Starting from 0

On Tuesday afternoon, Ms. Tanaka arrived at the activity room on time.

Minister Mori handed over Xia Mo's application form, pointing to the small print in the remarks column: "Teacher, he wants to choose the oboe."

Ms. Tanaka took the form, looked at it for a few seconds, and then looked up at Natsume.

He didn't say anything immediately, but walked to the cabinet, took out the oboe, placed it on the table, turned it on, and carefully checked the instrument's condition.

The tube body has no cracks, the key is somewhat oxidized but still usable, and there are still a few unopened reeds left.

"Do you play other instruments?" he asked.

"Piano, cello," Xia Mo said.

Ms. Tanaka looked at him for a few more seconds, then closed the box and said something that made Xia Mo's heart race:

"Give it a try. Start by making a sound; once you can make a sound, then we can talk about other things."

A senior student nearby whispered, "The oboe is very difficult," but Mr. Tanaka glanced at him and shut up.

Mr. Tanaka provided some practice suggestions:

"You don't need to practice for too long each day, 15 to 25 minutes is enough."

"The oboe reed is extremely thin, and playing it for too long will cause your lips to lose control, leading to bad habits. Instead of forcing yourself, it's better to practice for short, focused periods each day to maintain your lips' 'muscle memory.'"

From that day on, the hellish battle between late summer and the oboe began.

In late summer, hold the reed in your mouth and follow the mouth shape taught by Teacher Tanaka—bite the base of the reed with your upper teeth, cover your lower lip with your lower teeth, and close your lips to form a seal.

He blew a strong breath.

Air leaked out from both sides of the whistle, making a "hissing" sound, like a tire deflating.

Come again.

As the breath was exhaled, the reed vibrated slightly, muffled, like a sleeping person snoring.

Come again.

The airflow glided through the gaps in the reed like water, making no sound at all.

Tanaka's voice rang out from the side: "Deeper."

He put a little bit in his mouth, but still no sound came out.

"Shallower."

They withdrew a little more, but there was still no sound.

After adjusting it no less than twenty times, my lips started to ache.

He took a deep breath, put the reed in his mouth, and adjusted his mouth shape—

A sharp, short "squeak" sounded, like a mouse whose tail had been stepped on.

It's not a "di" (滴), it's a "zhi" (吱). An unpleasant, flat, and spine-chilling "zhi".

Feiniao was playing a basic rhythm on the small drum next to him when she paused with her drumsticks and glanced back at him.

Xia Mo didn't notice, still immersed in the world of how to make a sound.

By the end of the first day, a faint red mark had appeared on the inside of his lip from the whistle. His tongue felt sore, and his cheeks felt like he had been chewing gum all day.

Ms. Tanaka said that this is a process that everyone will go through.

The oboe is the most difficult of all wind instruments to play.

Because the gap between the two reeds of the reed is extremely small, even a slight deviation in mouth shape will cause the breath to leak out from the side.

Being able to "squeak" is already the first step.

The squeaking continued the next day.

Occasionally it can produce a "beep" sound, but the sound is shaky and weak, and it starts to go off-key after the third second.

Mr. Tanaka used a tuner to help him listen, and the pointer swung wildly between "too high" and "too low," like a bee that couldn't find its way.

By the third day of practice, calluses had started to form on my lips.

It's not that I've actually developed calluses; I'm just starting to get used to the feel of the reed.

The foreign object sensation was no longer so obvious; the "squeak" sounded less frequently, while the "beep" sounded more often.

But he can't reach the mid-to-high range at all. Every time he tries to go higher, his voice shrinks back, like a primary school student who is afraid to raise his hand to answer a question.

On the fifth day, Xia Mo encountered a new problem.

The reed that Mr. Tanaka gave me is broken.

After school, Xia Mo didn't go to the activity room immediately, but went to the music store first.

This was the first time he had come to buy a reed by himself.

The piece of music that Mr. Tanaka gave him had started to soften during his practice over the past few days, and his voice was becoming thinner and thinner.

The store has a dedicated display case for reeds, with various brands and hardnesses arranged in several rows. The cheapest entry-level reed (JDR I entry-level) costs 600 yen per piece, while the most expensive costs 1,200 yen.

