Library of Instruments
by Kim Junghyeok
Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé
Published in Koreana: Korean Art
& Culture (The Korea Foundation) Vol. 23, No.3 Autumn 2009 pages 90 -
99
It’s wretched to die as a nobody. The phrase came into my mind as I
rose into the air after being struck by a car. My surroundings grew
blurred, every sound faded away. Total stoppage. I could see nothing,
hear nothing, think nothing. It felt as though I was being sucked into
a huge capsule. That phrase, It’s wretched to die as a nobody, wrapped
itself round my head like a helmet. Hitting the ground with a thud, I
lost consciousness.
If I did not die, it was surely thanks to that phrase. No-one would
believe me, but I really think it was because that phrase had wrapped
itself round my head like a helmet that I survived. For the first time
I realized that sometimes the power of thought can cover your body with
a thick layer of armor, so that if you try your hardest not to die, you
really can avoid dying. Lying in hospital swathed from head to foot in
white plaster like the Abominable Snowman of Himalayan legends, I
pondered the phrase all day long. I could not recall in the slightest
how I came to be struck by the car, or how high I had risen into the
air, but I remembered that phrase clearly. If I closed my eyes, a white
wall appeared that was covered with it. If I opened my eyes again, the
wall would vanish and the phrase go on flapping around inside my head
like a fish. I was all the time living with the phrase. Before I went
to sleep I used to recite the phrase like a mantra. I had a feeling
that by doing that I would not die. Every time I opened my eyes, I was
alive.
All the while, my girlfriend sat at my bedside making me listen to
music. Whenever I told her about the phrase flapping around inside my
head, she would joke, “I reckon you must have banged your head,” and
turn up the volume. Sonata, concerto, symphony, then back to sonata, it
was an unending forced march. Unable to say whose work it was, who the
performer was, we listened to music twenty-four hours a day. There’s
nothing like music while bones are knitting, she used to say, but
sometimes I felt as though my flesh was being battered rather than my
bones knitting. Still, I certainly could sense that I was alive. I
began to feel that the notes echoing round my hospital room were like
my bones.
It was only three months after being admitted to hospital that I
started to be able to walk. My left shin-bone was bent like a bow but
that did not prevent me walking. Once I was able to walk properly, I
went to the place where the accident had happened. There was nothing I
had lost, nothing I needed to check, yet I had a feeling that I had to
go there. I carefully examined the surroundings, almost as though that
phrase might have fallen to the ground somewhere. Of course there was
no trace of anything. Not so much as a sliver of broken glass. Thinking
back now, I reckon it was a kind of ceremony. It was almost as though I
wanted to go to the place where I had nearly lost my life in order to
show it that I was still alive.
A whole lot of things changed after the accident. First, I quit my job
at the office. I mentioned that phrase to my section chief. His only
reply was, “Stop joking, get some rest, then come back to work. When it
comes to being wretched, I’m one up on you.” He didn’t want to accept
my resignation. I reckon he was jealous. He asked what I was going to
do with the rest of my life. I had no answer. After quitting my job I
started to drink. Since my wounds were not yet completely healed,
nothing was worse for me than drinking, but unless I got drunk I could
not get to sleep. In order not to die as a nobody I had to do
something, but there was no way of knowing where to begin. I bought
three cases of the cheapest white wine at a discount store and emptied
one bottle every evening. At first the astringent taste made me regret
not having bought a more expensive wine, but as time passed I grew
accustomed to it. After I had drunk almost the whole bottle, I would
begin to glow all over and grow sleepy. I told my girlfriend I was only
doing it to warm myself up before sleeping, there was nothing to worry
about, but in fact even I could see early signs that I was becoming an
alcoholic. But when I drank, that phrase disappeared from inside me.
The uncertainty as to whether I would be able to wake up alive the next
morning vanished too. That alone made drinking worthwhile.
