48. Tears

◎I gave you a fleeting moment of transparency◎

When the plane landed at Tromsø Airport, outside the window was the polar night that had already sunk at three in the afternoon. It wasn't completely black, but a deep blue, somewhere between dusk and midnight. The snow-covered earth reflected a faint light, like the back of a sleeping giant.

The car arranged by the event organizers is already waiting.

After arriving at the hotel and settling in quickly, there was a welcome banquet that evening—if Liang Chuling had known, she would have arrived a day later, as she disliked attending such social events.

The banquet was held in a local wooden building, with a roaring fireplace, the air filled with the crackling of burning wood, the aroma of mulled wine, and the hushed conversations in various languages.

The lighting was dim and warm, and people were dressed in evening gowns or suits, deliberately creating an artistic atmosphere away from the hustle and bustle of the world.

Zhou Xu was indeed there, standing not far from the fireplace, talking with a composer. His mother was standing next to him, so even though he saw Liang Chuling, Zhou Xu could only raise his glass to her without coming over.

Liang Chuling was happy to have some peace and quiet, so she took a glass of soda water and leaned against the window away from the crowd.

The view outside the window was a deep blue-black, with occasional car headlights streaking across the sky like shooting stars falling into the deep sea.

The banquet began with a speech from the organizer, followed by brief self-introductions from each of the artists present.

In an instant, various titles collided in the warm air, and everyone tried their best to cram in their most dazzling qualifications in just a few words.

This place is teeming with unparalleled geniuses!

Liang Chuling listened and found it all rather boring.

The prestigious titles are like beautifully wrapped paper, concealing the ordinary flesh and blood beneath.

She thought of Li Xun. If only he were here, he wouldn't care about these titles. He would definitely take her to see the changes in the burning firewood in the fireplace, or point out the bubbles and distortions on the windowpane, or whisper in her ear: "Why can't that person playing the piano use any force on the keys?"

Yes, the background music at the banquet was a live piano performance. The pianist was a young boy whose fingering was clumsy and whose touch was soft and sticky. His skill level was at most that of a piano enthusiast.

But this is precisely where the organizers' cleverness lies: if they had invited true masters or renowned pianists, the scene would have turned into a competition or a contest of influence. Sending an enthusiast who "plays a little" is the safest option and best highlights the superior tolerance of the "true artists" present.

This was the tenth time Liang Chuling had heard that completely wrong passage, and she looked away.

Amidst the clinking of glasses and the exchange of toasts, the conversation inevitably veered towards gossip within the industry.

Which conductor and orchestra manager had a falling out? Which young musician landed a top-tier management contract through marriage? Which music festival might be canceled due to sponsorship issues?

The language was switched from English to German, French, and Italian, and then back again, but the content remained the same.

What is elegant is the artwork, the notes played by the performers. But the people themselves, regardless of their nationality or skin color, sitting in the oldest halls, still reveal a worldly, scrutinizing gaze when discussing these matters. Prejudice stemming from nationality, race, and skin color is made even more undisguised here.

Someone approached Liang Chuling; it was a music critic who tried to strike up a conversation with her, his words carrying deliberate flattery. He recommended several works by young composers he had "discovered" to her, implying that they could collaborate.

Liang Chuling showed little interest and gave only a perfunctory reply.

Seeing the music critic chatting with Liang Chuling, several people gathered around, sharing gossip from the industry and offering her entertainment.

Some say that the judges of a certain international competition are biased, turning a blind eye to the mistakes of a certain musician while nitpicking the details of another musician; some say that there are serious hidden racial barriers within Curtis Institute, making it harder for Chinese students to get scholarships; others complain that some conductors look down on Chinese pianists and make things difficult for them during collaborations.

Liang Chuling listened quietly without interrupting, until someone casually mentioned, "Speaking of which, Li Chi's relationship with Curtis has improved a lot recently compared to a few years ago, and he was even invited back to give a masterclass."

"After all, her band has established itself, and Curtis can't keep putting on airs forever."

Liang Chuling asked, puzzled, "Professor Li Chi also graduated from Curtis and taught there. Does she have any conflicts with Curtis?"

