King of Classical Music 63

On the sixth day of his enrollment, Qi Mu finally entered the music room marked “Reed Akkad” for regular classes.

The first time he saw it, the room was bare. At the time, he even made a mental note of the sole violin he recognized. Now, it had only been a few days, but the room was drastically different.

Italy was rich with artists. Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael. . . Countless famous artists were born and risen out of the country, becoming some of the brightest shining stars in human history. The renaissance era alone birthed numerous outstanding paintings and symphonies.

When Qi Mu entered the piano room, it was impossible to place Professor Akkad amongst the ranks alongside these artists with profound aesthetic. . . this was, Qi Mu felt apologetic toward da Vinci.

The fifty square meter room was decorated in tones of red and white. Displeased with the soundproofing, Akkad also had them put up another layer of insulating wallpaper.

That wasn’t all. Qi Mu looked around and saw a Huaxian knot to one side and a red lantern on the other. It was enough that he couldn’t look directly at any of it.

How to say it. . .

Painting a tiger didn’t mean you could also paint a dog.

There was also the common sense. . .

Huaxian restaurants in Europe and America tarnished the name of Huaxian cuisine!

Akkad touched his chin with a smile, “I know that Small Seven is Chinese, and it’s hard to study in Paris. Teacher specifically prepared a room for you! Are you happy?!”

Qi Mu nodded, unable to do anything else. “Happy, very happy.” . . . If you dare pick the four red lanterns.

Akkad laughed, “This surprise is good. Such a beautiful music room, you’ll be able to practice with all your heart.”

“. . .” Believe me, that’s impossible.

He spent the morning talking to his professor about authentic Huaxian style. When he finally convinced Akkad to remove the. . . room full of lanterns, knots, and paper flowers, his professor sighed, “Pity. They were meticulously designed by me.”

Qi Mu: “. . .”

To deform aesthetic like this, by an Italian no less, Akkad really was something.

That afternoon, in the clean, tidy music room, Qi Mu sat with Akkad and poured out cups of rich coffee.

Akkad scented the white mist that rose off the coffee and said, “Small Seven. When Farrell personally handed your album to me, I didn’t really think I would become your teacher. But Farrell says your music has emotion, and it touched him.”

Qi Mu shook his head and said, humble, “I didn’t know Master Farrell thought so. . .”

“You know. Farrell’s a good guy, but he rarely gives out such high reviews to an unfamiliar violinist. I thought since you’ve managed this already, why do you need me as a teacher? Farrell should be introducing you to Dresden, not recommending you to me.”

“But, after I listened to your sound, I understood. . . I understand why Farrell and Min decided to recommend you to me instead of directly drafting you into an orchestra.”

Akkad’s critique stunned Qi Mu, and he straightened in his seat, staring at the gray-haired old man in seriousness.

The world-famous violinist solemnly stared back at him. “Small Seven, how far are you from Auston Bertram. . . ?”

Qi Mu blinked, owlish in surprise, then dithered for some time. “Teacher, I. . . Min Chen and I are. . . far apart. . .”

Akkad shook his head. “You don’t walk the same path since you have no desire to compose. Of course, I’m not saying to compare yourself with Auston, I meant your violin. How far is it from his piano?”

Akkad broke in a pause then continued. “In the end, music is interoperable. Auston’s violin is just noise, his skill on the violin is trash, so don’t bother comparing yourself to it. But, his piano, his piano is better than you. . .”

Qi Mu sucked in a breath and waited in perturbed silence for Akkad’s final declaration.

Akkad held out his right hand, thumb and forefinger pinched together.

“By only this much.”

Qi Mu’s eyes burst wide open, and he stared, disbelievingly, “Teacher, this. . . are you joking?”

Min Chen’s piano was the best in the world. The man started at seven years old, and Min Chen had shown amazing talent since.

He was the youngest Xiaosai champion at twelve and had performed on the same stage as Wei Ai. When people mentioned Min Chen, regardless of his achievements as a conductor and composition since, he was still called a pianist.

Qi Mu was confident in his skill but not to that high of a degree.

Min Chen’s piano was on the same level as Akkad’s violin. If what Akkad just said was true. . . the gap between Qi Mu and Akkad himself was only that much?!

Akkad nodded seriously. “Yes, Small Seven, you’re not wrong. If God gave classical music a benchmark, Auston’s come very close, and you. . . you are also very close.”

“Small Seven, I didn’t believe I should be your teacher because. . . I always thought my student would be like me, a child with ordinary origin. Someone that worked hard, was diligent; someone I would mold into a brilliant violinist under my own fingers.”

Akkad had never said such to Qi Mu before, but when he looked at the old man across from him, Qi Mu’s heart trembled with the essence of destiny.

“When I heard your sound, I was surprised. . . Everything Farrell told me was nonsense! He said when you were fourteen, you performed with the Vienna Symphony, that you were a well-known music prodigy. Your parents were well-known musicians in China. You’re not short on money. You even have that beautiful piece in a Swiss bank somewhere!”

Akkad cursed eccentrically then added, “I thought you were an arrogant brat, but after listening to you. . . Small Seven, you and I made the same mistake.”

Qi Mu set down his coffee cup and asked, “Teacher, I don’t understand. . .”

“You are not arrogant enough.”

The answer was clearly beyond Qi Mu’s expectation.

“I started learning to play the violin at six. After sixty years, I thought I was talented enough, hardworking enough. I became concertmaster of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra when I was thirty. At the time, I still couldn’t get rid of it. . . that one thing in my music.”

“You know, Small Seven. My family was bad. I had to borrow a state loan to attend a music university. I believe that my poor upbringing gave me the motivation to go up in life. I had to prove to everyone that I could do it better than them. But, when I was forty-five, I heard Farrell’s music, and I finally understood. . . the distance between him and I.”

Farrell was also an excellent violinist, and though he and Akkad were both to be revered, Qi Mu believed Akkad was higher than Farrell.

Akkad’s judgment now surprised Qi Mu.

“Farrell is really the darling of God. Back then, I guarantee that if my violin counted 99 points, that abominable man could only get 90 and no more. But I knew that I was missing that one point, and Farrell. . . Farrell already had it.”

Akkad laughed a little, rare and profound, then he looked at the stunned young man in front of him and said gently, “Small Seven, my point is, in music, we are confident. But, Farrell, Auston, they have never doubted themselves.”

“Small Seven, you are not confident enough.”

The professor’s words were few, but they were poignant.

“You’re not confident enough.”

Never had anyone ever said that to Qi Mu, in this life or the last. Perhaps Min Chen and Farrell picked out that something was missing in his music, but they couldn’t find it intuitively.

Only Akkad, who had the same life experiences as Qi Mu, could understand the core of the problem.

A poor family, the motivation to work diligently, but, at the same time, the lack of freedom to what they wanted in their childhood.

To learn music, Qi Mu never knew what it was like to play as a child. When he was young, he delivered milk and newspapers and so on. Even when he was older, he played the violin at a café.

This accumulation of life experiences gave Qi Mu a unique sentiment toward music, but from another perspective, it also. . . shackled him.

“Seven, you and Auston are only this one point apart, but. . . it’s not so easy to get. Are you ready to surpass him in a year?”

Akkad’s serious tone dragged Qi Mu from his thoughts of the past. The word “surpass” shook his heart. He looked up at Akkad and smiled.

The handsome young man wore a beautiful smile, but after a while, a low, pleasant voice echoed in the quiet music room——

“A year is long, Teacher. . . can we shorten it?”

Translator(s): Bet
Editor(s): Bet