If I had not passed in front of the musical instruments section of the
discount store one month after starting to drink, I suppose I would
have just gone on uncorking a bottle of wine in one corner of my room
and falling asleep dead drunk every evening. I still do not consider
that way of living to have been wrong. With the passage of time, I
start to think that it was all a process. Because of the accident, that
phrase appeared; because of the phrase I began to drink; and it was
because I was drinking that I discovered the instrument store. When
things apparently completely unrelated join together in a line, life
changes. And that line drawn out at length makes an individual life.
Having emptied all three cases of white wine by the end of a month, I
headed back to the discount store to buy some more. Since there was a
huge mirror hanging directly in front of the escalator going down to
the basement, I turned my head to the right in order to avoid seeing my
grim-looking face. Along the handrail, Christmas decorations were
flashing gaudily. It was only then that I realized Christmas was
approaching. When the escalator had taken me about a quarter of the way
down to the basement, my eyes were struck by a piano in the instrument
section on the ground floor. I still recall the price tag standing on
the keyboard. Ordinarily, I would have considered it unthinkably
expensive, but in my bank account I still had the compensation payment
from the accident as well as my severance pay, accumulated and
untouched, so that I began to reflect, ‘A piano’s no problem.’ Beside
the piano guitars, violins, and other toy-like instruments were lined
up. As I stood there on the escalator gazing up at the instruments, my
girlfriend came into my mind. She and a friend were running a small
violin academy and whenever she heard a record of a famous artist, she
used to sigh. It was not because of the outstanding technique, but
because she was unnerved by the sound of a violin. I would scold her:
Music’s played with the soul, surely, not an instrument, but since I
knew absolutely nothing about music, there was nothing I could say. I
rode the escalator back to the ground floor and went into the
instrument store.
The violins were ridiculously cheap. It was only after I had listened
carefully to one being played that I understood the reason for the
price. The violins in the store were the kind of product that, though
you might assume they would produce sounds you could not be sure they
would in fact produce any sound. I gave up on the violin, bought a case
of wine and took it back home.
The following day, the moment I told my girlfriend that I wanted to buy
her a violin, she immediately seized my hand. I anxiously wondered what
price violin she might choose, but I also reflected that it did not
matter if it took all the money accumulated in my account. I had the
impression that buying her a violin would be better than drinking wine.
By the time all that money was gone, I would probably know what I had
to do next.
Until we began our pilgrimage round the instruments shops, I had been
feeling that all we had to do was buy something reasonably expensive,
but as time went on I discovered that just looking at instruments with
her was fun. As we found out instrument stores and did the rounds, even
though my leg was less than perfect, the mere fact that I had survived
and could therefore walk around with her made me happy. Talking with
her, at a given moment I found myself unbearably eager to learn an
instrument.
‘What instrument will you learn?’
‘I’ve got big hands; what about the piano?’
‘Long fingers can be a help, but I reckon big hands might be no
help at all. Unless you want to play two keyboards at the same time?
Did you learn the piano as a child?’
‘Not at all.’
‘If you didn’t take piano lessons, what did you do?’
‘I learned taekwondo.’
‘Well, taekwondo can be useful in life, I suppose.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘I like the sound of the cello. Is learning the cello hard?’
‘What about the violin?’
‘You mean learn from you?’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t much care for the sound of the violin. It upsets me.’
‘You say that because you’ve got no depth.’
‘The deeper I go, the more I get upset.’
‘It’s up to you; learn the piano, learn the cello . . .’
I had said I wanted to learn an instrument, but in fact I lacked the
confidence to do so. Not only did I lack any kind of musical talent,
even supposing I learned an instrument, it offered no perspective of
allowing me to earn a living. It all boiled down to the fact that the
only thing that interested me was not to live as a nobody, that I had
to achieve something outstanding so that my name would be remembered by
future generations.
The last store we visited that day was the one she liked best, that had
the biggest selection of instruments. It was called Musica, but the
store might just as well have been called an Instrument Museum, it was
so well furnished with every kind of instrument. I did not know what
the basis for the classification was, but it was obvious at a glance
that care had been taken to ensure that everything was arranged in a
regular order.
‘Why, you’re back again, Miss. There’s nothing new in secondhand.’