Xia Mo stared at the price tag for a few seconds, then reached out and grabbed a mid-range box, which cost 2,400 yen and contained 3 tablets.

He counted out three Noguchi Hideyo bills (the figures on the 1000 yen note) from his pocket money and placed them on the counter.

The shop assistant, a man in his forties, saw that he had bought a reed and asked, "Just starting to learn?"

Xia Mo nodded.

"The reeds of an oboe are very delicate," the uncle said.

"Soak it in water for a minute or two before blow-drying to make it thoroughly wet. After blow-drying, remove it, rinse it with clean water, and let it air dry. Do not expose it to direct sunlight or place it in a damp place."

He paused, then said:

"How long a reed lasts depends on luck. Some people use it for a month, some for three days. You're a beginner, so it's easy to break the reed. Keep one or two in a box and carry them with you, you never know when you'll need to replace them."

Xia Mo put the reed box in her pocket, said thank you, and walked out of the music store.

Exercise.

Continue practicing.

Practice diligently.

On the fifth day, the miracle finally happened.

Xia Mo, with a whistle in his mouth, took a deep breath and pushed the air up from his dantian—not by blowing through his mouth, but by pressing the air up with his abdomen, like lifting a bucket of water from the bottom of a well.

A clear, low-pitched "beep" flowed from the oboe.

It wasn't sharp, it didn't tremble, and it lasted steadily for a full ten seconds.

Mr. Tanaka peeked out from the conductor's platform, glanced at him, and nodded.

"The bass line is coming out. That's the sound of an oboe."

As summer faded, I put down my oboe and looked at the dark brown instrument in my hand. Suddenly, I felt that all the squeaking and sore throats of the past few days had been worth it.

But the midrange is still not good.

Every time I try to go up, the sound is like it's blocked by something, weak, flat, or I can't make a sound at all.

As the breath is pushed upwards, the lips involuntarily tighten, disrupting the vibration frequency of the reed and causing the sound to explode.

From that day on, Mr. Tanaka's eyes changed.

Over the years, Xia Mo has been more than one student who has thought about trying the oboe.

However, most people give up before they can even produce a complete note.

Xia Mo is the first to work as hard as she does.

Who knows, the ensemble might actually produce an oboe player?

This was something that Mr. Tanaka had never imagined.

After all, many secondary schools don't even have an oboe player.

On Friday afternoon, the entire ensemble practiced.

The fourth-grade woodwind seniors are already rehearsing a simple ensemble piece.

The clarinet has a soft and steady sound, the flute has a clear and bright sound, and the saxophone has a warm and rich sound.

The brass section's trumpets and trombones joined in from behind, filling the entire classroom with their sound.

Xia Mo stood in the last row of the woodwind section, with a score spread out in front of her.

The score is marked with dynamics and tempo, and his part consists of the quietest long notes in the entire piece—because he can't play anything else yet.

The senior student who was in charge of the flute section turned around and glanced at him.

There was no malice in that look, but it wasn't exactly friendly either.

It's that "don't make things worse" expression.

In late summer, I put the reed in my mouth and waited for my turn.

The first sustained note. Low note, breath control was excellent, and the voice didn't tremble.

The second long note. Still a low note, the pitch is okay, the tuner needle is slightly swaying in the middle.

The third long note—

A sharp whistling sound burst from the oboe, like someone had placed a wind-up toy in the middle of the classroom.

The entire ensemble paused for a moment, and several pairs of eyes turned to look at him at the same time.

Xia Mo gave everyone an apologetic look, took the reed out of her mouth, and lowered her head.

Mr. Tanaka's voice came from the control panel: "Continue."

The ensemble resumes.

Xia Mo took a deep breath and went over the section she hadn't played well earlier.

This time, he deliberately held back his breath a little, and the whistling sound did not appear. But the sound was too soft and was completely drowned out by the clarinet next to him.

"Make the sound a little louder," Tanaka said.

Xia Mo pushed her breath a little harder, and the sound finally broke free from the oboe, like a thin thread floating in the air of the classroom.

It's not loud enough, not stable enough, but it's there.

Thin and rustling, like looking through a layer of gauze.

Fortunately, it is there.

I thought of it at the end of summer.

