Moonlight Prodigy

“No! No! No! No! No!” Israel Copperstein bellowed, as he snorted back another handful of mucus into his sinuses.

“That’s not how the piece is supposed to be played at all! Don’t you even practice? It goes C, C, D, A sharp, rest, G sharp, C, not C, C, D, A sharp, G sharp, rest, C! Once more from the top!”

Yu Ling’s fingers were sore from having played the same rendition of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata for the past two hours. Her father had enlisted her in the most rigorous music academy in the entire state. She attended sessions daily from 6pm until 8. While she wasn’t practicing piano or at school, she was to be studying in order to optimize her academic prestige, as her father phrased it. From the writing to the piano playing, her fingers were perpetually engaged and sore. She always thought that she would develop carpel tunnel syndrome before her twentieth birthday and not have to write or play any more—though her father would likely make her play with her feet in that case. It was no surprise that she kept playing the piece wrong.

“No! No! A million times, NO!”

Copperstein was insufferable.

“Aren’t you capable of reading music? Do you need bloody glasses? It says to hold that F for two beats, you held it for two and a half. Once more from the top!”

Yu’s music teacher, Israel Copperstein was an immense sight for any mortal to behold. His musical genius was dwarfed by his grotesquely-shaped physique. A cascading fountain of human flesh poured like a pyroclastic flow down the waistline of his trousers. When Copperstein coughed, the skin on his neck rippled to cast the myriad of warts on his chin asunder, reminiscent of a lifeboat lost at sea and at the mercy of its tumultuous waves. Though he could play every classical composer from Beethoven to Tchaikovsky by memory, he was not suited as a teacher, much less to be associated with children. On the rare occasion that Yu impressed Copperstein with her playing, he would offer her a handful from a bowl of festering liquorice he kept in the corner of the practice hall. Suffice to say, it wasn’t much of positive reinforcement.

“So that ends the lesson for today Yu. You must practice more thoroughly for tomorrow! You don’t get any liquorice if you do not have the piece memorized.”

At that, Copperstein broke into a violent fit of coughing and wheezing until he regained his composure to pat Yu on her head and send her off home.

At dinner, that evening, Yu’s father stared at her with intense fervour. He ate his rice grudgingly as he eyed his daughter with the same expression one gives to a murder suspect who is on the verge of confessing.

“Mr. Copperstein says that you have not been practicing the piano!” He snapped to break the awkward tension.

“It’s not my fault father, my hands were sore.”

“Your hands were sore? That is a pathetic excuse Yu! You know that I pay for those lessons so you can become great prodigy! How dare you disrespect me and your ancestors by saying your hands are sore!”

“But father-"

“Don’t speak! You have lost the privilege. After you are done your rice, you must go to your room and practice more piano. You do not sleep until you have memorized!”

Yu’s father was a humourless pillar of old-world discipline. He and his wife, Yu’s mother, had emigrated from Korea while they were newlyweds in search of prosperity in America. Both of them had a boiling distain for communism as both had seen their glorious nation trampled by devastation during the Korean War. Yu’s parents always pressured their daughter into succeeding and achieving what they thought was the great American Dream. However, their pressure was tantamount to abuse, and when Yu did not live up to their expectations, her father beat her without restraint.

After supper, Yu’s father approached Yu’s room expecting to see her practicing. When he opened the door to her room, he saw Yu with her head resting on the keys of her baby grand piano. She had passed out. He removed his belt and promptly lashed her across the back.

“Awake! Now! You must practice! There is no time for resting.”

He slammed the door and stormed off, leaving Yu to drift right back into a duly needed sleep. The beatings hurt her, but the pain was bearable compared to the agony of staying awake and practicing. Yu actually loved playing piano, and she was considerably good at it. She just resented her father and that rotund ghoul of an instructor. Neither had shown Yu any congratulations for the progress she made. Yu was indeed one of the most proficient piano players in the whole state, but never had received any recognition for it—just beatings and bitter candies.

