Chapter Fifty-Five: The Soloist on the Rooftop

(These two chapters may seem a bit dull, but they are essential—not pointless filler, but important groundwork for Cheng Xiaoyu’s character. As a transmigrator, he has no desire to walk the path of copying songs to make money and pick up girls. He pursues music with genuine passion, not merely chasing dreams of stardom. With the new year fast approaching, Cheng Xiaoyu’s vibrant life is about to unfold. Here, too, I wish all my readers health and good fortune.)

The day the piano arrived, Cheng Xiaoyu was quite excited. Ultimately, Qiao San bought him a Bechstein worth two million—the finest bsn228 large concert grand. Of course, it couldn’t be compared to the seven-foot golden Bechstein Louis XV, which costs over twenty million. Still, for most piano students, playing on a piano like the bsn228 was already a dream come true.

For Cheng Xiaoyu, who had spent countless days practicing on a Zhujiang upright, this was the difference between a Lamborghini and a Chery. That night, he was so excited he could hardly sleep, waking early to wait for the piano’s delivery. And it wasn’t just the piano arriving today—a lot of recording studio equipment was to be installed as well.

Around nine o’clock, a truck carrying the piano drove into the villa, and Cheng Xiaoyu hurried downstairs. Fortunately, his piano room was on the ground floor, so there was no need for a crane. When the tightly wrapped Bechstein was carried in by professional piano movers, and the plastic and foam were removed and the instrument assembled, the expert tuner sent by Bechstein immediately set to work.

Gazing at the Bechstein’s glossy black surface, Cheng Xiaoyu was filled with affection, eager to play a tune right away.

Although Cheng Xiaoyu’s new piano room was smaller than Su Yuxi’s, it was still quite spacious, with triple-layered vacuum-insulated glass on the outer wall. For a modern touch, there were no curtains, but wide, vertical, silver metal electric blinds. The walls, ceiling, and even beneath the oak and white hardwood floors had all been professionally soundproofed. The walls and ceiling were covered in deep gray wallpaper, creating a solemn, technological vibe. Where the piano stood, a sky-blue Persian carpet was laid out, accompanied by a silver lacquered leather stool, adding a touch of elegant brightness to the room.

The plans for the piano room, adjacent recording studio, and music workspace were all designed to Cheng Xiaoyu’s specifications—the color palette, the décor, the furnishings, all chosen by him. The overall style was postmodern, with a dark, technological edge, which happened to match Aunt Zhou’s taste. She praised Cheng Xiaoyu’s sense of style once the renovations were complete.

The tuner sent by Bechstein was a thin, middle-aged man in a black work apron, who clearly appreciated the room’s refined, individualistic design and complimented Cheng Xiaoyu on it. As the tuner, surnamed Fan Jianguo, prepared his tools, he chatted with Cheng Xiaoyu, handing him a business card and inviting him to call for future maintenance and tuning.

Many people think this job is called “piano tuner,” an impression largely shaped by the American author Mason’s book “The Piano Tuner.” In truth, “tuner” is a more accurate term for the profession.

Fan Jianguo opened a brown leather tool case, even larger than a briefcase—full of wrenches, screwdrivers, hammers—which made Cheng Xiaoyu momentarily dazed. Such a refined and elegant task as tuning, yet it seemed to require more brute effort than he’d imagined.

Noticing Cheng Xiaoyu’s curiosity, Fan Jianguo smiled and said, “It really is hard work. This toolbox alone weighs over ten kilograms and I have to lug it around all the time.”

Cheng Xiaoyu laughed, replying, “Playing piano is hard work too, isn’t it?”

Seeing Cheng Xiaoyu’s interest in tuning, Fan Jianguo opened up, explaining, “A piano has over eight thousand parts, two hundred and twenty strings, and eighty-eight keys. Only by following the twelve-tone equal temperament can each key be tuned perfectly.” As he spoke, the slender middle-aged man deftly opened the lid, removed the thick upper panel, and took off the key cover.

“Tuning is a delicate process. First, you tune the A above middle C to the international standard pitch of 440 Hz. From there, you tune a basic set of twelve notes—the twelve-tone equal temperament—and use that as a reference to tune the octaves downward, then upward after the bass is done. Finally, you use a wrench to adjust the tension of the strings—each note has three strings, and their pitch must be exactly the same, or you’ll get unpleasant dissonance.” As he worked, Fan Jianguo explained to the interested Cheng Xiaoyu.

After watching for a while, Cheng Xiaoyu grew a bit bored and went to the recording studio. In reality, the tuner’s profession was not as romantic as depicted in books—rather, it was repetitive, mechanical, and somewhat tedious. The work required absolute silence, and for over two hours, Fan Jianguo toiled away in near silence, the only sounds being the occasional notes that told Cheng Xiaoyu someone was at work in the room.

In the recording studio, three sets of monitor speakers were already installed, as were the headphone distributor, microphone preamps, and five pairs of headphones, all neatly set up in their places.