The music scholar adjusted his glasses: "Ms. Liang may not be aware of the situation from a few years ago. Li Chi refused Curtis's teaching invitation but instead began preparing for an all-Chinese French-style orchestra. This was seen as a challenge to the traditional Eurocentric system, or even a betrayal."

Another agent chimed in: "Curtis and Juilliard are essentially still the strongholds of European and American classical music. They can appreciate Eastern geniuses, like you, Ms. Liang, and like Ms. Li Chi herself in the past, who are absorbed and showcased as outstanding individuals. But when a Chinese musician stands up and says that he wants to create an orchestra with Chinese as the main body and to produce a sound that is different from traditional European orchestras, that won't work."

Liang Chuling listened quietly, the firelight from the fireplace dancing on her face, making her appear lively.

The scholar added: "It wasn't overt discrimination, that's too low-level, but rather marginalization. Cold reviews, skewed resources, and barriers in her network of connections. Ms. Li Chi had a very difficult first few years. The Curtis Institute's network and resources largely shut the door on her. They might be happy to see a Chinese pianist succeed, but a Chinese orchestra trying to establish its own voice? That's another matter."

Liang Chuling suddenly asked, "What year was that?"

She actually knew which year Li Chi founded the band, but wanted to confirm it again. Sure enough, it was the same year Liang Chuling and Li Xun applied to Curtis.

She continued, "Does anyone remember the admissions situation for the Curtis Institute's composition department that year?"

One agent thought for a moment: "The number of students admitted to the Curtis composition department seems to have fluctuated quite a bit in those years. I recall that they admitted a particularly small number that year, didn't they?"

The scholar had a better memory: "Yes. That year, the Curtis Institute of Music only issued two undergraduate admissions. Extremely few. In previous years, there were at least five or seven places. At the time, there was some discussion about whether there had been some internal adjustments within the department."

Two offers.

Li Xun failed the exam that year, which was somewhat unexpected given his talent and preparation. If the number of places was deliberately reduced that year…

Li Chi's public challenge to the Western-dominated orchestra system angered Curtis and related conservative forces. In response to her 'betrayal,' or simply as a sign of contempt and exclusion, Curtis pressured her son's application for admissions, or 'disregarded' it.

The reduction in the number of slots may simply be a gesture.

Li Xun never mentioned it, and neither did Li Chi.

The term "classical" has no upper limit to its high and no lower limit to its low; in many cases, "classical" simply means feudal.

Feudalism originates from power.

Overwhelmed by power, both mother and son chose to swallow the consequences of injustice alone.

Liang Chuling felt angry, but her face remained expressionless. She simply nodded, said "I see," and politely ended the conversation before turning and walking towards the balcony.

A chilly wind swept across the room. The polar night sky was a deep blue, and the city lights in the distance cast a warm yellow haze.

The cold also cooled her feverish thoughts. She realized that the praise those people had given Li Chi, and their so-called understanding and admiration for her 'challenging the system' back then, did not stem from an agreement with her ideals, but only from the fact that Li Chi had succeeded now.

Li Chi's band has gained a foothold and won recognition from the market and critics; the film that documents her struggles and creations and aims to promote the band is about to be released, and the publicity campaign is in full swing. Anyone with a discerning eye can see the prestige and influence it will bring.

Success is the best antidote, capable of washing away past betrayals and marginalization into legendary vision and courage.

People never look up to solitary courage, but to the flag on the mountaintop.

This realization tainted her anger at Li Xun's injustice with a layer of weariness towards the world.

She wanted to say something to Li Xun, but in the end she only sent him a picture of the snow-covered rooftops against the deep blue night sky outside the window.

A while later, Li Xun replied with a picture—the interface of a documentary editing software, with densely packed timelines. He said, "It's beautiful. I'm still working on it. It's cold where you are, remember to wear more clothes."

--

The rehearsals went smoothly. The Tromsø concert hall was modernly designed and had excellent acoustics. Liang Chuling already knew her recital program by heart; she spent more time getting used to the venue and adjusting the piano tone.

The collaboration with the local orchestra for rehearsals was progressing smoothly. The orchestra was small, but the musicians were professional and enthusiastic. One of the middle-aged cellists, named Eileen, had solid technique and a keen musical sense. During breaks in rehearsals, she was always smiling and would remind Liang Chuling that the stage lights in a certain area might be too bright.