‘Today I’m not looking for secondhand stuff. Don’t you see my
benefactor here? He’s one of those gangsters who deliberately get
themselves knocked down then blackmail the driver; he’s just pulled off
a big one. He says he wants to use that money to buy me the ultimate
violin.’
‘Then I can’t sell. Could you play an instrument bought with that kind of bad money?’
‘At least it would produce a bad sound, wouldn’t it?’
‘The violin would sound all beaten up.’
‘Perfect. That’s just the sound I want.’
The owner with the moustache and my girlfriend kept perfect time. As
they exchanged banter, their timing was like a comedy act that has been
practiced for a long time. My job had suddenly been transformed into
blackmailing gangster, but I loved it when she spoke like that. On
hearing her words, I suddenly felt as though I was not crippled at all,
that the accident had been a dream.
The owner with a moustache looked like someone who had nothing at all
to do with music, but the first impression was not a negative one. The
moment I saw him I was fascinated by his moustache. I was struck by the
thought that it was the kind of moustache someone might grow who had
nothing to do with music and was desperately eager to look like an
artist, and found it looked cute. Judging by what he told me later, my
guess was fifty percent correct. As they went on joking and he smiled,
the moustache suddenly looked like a mountain, whereas before it had
been like a level plain; its movements were so remarkable that for a
while I could not help staring at his moustache as it kept expanding
and contracting.
‘This is my boyfriend.’
After exchanging jokes with him for a while, she introduced me. The
owner smiled again, transforming his moustache into a line. She
continued to discuss with the owner as they examined violins, but it
was mostly specialized talk that sounded to me like some kind of
foreign language. I passed the time idly pressing the keys of a piano
standing in a corner or plucking the strings of a cello one after
another. At a given moment, the owner began to talk in excited tones.
‘That’s a really stupid distinction to make, don’t you think?’
‘Yet that’s what they all write. It wouldn’t be easy to change now, surely.’
‘What do you think? Do you think it’s right to refer to a violin
as a string instrument when you’re explaining what it is?’
‘Well, it’s certainly got strings, hasn’t it?’
‘In that case, why not call an hourglass drum a string instrument? It has tuning strings, after all.’
‘Mr. Sophist, those aren’t used to produce sounds.’
‘What do you mean? Those strings control the sound, don’t they . . .?’
‘A drum isn’t an instrument that produces sounds by vibrating strings, is it?’
‘Surely those strings make a sound when you beat the drum? A kind of mosquito-like buzzing, at least?’
‘You call that music?’
‘So is a piano a string instrument or a percussion instrument? It has
strings, does that mean it’s a string instrument? They are struck, does
that mean it’s a percussion instrument? Yet you don’t strike a violin’s
strings. So it must be a percussion instrument, not a string
instrument.’
My eyes were fixed on the piano keyboard but my ears had taken off on
their own and were following their conversation. The owner with the
moustache spoke engagingly. The two, who had previously been like
employees in a joke research institute, now turned into panelists in a
debate about musical instruments, as they talked on. Just then a
customer came in to collect an instrument that had been brought for
repairs, and the conversation was briefly interrupted. I was trying to
see how large an interval I could span on the piano, stretching thumb
and ring-finger to the widest extent possible before placing them on
the keyboard. I put too much strength into my fingers, struck the keys
hard and sent a resonant pair of notes ringing through the quiet shop.
The other three all turned to look at me but I pretended nothing had
happened and went on studying the piano keyboard. Fortunately, neither
the owner with the moustache nor my girlfriend said anything to me. As
soon as the customer had left they picked up their conversation again.
‘Anyway, I reckon it’s a waste of time dividing instruments into
percussion, string and tubular instruments. If you actually play an
instrument, there are so many aspects that don’t fit in . . . and if
there are so many exceptions, it’s the distinctions that are wrong.
What does your boyfriend think?’
Perhaps he realized I had been eavesdropping on their conversation,
because the owner with the moustache asked the question abruptly.
‘What? Why, I don’t know anything at all about music.’
‘I’m not asking about music but about making distinctions.’
I closed the lid of the piano and walked across to where they were standing by the showcase.
‘Listening to you talking, I thought it sounded a bit odd.’
‘What was odd?’