Only the most crucial piece—the mixing console—would arrive in the afternoon.

A mixing console is an audio device with multiple inputs (each with its own EQ), and multiple outputs. It’s used in stage performances, bars, clubs, TV broadcasts, and is a widely utilized piece of audio equipment.

For a recording studio, its main function is to balance the volume of each instrument, control their output, and add effects like reverb. If the volume isn’t balanced, you get masking—if the drums are too loud, they cover the guitar, and to highlight the guitar you have to raise its volume even more.

The mixer’s job is to balance the recording levels of each track. There’s a whole specialty for this in music academies. In fact, mixing consoles are very hard to master—without a keen ear, you can’t pull it off.

Cheng Xiaoyu stood in front of the observation window, a vast pane of glass, looking into the studio with its irregular pale gray walls, recalling how, in his past life, one would “show off” as a studio owner.

First, the room should be built with irregular shapes—tell clients it’s professional acoustic design, very expensive. Next, pack the studio with monitors—at least two on the desk, several more on the walls—for that high-tech feel. Finally, cram in as many speakers as possible, of all sizes and heights, slap foreign words on them, paint them all white, and the effect is unbeatable.

Cheng Xiaoyu’s studio was very much in this “show-off” style, but it was also highly professional. Of course, it couldn’t compare to the big company studios, where a top-tier setup could cost tens of millions. In those, each instrument might have its own room, acoustically designed for its specific needs.

Sometimes Cheng Xiaoyu wondered why he was so determined to continue down the road of music.

He was now a wealthy young heir with both money and leisure—he could have lived comfortably without any effort. Yet every day he spent four or five hours in tedious piano practice, squeezed in time during rehearsals for guitar and drums, and stayed up late transcribing scores. He was walking a long, arduous path of personal growth.

This didn’t have to be his life—he could have been racing cars, clubbing, meeting seductive, materialistic women, indulging in nightly revels and a life of pleasure. Isn’t that what it means to enjoy life?

And if you say no, those things aren’t impressive enough—we should have ideals, become a superstar, wield power, gather fans, party on yachts with models, walk red carpets, mingle with socialites and starlets. Isn’t that what a protagonist’s life should be?

But for a transmigrator like Cheng Xiaoyu, is any of that hard? Not at all—he had so many resources it scared even him.

He was afraid of forgetting his love for music.

He recalled that, in his previous life, the reason he learned so many instruments was simply because he couldn’t be satisfied with just listening to recordings. The feeling of playing a beloved piece himself was utterly different from listening to it performed by others. Even though the pieces he liked weren’t technically difficult, and his own level was nowhere near the masters on the recordings, the way playing connected him to what he loved was simply irresistible.

Interacting with a beloved instrument is like falling in love.

The notes that evoked countless memories for Cheng Xiaoyu flowed from his fingertips, entwining the two things he loved most.

Perhaps that’s what is called being moved, or feeling resonance.

He learned the guitar because of “Hotel California.” He learned to play blues harmonica because of “The Irish Nightingale.” Because of “Canon” and the music from Miyazaki’s films, he wanted to learn piano; in the end, unable to afford it, he picked up a bit of keyboard. He learned drums because of “Black Dream.”

Most of the time, playing for himself had nothing to do with skill or results.

That feeling of losing oneself in a private world is worth cherishing and remembering.

Only by practicing the piano yourself do you truly understand how fast “Flight of the Bumblebee” really is.

Only by practicing the guitar do you grasp how incredible Kotaro Oshio’s right hand is in “Tsubasa - oarro.”

Only by playing the snare drum do you know what it means to produce thirty-second notes.

Only by playing the trombone do you realize it has no keys, and pitch is controlled entirely by slide position.

Only by playing the violin do you understand that just not sounding awful is already an achievement, let alone playing beautifully.

Only by playing the trumpet do you discover how hard double tonguing is, how delightful arpeggios can be.

Only by conducting do you realize it’s not something just anyone can do, standing in front of an orchestra and waving a baton.

Listening to music is about a state of mind.

Playing it yourself is even more an expression of feeling.

When those moving notes, infused with your emotion, dance gracefully from your hands and fingertips—all the bleeding fingers, sore arms, strained necks, exhausted bodies, blurred vision, dizzy trembling—it’s all worth it.

In music, we seek not only destruction, but also strength.

A true musician burns with life as they embrace the notes.

Although, at heart, Cheng Xiaoyu was still a humble plagiarist, he was madly in love with music, and sincerely wanted to share these beautiful things with others.

To him, he was a martyr, putting his own name to works that were not his own. He felt anxious and guilty, tormented by the pain of copying pieces he loved, violating his sense of artistic integrity.

Those magnificent compositions shimmered in his memory, and he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to play them.

Profit was never his intention. Certainly, his self-restraint was not so noble as to be free of desire. If it were only about making money, he could just write and sell his works—why torture himself so?

Because he loved music.