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chapter 29
The recital continued for about an hour.
Schubert’s Impromptus, Schumann’s Sonata, and Chopin’s Ballades—all played in succession without a single moment of disruption.
“Even in this era, such masters exist.”
It felt as if one were watching Liszt of that era, or even himself.
Watching Zimmermann perform with his own interpretation, Song Min-woo couldn’t help but be filled with admiration.
“It’s a shame this is the last piece.”
Lee Ji-hye said while glancing at the recital program.
The last piece was Chopin’s Ballade No. 2, known for its contrast: the opening is clear and gentle like a serene lake, but throughout the middle, there are turbulent, stormy transitions.
“This was a piece I dedicated to Schumann.”
Being contemporaries and fellow musicians, he had exchanged a fair amount with Robert Schumann.
Of course, it was mostly one-sided: Schumann would send letters, and he would reply. Still, they had a friendship of sorts, and Schumann had highly praised his music as a critic. Out of gratitude, he composed this very Ballade No. 2.
…Well, later on, due to financial needs, he sold it to a publisher.
But all of that was in the past now.
No matter the story or relationships behind a piece, after so many years, it was just a ballade.
All that mattered now was to simply enjoy the melody, reverberating beyond time.
Pushing aside idle thoughts, Song Min-woo closed his eyes and listened to Zimmermann’s performance.
Zimmermann’s interpretation, with its unique nuances, felt remarkably fresh to the original composer.
While the original composition was inspired by a peaceful everyday life on Mallorca, occasionally struck by sudden tragedies, this performance conveyed restrained emotions that finally burst forth.
A sense of self-reassurance, pretending everything was fine, only to one day lose control and pour one’s emotions onto the world.
“So it wasn’t all smooth sailing getting to the top, I see.”
Like it or not, whether intentional or not, a pianist’s performance inevitably carries the performer’s experiences and emotions.
Listening to the final passages, Song Min-woo could sense some of Zimmermann’s hidden struggles.
With a slightly bittersweet finale, the Ballade came to an end.
Perhaps because it was the final piece, the applause that erupted was grander than anything he had ever heard.
The audience rose, clapping with all their might, shouting for an encore—it was a magnificent sight.
“Wow… I didn’t know classical concerts could get this kind of reaction.”
Jeong Da-yoon said in disbelief.
Her awkwardly risen posture suggested she had joined the standing ovation without realizing it.
“Yeah. I think this is the first time the reaction has been this strong.”
Lee Ji-hye agreed, as if to confirm Da-yoon’s amazement.
Probably thanks to the piano, he thought.
A world-class piano, tuned meticulously by the best tuner, played by a world-class pianist—it was no wonder the reaction was so explosive.
Song Min-woo glanced at the elderly gentleman seated near the stage, smiling in satisfaction, and nodded to himself.
“The applause doesn’t seem to be stopping.”
“They’re probably waiting for an encore.”
Da-yoon pointed at the still-lit stage lights in response to Ji-hye.
Indeed, with such a passionate audience, it was plausible they might be given an additional piece. Of course, the decision to play an encore was entirely up to the performer.
Song Min-woo watched Zimmermann on stage with a mix of anticipation and curiosity.
Then it happened.
He thought he momentarily made eye contact with Zimmermann.
“…Is it just my imagination?”
The distance from his seat in section J to the stage was considerable, and the audience seating was dark while the stage was brightly lit. Seeing anyone clearly, let alone making eye contact, should have been nearly impossible.
“…It must be my imagination.”
He shook his head, dismissing the thought.
“Wow, he really might do an encore.”
Ji-hye pointed at Zimmermann, who was now talking with staff on stage.
It seemed he was getting permission for the encore from the staff.
Soon enough, after the reluctant staff stepped aside, Zimmermann’s voice boomed through the microphone:
“Ah, hello. This is Hans Zimmermann.”
The surrounding applause immediately subsided, replaced by murmurs of surprise.
“Zimmermann is speaking…?”
“The Zimmermann who’s famous just for playing piano…?”
“And in Korean…?”
Whispers of disbelief spread, not just among the audience but also from Ji-hye and Da-yoon, who looked dumbfounded.
Of course, it was startling. A full-blooded Polish man speaking fluent Korean—anyone would be surprised.
Realizing he was the only one not surprised, Song Min-woo quietly listened to Zimmermann.
“First, I want to thank all the staff who worked for today’s recital, and everyone who attended.”