My girlfriend asked the question with an expression suggesting she was taken aback to find me involved in the discussion.
‘Because I don’t understand; what do you mean by ‘tubular’ in a tubular instrument?’
‘It means the sound is produced when air is blown into an open-ended, circular tube.’
‘So the tube is the instrument by which the sound is produced?
But with a string instrument the strings themselves vibrate and that
produces the sound, doesn’t it? So the string is what actually makes
the sound, which is a slightly different basis from the definition of a
tubular instrument. And ‘percussion’ refers to the act of striking, a
different category again from tubular or string instruments.’
‘Correct. The fellow’s got it sorted out right.’
‘I have to agree. Hey, there’s a corner of you that’s bright; I’m amazed.’
My girlfriend pouted as she nodded her head. I had never once in all my
born days given a thought to the categories of musical instruments, yet
as I opened my mouth I felt as though all the blankets in my mind had
been neatly folded up. I still blush to remember how, on hearing their
praises, I briefly felt proud. That day’s conversation was only
possible because none of us realized that experts in musical
instruments were not that stupid. Three months later I had already
learned that experts classified instruments differently. Scholars
referred to tubular instruments as air-sounding, to percussion
instruments as body-sounding and to string instruments as
string-sounding instruments. But I am still proud of the way I
immediately put my finger on the mistaken terms for the three kinds of
instruments when I had never thought about it before. I feel even
prouder when I think of how many people still use the old names without
the least thought.
I was immensely encouraged by their praises. I felt as though I had
discovered some new truth, like the person who first realized that the
world was round. The owner with the moustache, I and my girlfriend
spent no less than two hours chattering. The two of them did most of
the talking while I played the listening role, but thanks to my
contribution to the discussion about categorizing musical instruments,
I had a formal invitation to be part of the conversation. Talk about
music occupied eighty percent of the conversation, but from time to
time something personal about each of us emerged. The owner with the
moustache admitted that he was finding it increasingly difficult to run
Musica, my girlfriend said that her pupils’ parents were getting
increasingly rude. After nothing but discussions about how everything
was increasingly going to the dogs, the talk turned to my accident and
the owner’s eyes sparkled. Obviously talk of someone else’s accident,
especially talk by someone who had had such an accident and survived,
fascinated him. Only there was nothing much I could say. On my way home
from work I had been hit by a car while I was on a pedestrian crossing.
I had no memories of the rest. But that’s so boring! The owner with the
moustache grimaced. I felt obliged to mention that phrase, and how I
drank one bottle of wine every evening because I could not get to sleep
without drinking.
‘But what does it mean, dying as a nobody?’
‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know. In some ways it’s like some kind of code, or like a meaningless phrase . . . .’
‘You’re right, the phrase is a bit odd. Every time I listen to you speaking, I wonder if the grammar’s right.’
‘Only there are times when that phrase grows solid and takes
control of my head. It changes into something like water and fills my
head. Then I can’t breathe. I feel as if I’m about to die, that I’ll
never be able to take another breath, never be able to be reborn, or if
I’m reborn it’ll be as someone else, not me, you see. It’s like the
feeling you get when you fall into water. I just have to drink.’
‘And if you drink, you’re alright?’
‘It turns the water filling my head into liquor. Then I can get my brain to stop.’
‘Suppose you went to the hospital, dear?’
‘My brain’s full of water. Drain it please. Tell them that?’
‘No, you need to go to a psychiatrist.’
‘That’s enough of that. It’s nothing those people can solve.’
‘Have you resigned from your job?’
‘With a mind like mine, how could I work? I have to rest and think a bit.’
‘Idiot. If you die while you’re working, that’s not dying as a
nobody; whereas if you die now, you’ll really be dying as a nobody.’
‘This is our first meeting so you might find the idea odd, but what about coming to work here?’
‘In Musica, you mean?’
‘Business here is bad, so I’m starting up another kind of job.
I’ve been considering stopping here and employing someone else. You
could think you’re simply visiting, just dropping by . . . . You said
you want to learn an instrument? I run a weekly class in piano, cello,
viola and violin, you could attend without paying.’
