The Secret Piano: From Mao's Labor Camps to Bach's Goldberg Variations (22 page)

“You’re safe. Nothing will happen to you,” he said in my ear.

He was right: I made it to the station. At last! Just in time for the last train. I collapsed into my seat. As I was catching my breath and pulling myself back together, I thought about the life I was leading. I was aware that things couldn’t go on like this much longer. I had less and less desire to play the piano. My Bach and Beethoven scores smelled like soy sauce. If I didn’t stop working there, I’d never find the proper style to play the music that I loved.

A few days later, a knife fight broke out in the kitchen: one of the two cooks’ head was cut open, and there was blood everywhere. Enough was enough. The next day, I called my employers and told them I was quitting and that they should find another waitress. Once the feeling of relief subsided, however, I had to start looking for another job.

This time, I found work as an usher at the Boston Symphony Orchestra. This seemed nothing short of a miracle, except that I couldn’t attend the concerts: as soon as the music began, I was to leave the hall. It was only at the end, during the encore, that I was able to slip back in as the first audience members were leaving.

I learned one day that Vladimir Horowitz was going to perform. This time, I couldn’t make do with just the encore—the mere mention of his name sent chills down my spine. As soon as the box office opened, I bought myself a ticket for thirty dollars. I would gladly have paid three hundred! As the concert approached, my excitement grew. Suddenly, a few days before, I learned that I had to take a piano exam on the afternoon of the concert. I knew that students were called in alphabetical order for tests: this was very bad news. I decided to risk everything: the exam had not yet started, so I went and knocked on the door of the test room. The jury looked at me, astonished:

“It’s not your turn. We’ll call you when the time comes, but it probably won’t be until the end of the afternoon.”

“Please listen to me. I’ve spent all of my money on a ticket for the Horowitz concert tonight. I can’t play later, I have to go hear him.”

Sometimes it pays to be bold. Not only did the president of the jury, amused, let me play first, but I got the highest score in the entire Conservatory—which, on that occasion, had nothing to do with my playing! As for Horowitz, I was disappointed. But I must confess that I was on cloud nine that night, and I probably would have been critical of any other pianist on the planet.

It was around this time that Dominique decided my English was really becoming unbearable. She was at her wits’ end with the chaos I created mixing up cleaning products. Gabriel Chodos felt the same way—he had to use a dictionary to give me lessons. And so, as summer approached, Dominique offered to pay for an intensive English course for me at one of the most exclusive establishments on the East Coast, the School for International Training in Vermont.

I bid farewell to Oliver, my partner in crime, who began barking madly when he saw me leaving the house. I would never forget him: we had been hungry together.

I think I must be the only pianist in the world who has gone to Brattleboro, Vermont—home to one of the world’s most famous music festivals—with the goal of learning English.

Brattleboro is associated with Marlboro Music, a very special institution that was founded after World War Two by a number of renowned European musicians, including the pianist Rudolf Serkin, the violinist Adolf Busch, and the flutist Marcel Moyse. Each year young musicians have the opportunity to mingle with celebrated artists during unforgettable master classes and chamber music sessions. Between daytime practice sessions and evening concerts, the atmosphere at the Marlboro Festival is entirely unique.

During the evening concerts, sitting in the last row, I noticed a tall, quiet, somewhat bald gentleman wearing thin-framed, round glasses. He closed his eyes when he listened to the music.

“How can you not know who that is?” I was told when I asked about him. “That’s Rudolf Serkin. Come tomorrow night; he’s going to play a Haydn trio.”

Rudolf Serkin, the legendary pianist, was listening to his younger colleagues as if they were his teachers. When I returned the next night, the musician was on stage, playing Haydn with the playfulness of a child and the demeanor of a man who had lived through everything. I’d never heard anything like it. I attended his master classes, went to his concerts, listened to his recordings. This man embodied what I value most: integrity and humility before music. I observed him discuss the
Hammerklavier
and Opus 111:

“You are cheating Beethoven,” he said to a student who had altered a difficult passage to make it easier to play. “But you are also cheating yourself—and God!”

I was astounded by how he brought the great Beethovenian form to life from the inside, infusing it with a fire and an emotion that I had never heard before—musical architecture combined with passion. He forbade any changes in Beethoven’s scores to make them easier to perform. I set myself the goal of studying with Serkin, but I didn’t dare approach him. My friends encouraged me:

“You’re mistaken; he never refuses to listen to anyone. What he doesn’t like are pianists who are affected. He listens to them politely, like all the rest, but then lets them know, with a big smile, that it won’t go any further. You don’t have a thing to worry about.”

The more I was told how kind and generous Rudolf Serkin was, the less I wanted to impose on him. The summer ended, and I still hadn’t gotten up the courage to approach him.

When I returned from Marlboro, Gabriel Chodos found that my playing had undergone a transformation. How could it have changed so much in so short a time? The only official courses I had taken were in English, but something had “clicked” for me at Marlboro. By listening to Rudolf Serkin and those around him, I understood how I could add a decisive element to my playing—the pleasure of communicating, of “transmitting” the music.