During a break, Eileen came over with Liang Chuling's record and asked her to sign it.

Liang Chuling readily agreed, but Eileen opened the cover to the inside page, pointed to the blank space, and said in broken English, "Please write to Eileen and wish her success in fighting cancer."

Liang Chuling paused, then looked up at Eileen.

Eileen was still smiling, her short, golden-gray hair neatly combed. Her face was a little pale, but her eyes were bright. She pointed to her chest and made a simple gesture.

Liang Chuling solemnly wrote down her blessings, signed her name, and handed the record back.

Eileen took it, hugged it tightly, and said thank you in Norwegian, then switched back to English: "Your playing often makes me forget the pain."

Liang Chuling didn't know what to say, so she could only gently hold Eileen's hand. Eileen's hand was a little cold, but she gripped it tightly in return.

The night before the collaborative performance, the final rehearsal ended. Eileen called out to Liang Chuling, who was about to leave.

"Ling, after the performance tomorrow, my sister Marta and I are planning to go to Longyearbyen. Would you like to come with us?"

Longyearbyen?

Eileen's eyes shone brightly in the dim backstage lights: "Yes, the capital of Svalbard, inside the Arctic Circle. It's a little over an hour's flight from Tromsø. It's a city without death."

Liang Chuling couldn't help but look at those two bright pools of water, and her heart was gently startled.

The Arctic, the promise she and Li Xun never fulfilled.

Seeing Liang Chuling's interest, Eileen smiled and continued, "Birth and death are not allowed there. Life there can only exist in the present moment. I want to see such a place. I'm afraid that if I don't go now, I won't be able to go later. Perhaps my current body will be in its best condition for the years to come."

"I want to go," Liang Chuling heard herself say.

Eileen was overjoyed: "That's great! Marta will definitely like you! It's settled then, we'll leave the day after tomorrow morning."

Liang Chuling's solo concert was met with enthusiastic response. The concert hall in the polar night was like a warm island, and the piano music was like the flowing light on the island.

The collaborative performance was also a success, and during the curtain call, Eileen gave her a thumbs-up in the orchestra.

At the celebration banquet after the performance, Liang Chuling made a brief appearance before leaving early to return to the hotel to pack her bags.

Zhou Xu's performance is tomorrow, but she doesn't plan to go.

Liang Chuling sent Li Xun a message: "I'm going to Longyearbyen with my bandmates tomorrow."

Li Xun quickly replied: "Be careful and have fun."

The next morning, Eileen and her sister Marta came to pick her up from the hotel.

Marta was younger than Erin, had a lively personality, and was a painter. They took a taxi to the airport and boarded a small propeller plane.

The plane flew north, and outside the window stretched endless oceans and islands covered in ice and snow.

The sky was a persistent deep blue-gray.

More than an hour later, the plane landed at Longyearbyen Airport, which was colder than Romsø, with winds as sharp as knives. Looking out, one could see snow-covered mountains and colorful wooden houses dotting the slopes.

“Look at that sign.” Marta pointed to a warning sign outside the airport with a picture of a polar bear and a message reminding residents and tourists to be cautious.

This area is now polar bear territory.

On the walls of the hotel where I stayed, there were yellowed Arctic exploration maps and old sleds. There was also a fireplace on the first floor, with several stacks of guestbooks piled up next to it.

The cover is worn, the corners are curled, and it has been smoothed by countless hands.

Two more Asian faces were checking in ahead of them, so Liang Chuling and her companions started looking through the guestbook. Handwriting in various languages ​​crowded together, filling every inch of the blank space.

The strokes are winding, carrying unknown thoughts and feelings: joy, loneliness, amazement, longing, awe of nature, and questioning of life... all compressed between the pages.

Eileen picked up a book, turned to a blank page, and wrote down her wish. Marta leaned over and wrote down her dream.

Liang Chuling had no desire to write. She felt her emotions were too chaotic to be settled, so she could only aimlessly browse through other people's traces.

Until I saw her own name, written in familiar Chinese characters and handwriting: 【Liang Chuling, I hope you are doing well.】

The three characters “Liang Chuling” were blurred.

