Take Zero: TAKE 1 - First Day of the Retreat

The car came to a stop.

Outside the window, a white world spread out. The snow wasn't falling heavily yet, but the color of the sky was heavy. I had a premonition that it would be stormy in a few hours.

The church was smaller than I had imagined.

They said it used to be a monastery. The brick exterior walls were covered in moss, and only the spire topped with a cross stretched toward the gray sky. Trees were densely packed around it, and no other buildings were in sight. It was a forty-minute drive from the town at the foot of the mountain. The cell phone signal had long since vanished.

The front door opened, and an old man who appeared to be the caretaker poked his head out.

I have been expecting you. It is warm inside.

We picked up our luggage and went inside one by one. The four members of the string quartet. The producer. Six of us, including myself. We would be spending three days in this church.

The entrance hall was dim. The ceiling was high. Our footsteps echoed on the stone floor. There was a large wooden door in front of us, and the caretaker explained that the main hall was on the other side.

The acoustics are excellent. They have been since long ago—

Tsurumi interrupted him.

The reverberation is two and a half seconds. A bit long. Usually excessive for chamber music, but... for a recording, it can be adjusted. In the editing.

His voice held his usual confidence. Eisuke Tsurumi, fifty-eight years old. He is known in the industry as a go-getter. He is good with numbers and makes decisions quickly. However, that speed can sometimes come across as a coldness that discards people.

Ritsu stood next to Tsurumi.

What is the weather forecast for tomorrow?

It is forecast to turn bad in the afternoon. But don't worry, it will have stopped by the time we finish recording.

Ritsu looked out the window. I felt like the snow was getting a little heavier.

It took an hour to move the equipment in.

Microphone stands, cables, a mixer, and monitors. Komine carried the necessary recording gear into the hall one by one. The church's main hall had an open ceiling, and faint light filtered in through the stained glass. It was the light of a winter afternoon. It would be dark soon.

The four of them opened their respective instrument cases.

Two violins, one viola, and one cello. The basic configuration for a string quartet. The four of them opened their chairs in a semicircle and set up their music stands. Komine extended the boom stand and hung the microphone to aim at their center, at a height that wouldn't obstruct their line of sight.

"Is the usual setup okay?"

Ritsu looked back. Forty-two years old, first violin. The leader of this quartet.

"Yeah, I'll leave it to you."

The words were short. But there was trust in them—at least, that was what I wanted to believe.

Midori played an A. Not the first violin, but the second violin set the standard. In this quartet, that had somehow become the norm. A=442Hz—her note did not waver.

Using that note as a reference, the four of them fine-tuned their respective A strings. The sharp core of the violin, the damp mid-range of the viola, the deep, low contour of the cello. The four A's overlapped, the beating faded, and they became a single tone.

I pressed the headphones to my ears. "The more material, the better"—that was my motto. I record everything, leaving it running. Not just the music. Rehearsals, small talk, sighs during breaks.

"Shall we begin the sound check?"

Shinichi nodded. Forty-five years old, viola. One of the founding members of this quartet. Gentle, and he never clashes with anyone. But because of that, his true feelings are hard to see.

The four of them raised their instruments. No sheet music had been placed yet. Everyone had it memorized. Naturally. They had played this piece hundreds of times.

Beethoven, String Quartet No. 14 in C-sharp minor, Op. 131.

The seven movements continue without a break. Flowing, without pause. That is precisely why recording it is difficult. They must keep their breathing in sync. For forty minutes, the four of them need to become one.

Tsurumi had returned to the waiting room. He was opening his laptop, working on something. It seemed he wouldn't be present for the recording. That was his way. He only wanted the results. He had no interest in the process.

4:00 PM. The first take began.

Ritsu gave a small nod. That was the signal. No words were needed. For the four who had been together for over fifteen years, the movement of a gaze was enough.

First movement. Adagio.

A quiet, prayer-like melody resonated. The dark tonality of C-sharp minor. The music Beethoven wrote in his later years is somehow a mixture of resignation and enlightenment. It is a sound that can only be written by someone who has looked at the end of their life.

This movement has a fugue structure. Ritsu presents the theme, Midori follows it, Shinichi responds, and Rin supports it. The four voices intertwine to become a single prayer. The depth, like a solemn mass, echoed against the stone walls.

Ritsu's bow moved slowly.

His sound was always like singing. Every single phrase had expression. It had breath. It had the power to draw the listener in. That is why this quartet has been able to remain at the forefront for twenty years.