The academic year passed without incident, and I was granted my diploma from the New England Conservatory. At the age of thirty-three, I had earned the diploma I should have received when I was twenty! Once again, I thought back to the lost years, to my stolen youth. I thought about the education that had been denied me, an education I had been forced to look for here, in far-flung Boston, my path fraught with obstacles and humiliations. But finally, with this diploma, I had cleared another hurdle. Had Jesus heard my prayers? I couldn’t be sure, but I thanked him with all my heart, just in case.

The first few days of summer in Boston were beautiful. Squirrels scampered in crowded parks. I was strolling through the city’s streets, when suddenly I thought I should buy myself a present as a reward for my efforts. There was something that I had always dreamed of having, but I had been denied it when I was at the right age. Afterwards, I never purchased one because they were always too expensive—compared to a bag of rice or a pound of carrots. A friend sent me to a discount store.

“You can find one there for four dollars,” she told me.

I decided that the occasion of receiving my degree was worth at least four dollars. At the discount store in question, I did indeed find what I was looking for, and wonderful ones at that. I looked at them for a long time. Then I chose one.

The first doll of my life.

With my diploma in hand, I would finally be able to earn a living from my real profession. In Brattleboro, my reputation as a pianist had been established during the summer, when I had given a benefit concert for a student who had been diagnosed with cancer, and whose family didn’t have the means to pay for treatment. Catherine, the director of the Brattleboro Music Center, was looking for an instructor and asked if I was interested. My first teaching assignment—of course I was interested! It was settled.

To help me with expenses, Catherine offered to put me up at her house. The little room was in the basement; it was dark and damp, but it was free. And Catherine had a beautiful grand piano that I could use to practice Bach and Liszt after work.

I quickly found that my salary wasn’t enough to live on. My wages were based on how many students took my courses, and I never earned more than eighty dollars a month.

It was back to baby-sitting.

Then I learned that the Christian Science Church was looking for a Sunday organist. I was offered thirty dollars for each service: how could I refuse? That meant, however, that I had to master the pedalboard, a technique with which I wasn’t familiar. My first few tries were traumatic for the congregation. Up in the organ loft, I was seized with stage fright: I dreaded every wrong note—the bass ones were particularly unbearable. I was afraid that the assembly would climb the stairs and strangle me, and for good reason! In a very gentle manner, the minister came to see me at the end of the service:

“We are going to find you an organ teacher.”

This turned out to be an elderly organist, from whom I learned the art of playing the pedals.

It was around this time that I heard that a restaurant in Brattleboro was looking for a pianist. I headed over. This was still far from my dream career, but at least I would have the chance to play. The two owners, Thom and Gregg, welcomed me with open arms. They offered me five dollars an hour, which meant I would have to work two evenings to earn as much as I did on Sundays at the church. I started that very night, with pieces that would become my standard repertoire—Mendelssohn, Chopin, and Schubert.

As soon as I began playing, a waiter placed an empty glass on the piano. Why did he do that? What was he going to put in it? But he didn’t fill it with anything, and the hours went by. Later, when the first customers got up and headed for the exit, they slipped a dollar or two in the glass as they passed the piano. They couldn’t possibly have known it, but for me, each bill was an insult. When the last customer had left, I went straight over to Thom and Gregg.

“This is impossible. I can’t possibly continue to work under these conditions.”

They were taken aback.

“Why bother to play if you don’t accept tips?”

The next day, the glass disappeared. Thom and Gregg had decided to pay me ten dollars an hour instead.

Spring arrived. One day, I found my room flooded: the snow had melted, and water had seeped into the house’s basement. My bed and all my belongings were afloat. I camped out at the music school, which ironically had its advantages: if I slept in a classroom, I could play the piano in the evening, undisturbed.

But it was just another in a series of temporary solutions. In a single year, I had changed my address no less than thirty-five times. My friends teased me about it:

“When you put Xiao-Mei’s name in your address book, leave three blank pages for the addresses.”

Shortly afterwards, I learned that I had been chosen for a permanent teaching position at the Brattleboro Music Center. It was a chance for me to get my green card, which is crucial for any foreigner who wants to work in the States on a long-term basis. As soon as I was hired for the job, I went to the local immigration office. The person behind the desk carefully inspected my file, then got up in order to check other documents. There was something wrong. He left his office and I sat alone, waiting. He returned in a few minutes, which had seemed like an eternity.

“I’m sorry, but we’ve already reached our quota for Chinese immigrants for this year, and we can’t issue you a green card. Try again next year; you can apply as of January.”

Just as he was about to return my passport, he gave it one final glance.

“No, actually you can’t. Your visa expires in three days. You have no other choice; you’ll have to return to China.”

Return to China? And explain to my family that I spent more time in the US cleaning houses and doing dishes than playing the piano?

I hurried back to Catherine’s house to ask her advice. Straightaway, she called a senator, with whom she was acquainted through friends. The answer was unequivocal: nothing could be done in such a short period of time. She called a lawyer. The conversation went on for a while. I saw her nodding in agreement. She hung up the phone and turned to me:

“There’s only one solution. You’ll have to get married.”

I stared at her, stunned.