The next day at her lesson, Copperstein had come down with a nasty case of bronchitis, although he coughed and cleared his throat no more than Yu thought routine. His illness had made him even grumpier than usual. He scolded Yu for every minor mistake she made.

“Bah! That is wrong, all wrong! Why can’t you just play the music properly? Why do you have to keep making stuff up—just look at the sheet music!”

“But I wasn’t making anything up Mr. Copperstein.” Yu protested.

Copperstein grunted in disbelief.

“Well then, tell me what it was you just played. Because to me, it sounded like mezzo-forte! The sheet music clearly indicates that this piece must be played in mezzo-piano. Once more from the top!”

“Yes, Mr. Copperstein”

It is sufficient to say Yu did not receive any liquorice that day.

That evening, when Yu got home from her lesson, she found to her surprise her great uncle Tao eating dinner with her family. Apparently, she had lost the privilege of getting dinner as there were only three plates of rice set out this evening. Her father only did that when he was exceptionally cross with her.

“No dinner for you tonight Yu.” Her father exclaimed.

“I get phone call from Mr. Copperstein! He tell me you no practice. You are disgrace to your family. Say hello to great uncle Tao. Have you no manners?”

“Hello uncle Tao”

“Good evening Yu.”

Uncle Tao was a petrified old relic from the old country. He was a veteran of the Korean War and boasted constantly that he had killed over two hundred communists with his bare hands. He always joked that he was the reason way there was a demilitarized zone. The commies were scared of him, he claimed. Once he died the war apparently was to start back up again.

“Aren’t you going to serve your daughter a plate of rice?” asked Tao.

“She doesn’t get rice! Not after she disgraces her family by not practicing piano.”

Yu hung her head and walked up to the solitude of her bedroom. Just once it would be good to get some recognition for the work she put into her studies and her piano practice. Yu felt like she was lingering on a breaking point. Either she would snap, or somebody else would. Evidently, it was to be someone else.

When she entered the music academy for her daily piano lesson the next day, she was greeted by a young man with terrible posture. He had dirty blonde hair and a face enveloped in teenage-onset acne. It looked like a road map of Tennessee on his cheeks.

“Hi, you must be Yu Ling. I’m Derrick. Sorry, but Israel Copperstein won’t be teaching you anymore. He passed away last night.”

It was almost a shock to Yu as it was a relief. There would be no more wheezing, and coughing, and horrible liquorice.

“He died? How?”

Derrick scratched his face and looked down at the floor. He had a voice stereotypical of most teenagers with bad genetics. He had a mid-pitched squeal for a voice and stumbled over his sentences like a mad drunk running through an obstacle course in the dark.

“He didn’t so much pass away as he was murdered.”

“Murdered? By who?”

“By Hezbollah militants as it turns out. They fired a rocket into his apartment. I can’t say that I envy the paramedics who had to clean the body up. Apparently his lard and mucus coated all the walls and windows. They say he just burst like a ripe sack of ketchup.”

“Oh My.”

“Well I am going to be your piano teacher from now on. Where did you leave off?”

Yu led Derrick into the practice room and played for him the piece she had left off with—Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Although she made a few of the mistakes that Israel Copperstein had always scolded her for, Derrick didn’t seem to notice.

“Wow, that’s probably one of the best renditions of that piece I’ve ever heard! Israel must have been a great teacher to you.”

“He was okay.”

“Was he proud to have you as a student?”

“I guess so, he never said that though.”

Derrick stuck his nose in the air and winced at something.

“What the hell is that awful stench? It smells like lye and road-salt.”

“Oh that would be the liquorice that Mr. Copperstein gave me when I didn’t completely disappoint him.”

“You didn’t actually eat this shit did you?”

Derrick approached the porcelain bowl in the corner of the room. He reached in to pick up one of the liquorice. The humidity had evidently fused them all together because as he lifted his hand, the entire bowl lifted with him. Yu and Derrick burst out laughing.