The greeting flowed smoothly, clearly prepared in advance.
“Today’s recital is a very special stage for me, marking the 20th anniversary of my visit to Korea. I fondly recall the moment I fell in love with the piano in this distant Eastern country, twenty years ago.”
Recalling what Zimmermann had shared before the recital, Song Min-woo instinctively glanced at Elder Yoon Jong-su, seated near the stage.
“For the beloved Mr. Yoon, who prepared the same lovely piano even after all these years, please give him a warm round of applause.”
The spotlight suddenly focused on the elderly man.
“Tch, sitting here doing useless things,” came his voice faintly from afar.
The audience erupted in applause, compelled by the dazzling spotlight on the elderly gentleman.
Once the applause subsided, Zimmermann continued.
“It wasn’t easy to have Mr. Yoon here today. Persuading someone already retired was impossible with my request alone.”
The audience murmured in surprise. It was unexpected that a mere tuner had resisted a world-class pianist’s request.
“If it weren’t for someone who could warm Mr. Yoon’s heart, I wouldn’t be able to perform here today.”
If Elder Yoon had refused, the recital might not have been possible—but probably, Zimmermann would have found another way.
“So, to show my gratitude, I’ve prepared a special stage for the finale today.”
A special stage… what could he possibly show at the end?
Song Min-woo waited with bated breath for Zimmermann’s next words.
But what came next was shocking.
“For my benefactor, and a fellow pianist, Mr. Song, this stage is prepared for you. Will you perform?”
What??
Was this some kind of joke?
Song Min-woo was stunned by Zimmermann’s sudden, outrageous request.
[Flash—]
“?!”
A bright light filled his vision—the spotlight directed at him.
He had anticipated some mention but hadn’t imagined this.
Looking around, he saw Ji-hye and Da-yoon staring openly at him, demanding an explanation.
And he wasn’t alone—every audience member was now looking at him.
…No wonder he felt uneasy during the backstage tour.
Who would have expected a young student to be placed in front of an audience for a world-renowned pianist’s performance?
Even if it doubled as an encore, the pressure was immense.
“Song Min-woo! What’s going on?!”
“D-Did you… know Zimmermann…?”
Ji-hye and Da-yoon demanded an explanation.
But Song Min-woo had no time to explain. The spotlight was still on him, and all eyes were fixed.
With no escape, the only choice was to rise and head to the stage.
“…How could I refuse?”
Given the circumstances, how could a pianist refuse a request to perform?
Above all…
He looked quietly at Elder Yoon.
“…I have unfinished business to complete.”
He hadn’t yet conveyed what he truly wanted to Elder Yoon. Zimmermann must have known, which was why he orchestrated this situation.
With that thought, Song Min-woo stepped onto the stage.
“Haha, I’ve been waiting, Mr. Song. You look pale.”
“Thanks to you.”
Expecting an encore and suddenly thrust into this, it was natural his face was pale.
“Next time, please warn me. My heart might stop if this happens twice.”
“Sorry. I just wanted to surprise you.”
The audacity of this plan… even among geniuses, few pull off such antics.
“And above all, I wanted to hear you perform yourself—here, with this piano.”
Zimmermann displayed the sheet music on the piano.
A Pavane left behind by Elder Yoon’s late wife, completed by Song Min-woo to closely match the original.
“Shall we hear it, from both you and me, for everyone?”
“….”
Song Min-woo silently turned to Elder Yoon, seated just in front of the stage.
Unlike the audience, he showed no surprise—Zimmermann must have told him in advance.
“…Zimmermann could have performed it himself.”
“But who understands this piece better than its composer?”
True. Even if Zimmermann had performed, it would have been beautiful—perhaps even more perfect. But one thing he could never replicate: the emotion embedded in each note, rest, crescendo, decrescendo, staccato, legato, and ritardando.
Only the composer truly knew every nuance of feeling infused into the piece, even if only partially.
“…This is going to be intense.”
Since he was already entangled in this, he might as well enjoy it as a valuable experience.
With a wry smile, Song Min-woo sat quietly at the piano.
The murmuring concert hall gradually fell silent.
Questions and bewilderment lingered on the audience’s faces, but no one spoke up.
“…Familiar feeling.”
Perhaps it was because he hadn’t performed on such a grand stage since his previous life.
It felt like returning home.
With that deep sense of nostalgia, Song Min-woo touched the keys, recalling the brilliance of long-past days.