‘Surely I’m not a suitable person? I’m too old to be working
part-time like a student, and besides, I know nothing about musical
instruments.’
‘Why? You exposed the secret of percussion, tubular and string instruments . . . . Just think about it.’
‘Do I look like someone who could sell instruments?’
‘Ha ha, you think faces sell instruments. You’re funny. You’re good-looking enough to sell instruments. Don’t worry.’
The following day I phoned the owner with the moustache and said I
would do it. I told him I did not want to be paid since I did not know
when I might change my mind, but the owner was so obstinate that in the
end I was obliged to accept a small salary. In addition, he told me the
lessons would be free and I could borrow an instrument for nothing,
once I had decided what I wanted to learn. My decision to work in
Musica was a way of letting go of myself. Whatever came along, I wanted
to let myself go, follow the flow. I wanted to watch new things
impaling themselves one after another on the skewer of my life from a
long way off.
Working at the instrument shop proved to be unexpectedly enjoyable. I
had to deal with the customers, but there were only two or three of
them in a day, and since most of those came to look at instruments, I
did not have much to do. Occasionally parents would come in, holding a
child by the hand, and start inquiring anxiously about which instrument
was best, but I would simply repeat what was written in the manual, to
the effect that the owner was temporarily absent. When I told him that
I was embarrassed not to be able to explain anything, the owner with
the moustache said it did not matter. That was because, as a rule, most
of Musica’s regular customers ordered the instruments they needed
directly from the owner, and all I had to do was look after them once
they were delivered, then, when the customer came by, receive any
remaining balance and hand them over. Still, reckoning that at least I
ought to be able to distinguish the smaller instruments from one
another, in my spare time I read an illustrated guide to musical
instruments. Occasionally I might also sell an accessory such as a
guitar string, or a musical score.
When it came to music, I had heard plenty of it banging at my ears
while I was lying in hospital, but the music I listened to in the shop
felt very different. Perhaps because it was full of instruments. It
felt something like sitting next to a movie director watching a
preview. Listening to a violin concerto, I used to stare at the
violins. When I listened to a piano sonata, I use to delude myself that
someone was sitting at the piano playing as I listened. There was no
end to the sounds one instrument could produce, and the state of my
heart as it responded to those sounds one by one was necessarily
different each time.
Sometimes my girlfriend would drop by and play the violin for me but
oddly enough that did not produce the same degree of emotion. It was
the same if I took a CD from the store and listened to it at home. Once
I recorded my girlfriend as she was playing. I told her that a really
good violin had come in, she ought to give me a star recital, and she
did her very best, playing the violin as if she was making a record.
Whenever I listened to that recording alone in the shop, I could feel
her emotion fully.
I gave up trying to learn an instrument after the second week. The
introduction to musical instruments class was usually held in a small
room in one corner of the shop. I found it hard to attend the class and
keep an eye on the store at the same time. Even though there were no
customers, I was preoccupied. I gave up after learning how to hold the
bow when playing the cello. I was happy just looking at the instruments
while listening to music.
By the end of two months I could distinguish the various instruments
and even give simple suggestions to customers. I was sufficiently good
at it for the owner with the moustache to remark: If you were a bit
younger, I’d take you on full-time, it’s a pity. After three months had
passed, as I read “Effective Classification Systems for Instrument
Salesmen” that I had borrowed from the library, I reflected how the
store should be changed. It was in that book that I read how stupid it
was to classify instruments as string, percussion and tubular
instruments. Yet I was not happy with the classification the scholars
proposed. I had the feeling that the main problem with any
classification of instruments was that It might hinder the creation of
new kinds of instruments. I wanted to classify instruments in my own
way. The owner’s way of arranging the instruments was based on how they
produced their sound, while I would group together instruments having a
similar quality of sound. Violins and cellos produced their sound in
the same way, but their timbre was completely different, so I would
assign different places to each. Around that time the owner’s other
business was moving fast and I was left almost entirely alone in charge
of the store; as a result I was able to move the instruments around,
arranging them in a variety of ways.