Tao eyed Mr. Ling with silence.

“What is it? Why do you keep staring at me?

Tao had a long Confucius-like beard and he stroked it contemplatively as he spoke.

“Let me ask you a question. Do you ever beat Yu?”

Mr. Ling was taken back. He looked like a startled deer that had just seen the headlights of the car that was bearing down on him.

“Oh course I do. She needs encouragement to become great. She is very talented you know. She plays piano better than anyone I’ve ever heard. She needs motivation though. American Teenagers are so lazy.”

“Have you ever told her that?’

“Told her what?”

“That you think she’s talented. Every time I come over, you just insult her and treat her like a dog.”

Mr. Ling thought about what his uncle had said for a good few minutes before responding. In fact, there had not been a time that he could remember when he had praised his daughter for her achievements. It gave him a hollow, empty feeling. Tao stroked his beard again and watched the dismayed Mr. Ling process his emotions.

Yu walked in the front door and greeted them both.

“Enough talking Yu! Go up and practice more!”

At practice the next day, Yu kept glancing at Derrick out of the corner of her eye. There was a sense of urgency in the expression on her face.

“Is everything okay Yu?” Derrick asked, puzzled.

“Uh, can I tell you something?”

“Yeah I guess. What is it?”

“The reason, I’m so good at playing piano is because my father. He gets very angry when I don’t live up to his expectations. Sometimes, he even, uh, whips me with his belt.”

Given Derrick’s relatively young age and lack of sufficient life experience, he was unable to process awkward situations such as these. His forehead started to perpetrate and his voice shifted between octaves.

“That’s a problem Yu.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Look, I live in my mother’s basement. If you want to come stay with me for a while that’s okay. You seem like a nice girl. As for your father, we should really call Child Protective Services.”

Yu was glad that she had finally met someone who not only appreciated her talent, but also cared about her well-being. He may have been a lanky, socially inept teenager, but Yu was not going to discriminate.

Derrick opened the door to his mother’s basement and flipped on the light. The room was decorated with posters of bullshit rock bands and pictures of half-nude women. It smelt like humidity and rich soil.

“This is my room. You can stay here for the time being. I’m sure my mom won’t mind.”

“I’m really grateful for this Derrick.”

“Don’t mention it. Any good person would do this. I wouldn’t want you to go back living with that abusive father of yours.”

Derrick’s mother called out from upstairs.

“Derrick honey, would you and your little friend like Tacos or Pizza for dinner tonight?”

“Pizza, Ma!” Squealed the pimply faced teen.

“Say, Yu. May I hear you play that Beethoven piece again?”

Yu approached the electric piano in the corner of Derrick’s room and started playing. She played without restraint. Her fingers didn’t hurt and she didn’t have to fear being scolded or beaten for making a mistake. There was no snorting, grunting, or wheezing to distract her. This was how she always wanted to play the piano—peacefully, with the appreciation of others. Derrick leaned back in his water bed and listened. It was indeed some of the most beautiful piano playing he had ever heard.

That evening, Mr. Ling received a phone call from Child Protective Services. He was under investigation for child abuse and neglect. He had a court appearance and the tone of the CPS agent made him feel very ashamed of himself. For Mr. Ling, the American dream had ended there and then. He had the best of intents for his daughter, but now he was being treated no better than the communist scum he had sworn to perpetually despise.

Mr. Ling turned on his stereo and put on his favourite Beethoven piece, Moonlight Sonata. He reached into his drawer and retrieved his ceremonial tanto. There was only one option left for him—to commit seppuku. If he was to die, he would die with glory and ascent to the great hall of his ancestors. Yu didn’t need him anymore. There would be no dishonour from Child Protective Services for him.

As Mr. Ling watched his intestines spilling out of his bowels, the very last sentiment to enter his mind was pride, not for himself, or his uncle, or his country, but for his daughter. She had brought their family great honour.