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chapter 47
What is politics?
It’s the act of seizing others through words, schemes, and relationships.
As long as humans live within civilization, politics will inevitably exist everywhere — even in places where it shouldn’t.
In supposedly fair sports, and even among children in school, politics quietly takes root.
Music is no exception.
Students of prestigious professors receive more support, and contestants who have relationships with judges end up, knowingly or unknowingly, receiving better evaluations.
Two hundred years ago or today, that hasn’t changed.
And I despised that kind of politics.
How could I not?
Pianists who should be competing purely through music instead restrained each other with rhetoric and politics, tainting the very value of their art.
I was just an unknown musician — born in Poland, stepping into Europe with no connections at all.
Back when I had only just begun to make a name for myself, how many people tried to hold me back with all sorts of filthy tactics?
They pressured publishers to reject my compositions, and even threatened theaters that supported me, just to sabotage my concerts.
After enduring those harsh times, I came to realize one thing:
You may hate politics, but you must never be ignorant of it.
The world is far too cruel and corrupt for talent alone to survive.
That’s why, even if you despise politics, you must at least know enough to protect yourself —
so you can face those who fight with deceit instead of music.
People like Professor Park Jung-hyun.
“This… what is this…?”
What I handed to Professor Park wasn’t much — just a trivial article.
It criticized how professors at Korea National University of the Arts were interfering with admission evaluations for personal and political reasons.
Without any solid proof, such an article wouldn’t hold much weight in the media.
Especially when it targeted a top-tier institution like KNUA — it would normally go nowhere.
But the reason Professor Park was startled wasn’t the article’s content.
It was who the critic was.
“Why Have Korea’s Geniuses Disappeared? — The Great Classical Pianist Hans Zimmermann Speaks.”
“Pretty flashy headline, isn’t it?”
Journalists’ creativity in crafting headlines has always been remarkable —
remarkably disgusting, that is.
“This headline… what is the meaning of this?”
“Don’t worry. It hasn’t been published yet.”
The last thing I want is for such a sensational article to actually circulate.
After all, this kind of card only has value if it remains unplayed.
“You’re… you’re not impersonating Zimmermann, are you?”
“Impersonating? Hardly. I got his permission.”
That card Zimmermann once gave me —
the one with his Polish address on it — actually had something else written too:
his personal contact number.
We only managed a brief international call,
and I couldn’t even exchange proper greetings for fear of the phone bill exploding.
All I did was ask him to say a few words for a journalist interview that would be published soon —
and somehow, this sensational article came out of it.
No doubt the reporter Professor Kang Seo-jun introduced to me added a heavy dose of seasoning.
Professor Kang’s help — which I’d earned earlier by tutoring his student, Kang Yoon —
had given me something invaluable: connections.
A connection with a journalist — one unaffiliated with Park Jung-hyun’s circle,
influential enough that their article wouldn’t be dismissed as gossip,
and available to publish something at my chosen time.
If anyone could provide that, it was Kang Seo-jun.
Because fame, whether you like it or not, always entangles you with the media —
just as it once did me.
“If an article with Zimmermann’s name criticizes KNUA, it’ll cause a massive uproar.”
Actually, not just an uproar —
the entire classical music world, domestic and international, would explode.
After all, this would be the world’s leading pianist publicly condemning a university.
Investigations into faculty involvement in admissions would begin.
KNUA’s reputation would crumble.
Public outrage would mount.
And when that happens, Professor Park would have no choice but to take responsibility.
If the investigation proved private interference,
the university would sacrifice him to protect its image.
“You’re threatening me?”
“Of course not. I’m just saying we should handle things… amicably.”
But that wasn’t my real goal.
Even if I took Park down that way,
I’d end up turning the entire university against me.
Who would welcome a student who had humiliated their school?
Even neutral professors might turn their backs.
That’s why this card was only to be shown, not played.
And Park would still have no choice but to retreat —
because he had too much to lose.
“…What do you want?”
“A fair evaluation.”
The same answer as last time.
Then and now, that wish hadn’t changed.
“As long as you can keep that promise, that’s all I ask.”
“……”
Park Jung-hyun fell silent.
Then, exhaling deeply, he spoke in a deflated tone.
“…Alright. I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you.”
There wasn’t an ounce of sincerity in his voice —
but that didn’t matter.
“Well then, I’ll be on my way—”
“Wait. Before you go… can I ask you one thing?”
“?”
What now?
I turned around, puzzled by his sudden question.
“Why do you insist on following Professor Lee Jung-hoon?”
He had asked me the same thing before.
“No — let me rephrase that. Why do you keep following him?”
That five million won offer — that was just the trigger.
What he really wanted to know now was my goal.
“You’re mistaken.”
“Mistaken? What do you mean—”
“I’m not following Professor Lee Jung-hoon.”
For a moment, Park’s expression faltered.
“You’re not? Then why…”
Why refuse my offers? Why keep getting in my way?
Before he could finish, I calmly replied:
“I simply have no intention of standing with people like you.”
Sure, Professor Lee is a man worthy of respect.
But factional conflict is a separate issue.
From the start, I never intended to take sides in this political war.
Protecting myself from politics is one thing —
joining in is another matter entirely.
“Then what is your goal?”
“The same ideal every pianist holds — to reach that place.”
Park’s face twisted in disbelief.
I suppose my words must have sounded foolish to him.
“For now, my goal is just to enter KNUA.
But ultimately, I want to keep moving toward that dream.”
Yes — if I keep moving forward, I’ll reach it someday.
The state where one conveys every thought and feeling not through words,
but through music.
That ultimate ideal.
Even in my past life, I never reached it.
Will I this time?
It doesn’t matter.
Even if it’s impossible, I’ll keep reaching for it.