Then at a given moment I began to record the sounds of the different
instruments. I used a computer program to arrange the recorded sounds
tidily in folders. Since there were many unfamiliar instruments, I was
obliged to follow the performance methods indicated in the illustrated
guide as I made the recordings. Progress was slow. It was hard to
record the sound of an instrument, not a performance. Each instrument
had at least twenty different timbres. There were some six hundred
instruments in the shop, meaning I could record eighteen thousand
different sounds. I cannot claim to have recorded every possible sound
produced by each instrument, but at least I produced sounds from each
instrument by every possible method. Scraping, scratching, knocking,
plucking, stroking, pinching, I played the instruments. If today my
hearing is as acute as it is, I believe it is entirely on account of
the work I did back then. I was only able to distinguish and organize
all those different sounds by concentrating the emotions scattered
throughout my body into my eyes and ears.
I was so absorbed by the task that I installed a simple folding bed in
the lecture room and slept there. I would record the instruments until
late at night, then fall asleep in the early morning, so that drinking
came to a natural end. My girlfriend mocked me, saying I was an
incurable paranoiac, but since she had never seen me that serious
before, she did not meddle further. If my girlfriend left me, it was
not entirely for that reason, I suppose, though I think it was a
decisive factor. What I was doing was not only rash, it contributed
nothing at all to world peace, earned nothing, and had an eternally
unattainable goal. For me, doing it was like setting off on an
exploration of outer space knowing clearly that there could be no
return, like going deep-sea diving without wearing any oxygen cylinders
for use on the way back up. I was attracted to it precisely because
completion was impossible. I felt sorry that she had decided to love
someone else, but I had no choice. I reckoned it was all part of a
process, but since it was uniquely my process, I could not impose that
process on her.
Since I had used the money in my account to buy recording equipment, a
computer and a sound-editing program, I had nothing left but by saving
up my salary I was able to buy an additional, slightly more convenient
recording system. I started to record, not only instruments but every
kind of sound I heard around me. Customers’ footsteps, coughs, the
cries of the mice living in the shop’s ceiling, the sound of a finger
tapping on a table, the doors of the elevator closing, the washing
machine spinning, the sound of water boiling, any sounds I could hear
and record, the moment I heard them I would press the record button.
Even then, I never once wondered what I would do with it all. I simply
recorded as I breathed.
One day I was recording the sound of a Ghanaian frame drum in the
classroom. Unlike ordinary drums, it resembled a wide rectangular tray
and in order to play it it had to be laid slanting at 45 degrees and
struck with the hands while regulating the volume with a heel, making
the task more complicated than usual. I was recording a variety of
sounds, moving my heel this way and that. No doubt because of the
noise, I was unaware that anyone had come in until the owner threw open
the door of the room.
‘What’s all this? What are you doing?’
Startled, I let the frame drum fall to the floor at which the mike
placed on the floor fell over with a loud noise. I was going to have to
say something to the owner with the moustache but with all the noise my
mind went blank and I could not speak. Holding the door open, he stared
around the room. The folding bed, the recording equipment, and several
instruments awaiting their turn filled the room.
‘You seem to be busy? Shall I come back later?’
Even in this chaos the owner made a joke.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had come in.’
‘I just arrived at the airport. I dropped in on my way home. I
was wondering if the instruments were alright in this cold weather . .
. what about a glass of wine?’
I fetched two bottles of white wine, a box of crackers and some paper
cups from a nearby convenience store. I found myself obliged to tell
the owner what I had been doing. The more I explained, the less clear
what I had been doing, my reasons for recording the sounds, seemed to
become. I began to reckon it must sound like a very lengthy, unfunny
joke.
‘You’ve been having fun?’
‘Time certainly passes fast. Not that I know what I can do with it all.’
‘Because you’re obliged to do something with it?
‘So far I have about eight thousand files recorded. Doesn’t it
sound odd if I say I recorded a whole eight thousand files just for
fun?’
‘So long as you’re having fun, it seems you can do anything.’
‘Do you think so?’
Either because the weather was cold or because the store’s fridge was
too good, the white wine was really chilled. I wrapped both hands round
the paper cup. The cup was growing soft as it absorbed the wine.
