunate that what was there has returned. I'm so glad that we can still meet in this new world and spend this little bit of time together.

Fanning's gaze swept across everyone's faces.

Sheeran clasped her hands together in front of her, her fingertips turning white. Joan hadn't put away her flute yet, biting her lower lip, her eyes unblinking. Roy stood ramrod straight, his shoulders taut. Anne gently embraced Luna, who was considerably shorter than her. Walter still clutched a stack of documents, the edges of the papers unconsciously curled up.

Fanning handed the score to Walter.

The cover has a soft, matte finish under the light. In the upper left corner, a tiny "IX" is written in pencil.

In the middle is Fanning's flowing ink handwriting.

Symphony No. 9 in D major

"The Ninth Symphony?"

This is not the "Song of the Earth" that just premiered and concluded.

It has a number.

What was ultimately delivered—a true Ninth Symphony?
(End of this chapter)