There’s meaning in stretching your hand toward the unreachable.
That’s how music — and humanity — progress through hardship.
“Does that answer your question?”
“……”
Park said nothing.
Normally, he’d have scoffed and walked away —
but this time, he didn’t.
“…I see.”
Just those two words, laced with quiet bitterness.
Then, stepping aside, he said,
“Go on. We won’t be crossing paths for a while.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be going then.”
Whether my words had stirred something in him —
only he would know.
With that, I turned and walked down the corridor and stairs.
And as I reached the first floor—
“Looks like you just finished.”
A familiar voice greeted me from below.
Professor Lee Jung-hoon was waiting, timing it perfectly with the end of the evaluations.
“You were waiting for me?”
“Of course. An ungrateful man like me can at least do that much.”
There was deep regret in his expression.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to help you more, but there wasn’t much I could do.”
“It’s alright, Professor. You’re a pianist, not a politician.”
Professor Lee was never one for politics.
Once the other side decided to play dirty, his options were limited —
maybe just filing a fairness complaint to prevent the worst outcome.
That was probably all he could do.
“And besides, thanks to you, I passed the first round safely.
That’s already more than enough help.”
Had it not been for him, I might’ve been eliminated without even knowing why.
It was thanks to Professors Lee Jung-hoon and Kang Seo-jun that I made it through.
“You really talk like someone who’s lived two lifetimes.”
“Maybe it’s just your imagination.”
This wasn’t a conversation between teacher and student —
but between two pianists.
If I’d met him in my previous life,
perhaps we would’ve been great friends.
A Polish pianist and a Korean pianist —
sharing thoughts on music,
inspiring each other,
polishing their own sounds side by side.
A fleeting fantasy — or perhaps a wistful dream.
Smiling faintly, I let the thought linger.
It was the smile marking the end of a long, troubled audition season.
* * *
A month passed since the second performance exam.
Perhaps my hidden card had worked better than expected.
Although there were still whispers among the faculty,
this time the results weren’t delayed.
No blank spots on the announcement list, either.
That morning, the admission notice from KNUA arrived by email.
Just a few formal words welcoming me to the school — nothing more.
I couldn’t help but smile wryly.
“All that effort, for just a few sentences on a letter.”
It was moving, yes — but also strangely anticlimactic.
Still, after all the scheming and hardship,
the joy was real.
‘Well… at least I earned it.’
The most treacherous part was over.
There was still a long road ahead,
but for now, I could allow myself to simply feel happy.
Setting my phone down, I looked out the window.
The schoolyard was blanketed in white.
“Winter already, huh?”
Only eighteen days left until Christmas —
and with it, winter break.
The energy returning to the students’ faces said it all.
“Hey, hey, Song Min-woo! Did you pass?!”
The music room door burst open,
and in came a very familiar whirlwind of noise.
Too familiar to even bother explaining.
“Could you not slam the door like that? You’ll break it.”
“Come on, answer me! Did you pass or not?!”
“Yes, I did! So calm down already.”
Judging by her excitement, she must’ve just checked her own email.
“And you? Did you pass?”
“……”
No answer.
“…Don’t tell me you—”
“Ta-da! I passed too! Ha-ha-ha!”
“……”
Unbelievable.
Her energy alone could drain a whole room.
“Well, that’s good. Saves you another year of hard work.”
“Jeez, you’re no fun when you only compliment me.”
Ji-hye flopped onto a desk carelessly.
“Still, you must’ve had it tougher, right?
I heard there was some mess with the judges or something.”
“How’d you hear about that?”
I never told anyone about my clash with Professor Park.
“Kang Yoon told me. Not the details, though.”
“…Since when are you two close?”
“Close? Ew, no. Don’t say gross things like that.”
Ji-hye sat up, scowling.
She clearly didn’t like being associated with him.
“But apparently, you gave him Dayoon’s number?”
“…He ratted me out?”
“I just took a wild guess — but I guess I was right.
Dayoon told me he contacted her recently.”
Looking intrigued, Ji-hye perched properly on the desk.
“She wouldn’t have given it to him herself,
and neither would I — so that leaves you.”
“Are you a detective or something?”
“Heh. Comes with having lots of friends —
you learn to read people.”
Her smugness was short-lived.
Then her voice softened, almost hesitant.
“…But seriously, why’d you tell him?”
“He said he wanted to apologize to her.”
“…Him?!”
Her disbelief was palpable —
as if she’d sooner believe a tiger had turned vegetarian.
“What, did he get hit on the head? Is he serious?”
“He seemed sincere enough.”
After all, he’d come to me in person to ask.
“Well… if you say so, maybe it’s fine.
But are you sure it was a good idea?”
“There shouldn’t be a problem.
You’ve noticed it too, haven’t you?
He’s been trying to change lately.”
“Hmm… maybe.
Yeah, his mouth’s gone from sewer-grade to… dishcloth, I guess.”
Not entirely convinced, but not dismissive either.
“Just take it as giving him one more chance.”
“…Fine. You’ve never been wrong before anyway.”
So she didn’t trust him,
but she trusted me.
It felt… nice.
Her trust brought a faint smile to my lips —
until the sudden noise interrupted us.
[~!!]
Both our phones buzzed at the exact same time.
Too perfect to be coincidence.
We checked them immediately —
and saw three unread messages in our group chat.
All from Jung Dayoon.
[Guys, please help meㅠㅠ]
“…?”
Help her? What’s going on?
As we exchanged puzzled looks, another message popped up.
[Kang Yoon just showed up at my school…]
“……”
Ji-hye’s stare slowly turned toward me —
filled with disbelief and betrayal.
And just like that,
I’d lost a friend’s trust in a single instant.
