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Eric Grisham
Writing Of Fiction
10/26/11
Done
'Nothing like silence aIter grand Iinale, MingHuan`s Iather had once said to her
while cleaning his glasses. 'There is always moment when audience does not know iI
you done. They Ieel it in hearts, but they aIraid. That does not matter. All that matter is
that you know you done.



A blur oI Iingers and ivory danced with blinding speed. Swooshing and crossing
over one another, they pirouetted across the keyboard in the spotlight. They jumped and
dove Irom leIt to right, crescendo-ing and decrescendo-ing. Minor 5
th
s, major 6
th
s, and
chords, chords, melodies, chords. The piano did as it was told, submitting to the will oI
her Iingers. Her hands whispered their emotions to the piano and the piano ampliIied
their sentiment. It cried when they cried and it bounced when they were happy. But
MingHuan was never happy and the piano could tell. The piano couldn`t speak oI
happiness without her help and, as she looked out to the audience, she Ielt no joy.
Looking at her Iather, she could only Ieel sorrow.
She struck her chords and let them reverberate throughout the hall. She could hear
the vibrations bouncing oII oI each seat, each audience member, each chair. But they did
not bounce oII oI her Iather. She could Ieel her music hit her Iather and stick unIeelingly.
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It`s not as iI MingHuan`s music wasn`t pretty. It was beautiIul. She`d shown a
predisposition toward the piano Irom a young age. She`d gotten the highest praises Irom
her teachers and Irom her relatives. They all spoke to each other about 'MingHuan the
music prodigy and about 'Bingwen`s daughter, the best pianist in the city. Her Iather
used to prop her up on the piano and tell her that she would be the best in all the world.
She would play Ior the Chinese Emperor, he Iantasized. She would sell out concerts and
make CDs. She would honor her Iamily.



'You not done, scolded Bingwen. MingHuan stared at her Iather with disbelieI.
She had just Iinished playing Chopin`s Noncturne in C Minor, the piece she was to play
at her concert the next day. Communicating with her immigrant Chinese Iather was the
hardest thing MingHuan had ever tried to do.
'What are you talking about ba ba? pleaded MingHuan, 'I Iinished the piece.
'You Iinish piece but you not done. Sit down and practice until you done. '


Bingwen was born to an impoverished Iamily in the village oI Xiping, in the
Fujian providence oI China. As he grew older, his Iamily, supporting he and his two
sisters, struggled to make ends meet. At 12, they sent him to Fuzhou to work and send
money home to support his Iamily. In Fuzhou, every day was spent working in the
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Iactories, sewing and stitching. For 7 years, he worked and sent money to his Iamily. But
at 19, he discovered music.
One day, while walking to the Iactory, he heard it. At Iirst it was a sweet melody,
but as the piece progressed, it became something more. Simple melodies became
derivatives, splitting oII into spiraling mutations oI the original tune. The piece took Iorm
and began to become more complex, with lasting bass notes and other permutatated
melodies. Bingwen was never bored, Ior each time the pianist played the theme it was a
little diIIerent than the last time. And then, key change. The piece became dark and
emotional. Slowly at Iirst, but then picking up speed and delving into an angry 2
nd

movement. Bingwen was anxious and aIraid. He hardly noticed the tears in his eyes as
the pianist took the piece Iurther and Iurther into the depths oI his soul. Occasionally, the
piece would pause. Bingwen longed Ior the movement to be over, but knew that he had to
wait a bit longer. Chords, chords, melodies, and chords.
Silence.
Bingwen leaned in towards the music. Over the bustle oI the cars and the people
going to work, he heard nothing. Then, the music soItly glided over him. It was happy.
The darkness had passed. He heard the song, and he wanted to Ieel reassured, but he
couldn`t help but remember the darkness that had passed. As the pianist reached the end
oI his perIormance, the piece began to slow. Bingwen was torn; he wanted the piece to
end because he wanted to hear the Iinish. At the same time, he Ieared that his Ieeling
might dissipate as the music Iaded away. Sweet arpeggios and light chords Iloated above
him. And then, as iI it had never been played, the piece was Iinished. The white noise oI
the city returned and Bingwen stood in the street, Iacing the concert hall. For the Iirst
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time in his liIe, he truly listened not to notes to the piece. For once, he had listened to
his soul.


