June, 2012.
The weather in London is unpredictable, akin to a temperamental old man, with moods that swing between sunny and rainy. Though it was drizzling this morning, it has now turned into a sunny day with clear skies.
In the opulent London Grand Theater, a music hall that can seat a thousand people, Fu Weiheng sat alone in the audience. Leaning against the soft back of the chair, he closed his eyes, his dark eyelashes trembling lightly, seemingly relaxed.
A year ago, he and Ye Yin Huan co-founded the Hengyan Symphony Orchestra and began the orchestra's European tour earlier this year. Tonight marks the final stop—London Grand Theater.
Since one o'clock this afternoon, the orchestra has been rehearsing intensively for tonight's concluding performance.
The performance on stage is nearly perfect, yet as Fu Weiheng listens, his brows knit tighter and tighter. He slowly opens his eyes, rises, and steps onto the stage to stand beside the conductor's podium, his innate commanding presence instantly damping the music.
"Stop." His calm and cool voice was neither loud nor soft.
The entire music hall fell silent, and all the musicians stared at him in confusion, secretly speculating in their minds.
Ye Yin Huan laid down his baton, shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, and a helpless smirk appeared on his lips, thinking: Well, the maestro is about to start critiquing.
"Cello." Fu Weiheng raised his right hand, pointing his distinctly jointed index finger at the cellist in the second row, "What's wrong with your ears? Can't you hear that the intonation is out of tune?"
Laughter rose softly from below. The cellist being called out for her hearing was a shy German girl, who immediately blushed, tuning her instrument to find the A string indeed slightly sharp, "Sorry, I'll pay attention to that next time."
His fingers turned, and piercing eyes glared sternly at the young violinist who was laughing, his expression darkening: "Are you still laughing? Two beats slower."
The violinist, a young American boy, hit a wall, feeling embarrassed and annoyed but helpless: "Well, I won't laugh anymore."
Next, Fu Weiheng looked at the first flutist, his tone slightly softening: "You need to start with a softer melody."
After saying this, he stepped forward slightly, gesturing to the female viola player in front of him, his gaze indicating her red-brown viola.
The girl was stunned, gazing into his dark eyes, blushing slightly at the ears, and handed him the viola, understanding his intention.
Fu Weiheng took the viola, placed it between his shoulder and neck, tuned a few notes, and then casually instructed the violists present: "Starting fade-out slowly in this section." With that said, he lifted his right hand to demonstrate.
The rich and mellifluous sound of the viola resonated throughout the grand music hall, captivating everyone, unsure if it was his beautiful music or his poised and handsome demeanor while playing that held their breath.
After a long while, Fu Weiheng gently pulled back the bow, ending the brief demonstration.
Carefully handing back the viola to the violist who had not yet regained her senses, Fu Weiheng returned to stand by the conductor's podium, one hand in his pocket, scanning all the musicians on stage with sharp eyes, and in impeccably British English he declared: "I will come back in two hours. If you still play this piece so badly, you will not have a holiday in the next year!"
He then looked coldly at Ye Yin Huan: "Ivan, don't tell me you can't even conduct a Bolero."
Ye Yin Huan was taken aback, watching Fu Weiheng's departing silhouette, rubbed his brow, caught between laughter and tears.
...
In the afternoon, London Park filled with many people strolling and having fun, Fu Weiheng walked leisurely on the pebble path, his handsome and poised demeanor attracting the attention of many young women around.
In the distance, a deep cello sound suddenly emerged, halting his steps. He looked in the direction of the sound.
A girl sat on a bench, a cello held between her legs, her posture upright, playing proficiently. At this moment, the emotion and technique in her music were not inferior to those of the cellist in the orchestra.
Fu Weiheng was stunned in place, too far to see her face clearly, feeling only that her tranquil and captivating aura was as warm and radiant as the afternoon sun. The crowd of tourists gathered in front of the bench started to grow, soon blocking his view.
The piece ended, and the music faded in the breeze.
Fu Weiheng suddenly came back to his senses, belatedly striding quickly toward the bench. By the time he pushed through the crowd, the figure on the bench had vanished. Glancing around, among the bustling tourists, the silhouette carrying a cello case had hurriedly disappeared into the distance.
The piece was Amazing Grace, and if it weren't for the crowd and the realness of the music, he might almost suspect it was all just a dream.