63. A Formidable Opponent—Carmen Appears Again

On stage, Tian Yu had already begun performing the first piece.

Li An didn’t need to look at the keyboard; the steady, even flow of sixteenth notes from Tian Yu’s right hand, drifting through the air, said everything. Just a single bar was enough for him to see that Tian Yu’s technical foundation was far superior to Lin Pengfei’s.

The piece Tian Yu drew was the A minor from Czerny—actually the 31st exercise from Czerny’s Op. 740: “Practice for Passing the Thumb Under.” It’s a Grade 9 piano examination exercise, focusing on training candidates in long arpeggios for both hands.

For students with solid fundamentals, the piece isn’t especially difficult, but playing it at the original speed belongs to another world entirely. Most of Czerny’s exercises are magical that way.

Perhaps that’s what Lin Pengfei meant when he said Tian Yu was lucky. At the time, Li An hadn’t thought much about it—he simply waited for Tian Yu to take the stage, listening for speed and quality.

The original tempo was sixty dotted half notes per minute. Right now, Tian Yu was playing at about fifty-three beats.

Steady, clear, uniform.

He played beautifully.

Though Li An had no fondness for Tian Yu as a person, he admired his piano playing. In the blink of an eye, Tian Yu was already at bar fifty.

Here, the music entered its most exciting phase, and Li An stood up.

On the keyboard, Tian Yu’s hands suddenly shifted from upright to lying flat. Then, with effortless grace, he delivered a dazzling passage of reverse octaves in both hands that reached every ear in the room.

From behind, Li An could only see that Tian Yu’s arm movements were not exaggerated—his wrists must be exceptionally supple to manage that section.

The atmosphere in the hall was nothing like Tian Yu’s calm demeanor. The full, soaring melody built toward its final, triumphant climax.

Suddenly.

With a heavy crash of both hands on the chords, Tian Yu pressed the sustain pedal.

A resonant clang lingered.

Two seconds later, hands and feet withdrew.

The stage seemed frozen.

Only the dust motes trembled in the golden light, echoing with the piano’s lingering sound.

Tian Yu wiped his hands and continued with the next piece.

“Beautiful,” someone murmured.

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Five minutes later, as enthusiastic applause greeted the performance, Li An found himself clapping along.

Tian Yu’s C major not only vividly showcased the characteristics of Haydn’s late keyboard compositions, but also infused them with his own understanding.

It was a complete movement, rich in thought and substance.

This time, Li An conceded defeat.

Not that he was discouraged; after all, there was nearly a decade’s difference between them.

For tonight at least, he was wholeheartedly convinced by Tian Yu’s performance.

If only his own impassioned third movement had come out as he imagined, perhaps the two could have been more evenly matched.

Chen Xuan rose, flute in hand. Li An glanced her way and together they walked toward the backstage entrance.

Just then, Tian Yu returned from the stage, passing by and shooting Li An a look.

Their eyes met, and Li An’s brow furrowed slightly.

He couldn’t read the meaning in Tian Yu’s gaze—was it provocation? It didn’t seem so.

Li An shook his head, focusing again on Chen Xuan. He said easily, “Good luck.”

Chen Xuan smiled, nodded, and turned to step onto the stage.

A wave of applause washed over her.

As she walked onstage, Chen Xuan’s entire aura seemed transformed; even from three or five meters away, Li An could feel the powerful presence in her stride beneath the spotlight.

Her black long dress swayed with her braided hair, exuding an air of sharp elegance.

This was no ordinary assessment—it was as if she were opening her own solo recital.

Li An leaned with interest against the backstage doorframe.

He had never seen this side of Chen Xuan before.

She stopped at the spot she’d marked that afternoon. When the applause faded, she raised the flute to her lips and gently blew a la.

A clear, ethereal note sounded overhead.

She lowered the flute and rotated the head joint to the right, then blew another la.

This second note was slightly lower than the first.

Tuning done.

With two quick motions, Chen Xuan held the flute once more.

Under everyone’s gaze, she pressed the mouthpiece below her lips, took a soft breath.

In the next moment—

A concentrated, fine stream of air burst from her pink lips.

Ten slender, pale fingers sprang into action; in their alternation, a low yet strikingly full triplet in minor second ascended from the center of the stage.

Chen Xuan’s first piece.

Then sixteen bars of rapid motion, as clear as moonlit ice—bright, piercing, with an edge of chill.

Eight bars of smooth transition allowed a brief pause; her braided hair flicked as she played another imposing arpeggio in sixths.

After the theme recurred, Li An saw nothing but continual modulations ascending by minor seconds.

Modulation by minor second.

Modulation by minor second.

Modulation by minor second.

Modulation by minor second.

After countless modulations—

At last, in a gust of wind, Chen Xuan sent the final note to E.

She lowered the flute.

The Kohler Flute Etude Op. 75 No. 10 was over, the whole performance lasting two minutes and thirty-six seconds.

Li An didn’t understand the flute, just as he didn’t understand clarinet or saxophone.

But he understood music.

No matter the instrument, music is always composed of different pitches, endlessly varying melodies, and contrasts in dynamics.

After hearing Chen Xuan’s etude, not even considering tone, just focusing on those three aspects, he felt it was on a level far above Zhang Youwei and Xu Nana—there was no comparison.

He’d actually thought Xu Nana was decent when she played.

Now, he realized: there’s no pain without comparison.

Not that it was surprising—Chen Xuan’s alma mater spoke for itself.

A moment passed.

At center stage, Chen Xuan raised her flute again.

Her lips moved.

A richly textured note flowed from between her teeth.

Then the main theme—melodious, hoarse, ethereal—gradually filled the stage, simple, compact, and quietly permeating every listener’s ear.

So beautiful.

Li An seemed to sense, through the flute’s voice, the fleeting regret and lament for the protagonist’s short life.

It made him think instantly of the character in the opera.

Carmen.

The factory girl who embodied beauty, stubbornness, candor, and seduction.

Mad for love, dead for love.

Carmen Fantasy.

Chen Xuan’s second piece.

The proper name was “Concert Fantasy on Themes from Carmen.”

Based on the original opera, the German composer François Borne, with his own understanding of music, wrote an entirely new work and refined its variations.

This piece brought out the flute’s characteristics in exquisite detail, breaking new ground in tone, musical technique, and performance.

Turning his gaze back to Chen Xuan’s graceful profile, Li An noticed her performance state had changed again.

Her eyes seemed dreamy as she gazed ahead, though it wasn’t clear what she was looking at.

Only the golden flute in her hand, slowly sending forth deep, resonant notes.

As if she were drawing open the first curtain of the story.