‘Can I leave you in charge here for a year?’
The owner with the moustache poured more wine into my cup as he spoke.
‘Musica? Are you going away somewhere?’
‘I find myself obliged to go abroad for rather a long stay. I
have to find someone for here but I don’t have the time. It’ll be best
if you either take charge of it yourself or find someone for me. If you
reckon you can do enough business to cover the running costs and your
salary, I would rather you continued to run it.’
‘Either I stop now or I can’t stop for a year, it’s one of the two is it?’
‘That’s about it. Even if you decide to quit now, I hope you can
stay on until the shop is sold. Then I’ll make up for it by a good
severance bonus.’
‘I’ll go on looking after it.’
I was the first to be surprised to find that I could make such a major
decision after less than a minute. There were any number of reasons. I
disliked the thought of stopping what I had undertaken this far, and
there was a happiness at the idea that I could go on classifying the
instruments after my own fashion, anyway various thoughts ran through
my head.
‘It’s not like you to be so full of confidence, surely? ‘Do I
look like someone who could sell instruments for a whole year?’ I knew
it . . . .
The owner imitated my voice, then burst out laughing.
‘But what will you do if I run off with all these expensive instruments?’
I asked, laughing in turn.
‘Well, that’s one way of closing down. If you run off with the
instruments, I’ll collect on the insurance money. You do just that,
understood? If there’s a single instrument left when I get back, you’re
fired.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘You should learn to crack jokes. With a joke inside you, living gets easier.’
The second bottle of wine was just the right temperature.
Absent-mindedly I was tearing off the rim of the paper cup, a very old
habit I had.
‘Coming in, the instruments seemed to have changed places a bit?’
‘I had nothing to do so I changed them around. I’ll put them back where they were.’
‘Do as you like, You’re the boss for the next year, after all.
Seeing you today, you really suit this store better. I’m just a
merchant. A merchant only has one goal in life. Buy cheap, sell dear,
that’s it. You’re not a merchant, I like that. But don’t overdo things.
You’ll soon be exhausted. If you keep on living like this, you won’t
last six months.’
The following day, the owner came back to hand over responsibility for
the store. On a small sheet of paper he carefully noted down the
contact details for the place where I could order instruments, the
person who repaired instruments, the person I could ask for help in an
emergency. Just by that scrap of paper I could see what kind of a
person the owner was.
‘With this much you could handle things for three years, not just one, right?’
‘You sound as though you’re leaving me marooned on a desert island.’
‘Why? Are you nervous?’
‘No.’
‘Still, the way you talk makes me feel sorry. Do you sleep well nowadays?’
‘It’s funny, everything has disappeared. The sound of the instruments seems to have pumped all the water out of my brain.’
‘That’s good. Instruments are better than liquor. Hearing what
you said back then gave me food for thought, you see, that phrase. What
was it, exactly?’
‘It’s wretched to die as a nobody.’
‘Yes, thinking it over, I reckon it’s true. I sometimes think I’m
wretched. If I were a writer, or a movie director, or a politician, or
a great inventor, or a composer, everyone would remember me. That’s
what the phrase means, isn’t it? A longing to be remembered by someone.’
‘I really don’t know. It may be that.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll remember you.’
‘Thanks.’
I have no idea why that thank-you came out. I should have joked that I
would remember him too, or simply smiled in reply. Hearing me thank
him, the owner rolled his moustache into a thin line and laughed aloud.
‘You should change the name of the shop, too. Musica? It sounds boorish, doesn’t it?
‘I reckon it’s alright. It’s simple, easy to remember, elegant . . . .
‘What about Wretched Music Store? You and I both being wretches . . . .’
With that joke, we parted. The next day I began to be so troubled by
wondering how I should change the store, how I should arrange the
instruments so that they looked different, that I stopped recording for
a while. That was about the time that I and my girlfriend separated. I
really began to feel it was like a desert island. I depended on work to
forget everything else. I redecorated the classroom and increased the
number of classes. I rearranged all the instruments and hung on the
wall a large chart indicating the different categories of instruments.