The person checking in had their phone ring. Liang Chuling looked up. She must have heard the song that was ringing before. Her profession gave her a terrifying memory for pitches and timbres. She looked up and waited for the male voice to sing the first line: "I gave you a moment of transparency."

Liang Chuling remembered that it was during the competition where she was a judge and Li Xun participated that she heard a contestant adapt this song – "What Else Can I Give You" – during the tiebreaker.

"I gave you a moment of transparency" is a subtle and poetic expression in the context of Cantonese songs, with "transparency" referring to tears.

I gave you a fleeting moment of transparency—and shed tears for you.

I shed tears for you.

Liang Chuling held her breath, frozen in place, her fingertips brushing against the spreading ink stains.

Li Xun, are those your tears?

He had been here. Unbeknownst to her, he had come to the ends of the earth, sat by this fireplace, perhaps feeling as cold and lonely as she did, and then sealed away his pain and blessings for her on the frozen earth.

The blurred ink overlapped with the distant melody, summoning the bullet that Li Xun had loaded five years ago when she choked up on the phone, which traveled through time and struck her heart five years later.

“Ling?” Eileen’s voice brought her back to reality. “We can check in now.”

Liang Chuling hurriedly closed the guestbook, as if it were a Pandora's box.

After settling in, Eileen was in good spirits, and the three of them went out for a walk together.

There were few people on the streets, and the snow was very thick.

They visited the town's museum and learned about its history: coal mines, exploration, and the law that prohibited death and birth—because the permafrost prevented corpses from decomposing and diseases from being properly treated, so the dying had to leave the archipelago.

Eileen stood in front of the explanation of the law for a long time, then said to Liang Chuling, "When you feel like your life is coming to an end, you want to go to a place where you can't end it, like a kind of resistance. This place is good. It makes me feel like I can keep going for a long time."

Liang Chuling hugged her: "You'll get better, Eileen. Music and life will go on."

Birth and death are not allowed here.

Life cannot be completed, nor can it be incomplete; it must be ongoing, existing continuously, vibrantly, and moving forward.

Her thoughts drifted uncontrollably to Li Xun. Hadn't their relationship been in a state of non-progression for a long time?

Five years ago, it ended in an unfinished state that never truly began, like a sentence that died prematurely.

After the reunion, the physical closeness and the surge of emotions are dragged into a state of suspension, a stalemate where they cannot face the beginning or the end.

They possess the scars of the past and the allure of the present, but lack a present tense that points towards the future.

Eileen wanted to come here to see things, to personally experience an absolute ongoing process and draw strength from it before her life might be forced into a state of completion.

And what about her?

Standing on this land where endings were not allowed, she saw Li Xun's tears and blessings.

Marta shook Liang Chuling's arm and asked if she was unhappy. Liang Chuling shook her head, but didn't know what to say, so she pointed to the other side of the canyon and told them, "Look, that's the sun."

They looked up; it was already afternoon, and during the polar night, the sun glided low near the horizon. A sliver of golden light pierced the thick clouds, casting a slant of light onto the snow-covered cliff opposite, turning the ice wall a fiery golden-red, contrasting sharply with the surrounding deep blue shadows.

Light and darkness, ice and fire, eternity and the moment.

Marta was thrilled and shouted, "Even in the darkest season, the light will find its way!"

A biting wind howled across the open field, whipping up snowflakes that stung her face like tiny needles. Yet, Liang Chuling felt something pent up inside her, growing within this absolute cold and in this dim light.

In the evening, they took snowmobiles to a fjord far from the town, where only the sound of the wind, the engine, and the endless whiteness remained between heaven and earth.

The world is simplified: black is the mountain rocks and seawater, white is the snow and ice, and blue-gray is the sky.

The guide stopped in a sheltered spot and turned off the engine. A profound silence descended, a silence so profound it was unsettling.

“Look over there,” the guide said, pointing to the mountain ridge on the opposite side of the fjord.

At first, there was nothing. Then, like a veil, shifting green light slowly emerged from behind the deep blue sky. Then came more—pale green, light purple, wisps and strands, dancing lightly and changing shapes.

Those are the Northern Lights.

Liang Chuling looked up, the light swirling in her pupils.