He's pretty brave; at least he's not stage-frightened.

Mr. Tanaka thought of it.

In the second week, Mr. Tanaka gave him a new practice schedule: practice long tones at home every morning, participate in club group practice after school, and practice scales at home.

Unlike a piano, which produces sound when you press down on the oboe, your lips are the strings, and you'll regress if you don't practice every day.

Even if it's only for fifteen minutes, you must maintain the memory of your lips.

Practice long tones in the morning. Hold the reed in your mouth, inhale, and exhale. Play one note for fifteen seconds, rest for ten seconds, and then play again.

The bass is getting more and more stable, but I still can't reach the high notes. Every time I try to go higher, my lips involuntarily tighten, disrupting the reed's vibration frequency and causing the sound to crack.

Teacher Tanaka said that high notes are not produced by "biting" them, but by "pushing" them up with breath. The lips should be relaxed, just like when playing low notes, only the breath is more focused and faster.

I tried again and again in late summer.

Try it at home, try it after school, try it while walking.

He even holds an oboe in his dreams.

Until the sixteenth day.

Push your breath upwards, relax your lips—and your voice rises.

Although it only lasted three seconds, and although it was sharp and thin, it did indeed go up.

--------

We rehearsed after school. The scale started in C major, and we went through it one note at a time.

He had already memorized the fingering—he had practiced it countless times on the piano, and the muscle memory of the notes in the fingers was universal.

But the difficulty of playing the oboe is never in the fingers.

Mr. Tanaka made him practice scales alone in a corner and forbade him from joining the ensemble.

Xia Mo stood in the corner of the classroom, a tuner spread out in front of her, walking through the notes one by one.

"Do"—the pointer is in the center, it's on target.

"Re" - slightly high.

"Mi" - Too low.

"Fa" — Approved.

"Sol" - slightly high and slightly low, the pointer swung around from left to right.

"La" — finally stabilized.

"Si" — It exploded again.

Through repeated practice, it took a full twenty days for Xia Mo to finally be able to play the complete C major scale.

From low Do to high Do, eight notes, one by one, not continuously, with pauses for breathing in between, but every single note can be played.

The high notes are still not stable enough; sometimes they crack while playing. The pitch is also inconsistent; the tuner needle never stays still in the middle and always swings back and forth.

But compared to the previous "squeak" that couldn't even make a sound, it's so much better now.

Ms. Tanaka stood beside him and listened to him listen once, then said something that made Xia Mo both happy and frustrated:

"You've finished playing the scales. But tuning for an ensemble? It's still a long way off. Let's talk about it after you've played for six months."

Summer ends when she realizes that what Mr. Tanaka said is true.

The oboe is the standard pitch for tuning a symphony orchestra; the entire orchestra must tune to its correct pitch.

If you want your voice to become the benchmark for everyone, you must at least practice until your breath is as steady as a rock and your pitch is as accurate as a ruler.

You still have a long way to go!

But he wasn't in a hurry.

Every day after school, he would carry his oboe case into the activity room, take the softened reeds out of the pool, assemble the instrument, and begin practicing.

15 minutes, 20 minutes, sometimes I'll practice a little longer if I feel good, but I'll stop when my lips get sore. Don't be greedy, don't rush, just a little bit every day.

He is still a long way from being able to "play in ensembles" as Mr. Tanaka said.

But the oboe in his hand has transformed from a strange instrument that only made "squeaking" on the first day into a partner that can produce low notes, climb scales, and occasionally contribute a few long notes in ensembles.

Asuka practiced her timpani nearby, watching him blow the middle Do over and over again, exploding and then doing it again, exploding and then doing it again, until finally, after the 10th or so, she managed to steady herself.

He shook his head, said nothing, and continued playing his own roll.

The setting sun outside the window was slowly sinking, turning the entire activity room orange.

The May evening breeze blew in through the window, making the sheet music for the two of them rustle loudly.

Asuka reached out and pressed down on her own sheet music, and in doing so, she also pressed down on Xia Mo's.

Xia Mo glanced at her but didn't say anything.

The bird didn't say anything either.

But her finger lightly tapped the edge of the sheet music, as if tapping a beat, or as if saying "Go for it!"