In one corner I arranged a listening space where people could listen to
music through headphones. I provided free coffee. All of that was in
part intended to improve the shop’s profits but it was mainly because I
wanted Musica to be a place thronged with people, not a desert island.
The ‘Instrument Library Project’ came into being thanks simply to one
girl. She was a middle-school student who studied the violin every
Wednesday and one day she came up to the counter and spoke to me.
‘ ‘Mister, do you have an instrument called a sitar?’
‘Not at the moment . . . . You want to buy one? Shall I order one?’
‘No, I just wanted to hear what it sounded like.’
‘Really? Wait a moment. There ought to be a recording of a sitar here somewhere . . .’
‘No, not a recording of a performance. Just the sound it makes.’
‘You just want to hear the sound it makes?’
‘It’s something I read in a book, that the most lonesome sound in
the world is the sound of a single sitar string plucked gently in a
completely empty room.’
‘Really? It might be true.’
I had at first meant to simply send her away; but I had the sound of a sitar.
‘This is a recording I made of the sound a sitar makes; would to like to hear it?’
‘Really? Could I borrow it?’
‘I’ll transfer it onto a cassette tape. There should be the sound
of a sitar string being plucked in here. But you’ve got to understand,
this isn’t a performance, just a recording of the sound. Understand?
There’s no wonderful music.’
I wondered what she would make of the sound but had no great
expectations. I though she would probably be disappointed, with no
music to be heard, just strange sounds emitted by the instrument
emerging for five minutes. The result was not at all what I had
anticipated. The girl came back the next day.
‘That’s really cool. Now I know what a lonesome sound is like.
‘Really.’
‘Yes, really.’
That was the beginning of the ‘Music Library Project.’ Obviously I did
not start with that name. And I had no idea it would grow so large. The
beginning was simple. The first idea that came into my mind was to make
it possible to listen to instrument sounds in the listening space as
well. Then I phoned one of my former office colleagues and discussed my
idea with him. ‘You mean like a juke-box?’ he asked. ‘Something
similar, I suppose,’ I replied. We agreed that my colleague would set
up a simple program for me in his spare time at a low price. Together
we prepared the program and bought a computer capable of running the
program. I paid for it out of the money I was due to receive as my
salary.
Less than a month after first presenting the program to people, the
‘instrument sound jukebox’ had become Musica’s specialty, a specialty,
indeed, among all the nearby instrument stores. The greatest advantage
of the ‘instrument sound jukebox’ was the way people could borrow a
sound and take it home. After selecting the desired instrument, they
had only to press the ‘receive’ button and there was a mini-disk system
linked to the computer that would download the sound. People could take
away the sounds of several instruments at once.
A lot of people borrowed the sounds of instruments, for a variety of
reasons. Some were curious about the sound of some instrument, like
that schoolgirl who had been the Instrument Library’s very first
customer; some people borrowed sounds to play to their children; some
people said that they could concentrate much better listening to those
sounds than when listening to actual music; there were those who said
that when they were unable to get to sleep, they only had to hear those
sounds and they fell asleep in a flash. Some people began to donate
sounds they themselves had recorded, just as people donate books to
libraries. Some three months after the launch of the program, people
began to call Musica ‘the Instrument Library.’ It might have problems
grammatically, but I liked the name.
I still have not decided if I did well to make the ‘instrument sound
jukebox.’ I just followed the flow in producing it, down to today.
Compared to before, Musica is cramped, many more people come in.
Of course, the number of people buying instruments has not increased
much. What is clear is that I much prefer this crowded Musica to the
Musica of the old days.
There is one thing that has been worrying me. I kept wondering what the
owner with the moustache would think of all these changes. He might
crack a few jokes, then say, ‘What you’ve started is really
entertaining. Will you go on taking care of the shop?’ Or he might say,
‘Do you think it’s suitable, having all these people crowding into
Musica?’ Sometimes he has phoned but I never breathed a word about the
Instrument Library. Explaining was too difficult. Today it has been six
months since the Instrument Library opened. And in a few hours’ time,
the owner with the moustache will be arriving at Musica.