'I don`t understand why I always have to play this same damn piece over and
over again! railed MingHuan. 'I`ve played it hundreds and hundred oI times and it`s
literally perIect.
'It not perIect, said her straight-Iaced Iather. 'No piece ever perIect. There
always something you can Iix. Keep working.
'But.
'No, interjected her Iather. 'Finish practice.
MingHuan slowly rotated on the piano bench. She stared at the sheet music in
Iront oI her. %4 be a musician is n49 94 play music, bu9 94 l4se 4neself in i9, she thought.
!erf4rming is n49 s4me9ing 9a9 can be 9aug9 Y4u play and play and play and 9en 4ne
day i9 i9s y4u Musicians are fus9 9ransla94rs %ey 9ransla9e n49es and keys in94
em49i4ns 9a9 9e audience can unders9and %ey m4;e pe4ple, n49 wi9 w4rds, bu9 wi9
seer will S4 wy is i9 9a9 I can9 m4;e my fa9er? Am I n49 s9r4ng en4ug?
She sat at the piano as her Iather`s shadow loomed over her. Both Iather and
daughter were motionless. Hours seemed to pass as MingHuan tried to calm herselI. The
whole time, Bingwen just stood over his daughter, waiting Ior her to be done.
Without warning, the piano bench Ilew backwards. In a Iit oI rage, MingHuan
threw her sheet music to the Iloor and sprung up, ready to scream at her Iather.
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'I hate you! screamed the prodigy. 'Did you know that?! I wanted you to love
me and be proud oI me Ior so long. Now I hate myselI Ior it. And I hate you Ior making
me want that!
Stone-Iaced, Bingwen waited Ior his daughter to Iinish. She stood there, Iuming,
with her Iists clenched at her sides and her Iace Ilushed.
'Now you done, said Bingwen disapprovingly. 'You need use that Iury when
you play. Audience love you. You should use that.
Astonished, MingHuan just stared at her Iather. She inhaled as iI to yell again, but
just paused, shook her head, and pursed her lips. Staring at her Ieet, she took a deep
breath and began to speak.
'You know fu qin . just because you could never play piano doesn`t mean you
can treat me the way you do. Without looking up, MingHuan walked out oI the room.
For a Iew minutes, Bingwen stood among the wreckage. Sheet music lay scattered
on the Iloor. A pot had Iallen oII oI the shelI and lay shattered on the carpet. The bench
lay on its side. Slowly, he reached Ior his glasses and removed them. He slowly removed
his glasses and meticulously wiped them clean with a gloved hand. Wiping his glasses, he
righted the piano bench and sat down.


For weeks, the young Bingwen had walked past the concert hall, hoping to hear
the music one more time. He longed to listen to the music`s hills and valleys and he
sought aIter the happiness that accompanied the piano. But one day, the concert hall
wasn`t there. In its stead sat a blanched white building covered in boards and yellow tape.
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Bingwen didn`t know what to do. He wanted to hear the sweet melodies one more time,
but he knew that this was the end.
Bingwen sulked into the Iactory and began to work. Now the only music he
would hear would be the metallic whirring oI parts and laborious breathing oI his
coworkers. He approached his station and began to work. He worked at the press,
mashing Ilat pieces oI metal into strange shapes. He pressed the button. The machine`s
jaws clamped down. He pressed the button and they opened. He put in a new sheet. It was
button, jaws, button, sheet, button, jaws. The machine made sound, but it was not
music. The patterns oI noise were the same, but these tools carried no emotions, no soul.
No longer would he hear the magic. It was all he could think about. It consumed him. It
enveloped him up until the whit hot Ilash Ilew up his arm and into his brain. Someone
was screaming. It was a high-pitched scream that shattered his eardrums. The tone in the
Iactory changed. The pain got worse. Someone was still screaming. The Iactory was
becoming darker and more emotional. He saw spots and Iell to the ground as the other
workers crowded around him.
'Don`t look, they said. 'Don`t look at it.
He looked. Three mangled Iingers were all that remained oI a hand that would
never know a piano.



Her Iingers Ilew at blinding speeds. Dancing, jumping, and Ilying in intricate
patterns, they spoke to the piano in a language only the piano could understand. The
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piano struggled to keep up with the Ilurry oI emotions as MingHuan approached the end
oI her piece.
This time, she wasn`t perIorming Ior the audience and she sure as hell wasn`t
perIorming Ior her Iather. She was inside the piano and inside the music. Chords, chords,
melodies, chords, and more as she approached the end oI her piece. As she neared the
end, she slowed, hitting her chords with nothing but her strength oI will, moving her
audience to Iit the emotional shape she wanted them to Iit inside oI. Chords, and chords.
And then nothing. She hovered over the piano without moving and waited Ior the
audience to decide whether or not she was done. It seemed as iI hours oI silence passed
beIore a lone audience member started to clap. Then two, and then 20, and then the entire
hall erupted in applause. MingHuan stood and Iaced the audience. She bowed as the
applause grew louder and louder. She looked out towards the audience only to look
straight into her Iather`s granite Iace. Both rose Irom their seats, slowly and equally. He
clapping with gloved hands and she staring.
Closing her eyes, she took in the cacophony. This time, it was she who was
listening to her calling.
'Now I`m done, she declared to no one.



As the doorbell chimed, Bingwen glided towards the door, stone-Iaced and cold.
As he opened the door, he revealed two men in blue overalls waiting with a large wooden
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box. The sound oI trucks and men talking Iilled the house as the door to the apartment
opened. It was a bright November day and a pleasant chilly breeze Ilowed into the room.
'Hey mister schu, we`re here Ior the delivery, said one oI the movers.
The young Chinese man nodded and wordlessly took a step back, motioning Ior
the men to enter his apartment. Grunting the men liIted the box and carried it into the
room, shutting the door behind them, plunging the apartment in darkness. The room was
Iilled with the sound oI tape cutting and cardboard ripping. The men swung their
hammers, pulling the nails Irom the Iramework oI Bingwen`s package. Bingwen stood by
the door and silently watched as the men worked. They labored Ior several minutes,
heaving and breathing and hammering away. Yet, when a small Chinese girl bounded
around the corner, baton in hand, the men stopped working and looked up Irom their task.
The apartment was silent. All eyes were on the girl. Dropping her baton, she shyly
rushed to her Iather and hid behind his towering legs. Silence. The little girl stared at the
Iloor.
'What`s your name? asked the worker.
'Her name MingHuan, said the China-man sternly. 'The piano Ior her. I wait
long time to get piano Ior her.