The band of light gradually faded, the sky returned to deep blue, and silence once again reigned supreme.

Liang Chuling had already taken out her phone, but the battery quickly ran out in the low temperature and it shut down automatically.

Well, she thought, some things don't need to be recorded, they just need to be experienced and remembered.

On the way back, her phone turned on again in the warm car and vibrated. It was Zhou Xu.

"Liang Chuling, where are you? My performance is over, but you didn't come."

"I'm outside."

"What outside? Tromsø has an aurora forecast for tonight, I..."

"I was in Longyearbyen with my friends."

Zhou Xu almost gritted his teeth: "What friends? Are you with Li Xun...?"

"Zhou Xu, this has nothing to do with you. You should enjoy your trip to Norway. Have a great time."

The car drove back to the brightly colored town, like returning from a desolate dream to the real world, with warm yellow light shining through the hotel windows.

Liang Chuling opened the guestbook again, hesitating about how to begin writing.

Li Xun, did you see that?

I'm at our agreed-upon place. Death is not allowed here; life must exist in its vibrant state. I think the same applies to our relationship. It cannot remain in a state of incompleteness or suspension; it must find a dynamic, ongoing state.

I need to understand why you need clarity, to understand the hurt that the vague past caused you, and to understand that I can no longer get close to you by relying on and demanding.

I need to be clear about what I can give you, rather than asking you what we are.

[Author's Note]

First and foremost: I did not mean to deliberately smear Curtis!

Even in the classical music world, a seemingly elegant field centered on art, power still operates, and the vehicles of power remain seniority, connections, the right to speak, and the right to define "orthodoxy."

Then they engage in covert exclusion, rule-making, resource allocation, and labeling of those who disagree with them.

Li Xun is immune to the negative influence of the protagonist because he has the aura of a male lead and comes from a good family. In reality, however, he can directly affect the fate of individuals, especially those of Chinese descent, and especially talented artists from humble backgrounds.

As a cradle of genius, Curtis Institute inherently possesses the characteristics of an elite selection process, a mechanism that can easily become a breeding ground for power. For example, professors wield immense influence, their aesthetic preferences directly determining students' development; there is a strong reverence for German and Austrian traditions and stereotypes surrounding artists from non-Western backgrounds; and resource allocation is heavily biased towards its own people.

I simply need Curtis and the classical music world as vehicles for expression, but certainly not just Curtis. Power operates in our lives at all times.

What I'm trying to say is that you shouldn't be fascinated by anything related to status, resources, etc., and you shouldn't doubt yourself because of such things.

Because I've always been prone to self-doubt. As a child, I felt everything I wanted to do was foolish. The elders around me would look at my behavior, my words, my dreams, my life with the eyes of someone looking at a pet. I had nowhere to turn. The whole environment was telling me it was my problem, that I didn't meet the standards, that I hadn't figured out the rules, that I didn't know how to behave, that being hurt was my fault, that my clothes weren't on properly, that my hair was disheveled, that this was my fault. All these reasons are truly absurd. But they were so absurd that they made me doubt myself for twenty years.

Now I think there really aren't those standards. If there aren't explicitly stated rules, then they aren't rules; they're just tricks you pull out to bully others. I think judging right and wrong in a situation doesn't require listening to the perpetrator's perspective, understanding any perpetrator, or entering their logic. As long as the victim is harmed, the perpetrator is despicable. I don't think anyone needs to learn the skill of "reading the room." I think there are many, many, many more.

So what I want to say is that in life, whenever there are top-down judgments and accusations, readers don't need to pay any attention to them.

All top-down actions are inevitably influenced by the interests of the other party.

There is no such thing as fairness in the world, and I have no intention of fighting for fairness, but it is important to know that there is no fairness in the world.

So don't worry, don't be sad, don't doubt yourself. Nothing is more important than yourselves.

Do what you want to do boldly. If you fail, it doesn't necessarily mean it's your fault. To be honest, I'd rather all women, when they fail, blame everything—the world, the structure, everything—and only then blame themselves. Don't tie your hands and feet; let's be bold in doing things, expressing ourselves, and going in all directions.

On behalf of Li Chi and Liang Chuling, I wish you all the best and encourage you all.