Transition to the second movement. Allegro molto vivace.

The tempo accelerates all at once. A bright D major. But rather than a redemptive major key, it was a 'forced brightness' that allowed no room to breathe. Ritsu began to play as if running. Midori followed. Shinichi and Rin supported from below. The four instruments intertwined, rising like a spiral.

I stared at the level meter. The volume was stable. The balance was fine, too. But something was—

Midori's brow furrowed slightly.

It was only for an instant. The other three might not have noticed. But I saw it. Microphones pick up not just sound, but the vibration of the air. Tension, irritation, too.

Ritsu's tempo is wavering.

He plays as if singing. That is his strength, but also his weakness. When emotion takes over, his tempo subtly speeds up. Conversely, when he is in a low mood, it slows down. It is a fatal habit for an ensemble.

Midori was a perfectionist. In terms of technique alone, she was likely better than Ritsu. But she is the second violin. The supporting side. The role of highlighting the leader. That position might be what is irritating her.

My jaw ached.

It was the spot where I kept the instrument pressed. Due to years of habit, there was a small bruise on my left jaw. When playing goes on for a long time, it throbs. Today, too, the pain was spreading slowly.

Third movement. Allegro moderato.

It is short. It is like a recitativo—a monologue, a bridge to what comes next. Once we get through this, the light will shine just once in the fourth movement. A major. But that was still a long way off.

Ritsu sings the melody. Midori adds the harmony. Shinichi supports the inner voices, and Rin holds everything up from the foundation. The roles of the four are set. Who stands out, who pulls back. That was decided from the beginning.

—It was supposed to have been decided.

Near the end of the third movement. Ritsu held the final note for a long time. A pause longer than the score indicated. Midori's bow stopped for an instant. Shinichi sent a signal with his eyes. Rin did not drop the tempo and waited quietly.

The 'timing' of the four had subtly shifted.

Inside my headphones, I heard that dissonance. A slight misalignment, barely noticeable to the audience. But everything remains in the recording.

'—Cut.'

Ritsu lowered his bow.

'Third movement, once more.'

Midori started to say something, then stopped. She bit her lip, fell silent, and repositioned her bow.

Shinichi gave a small cough.

"Shall we take a break?"

Rin set down her cello and stood up.

"I'll go make some tea."

She walked toward the waiting room. She was thirty-five, the youngest in this quartet. She maintained a proper distance from both Ritsu and Midori. I thought she was a smart woman.

I checked the level meter. The recording was still running—when I split the files later, I would name this part 'TAKE 1'. From the first movement to the third. I could decide whether it was usable during editing.

Ritsu stroked his chin.

"Let's take a thirty-minute break."

His voice was tinged with faint fatigue.

During the break, Tsurumi called out to Rin.

"Ms. Fujimori, do you have a moment?"

Rin stopped making tea and turned around. Tsurumi was pointing at the door to Waiting Room C. It was his private room. Rin gave a small nod and walked over there.

I was adjusting the equipment in the control room. From the second floor, I could see the movements on the first floor well. Ritsu, Midori, and Shinichi had each returned to their waiting rooms. Only Tsurumi and Rin had disappeared into a different room.

After about ten minutes, Rin came out.

I couldn't read her expression. She was her usual self. Calm, revealing nothing. But I felt her gait was slightly stiff. Her hands—they seemed to be trembling, just a little.

Tsurumi remained in the room.

I don't know what they talked about. But looking back on it now—perhaps that conversation was also part of the unsettling atmosphere that hung over this training camp.

Around five in the afternoon, the caretaker came to the entrance.

"I'll be taking my leave now. I'll be back first thing tomorrow morning."

Looking outside, the snow had begun to fall in earnest. The wind was picking up, too.

'Will you be alright in this weather?'

When I asked, the caretaker laughed.

'I'm used to it. I've lived on this mountain for forty years.'

He threw on his coat and put on his hat. When he opened the front door, a cold wind blew in.

'Well then, see you tomorrow.'

The door closed.

I watched his retreating figure from the window. He got into the light truck parked in the lot and started the engine. He drove slowly down the snowy road. Before long, he disappeared behind a white curtain.

The snow showed no signs of stopping.

5:30 PM. The six of us gathered in the dining hall.

The table was lined with dishes the caretaker had prepared. Stew, bread, salad. A warm meal. It had a simple taste that made me forget the cold outside.

At first, no one said much.

Perhaps it was the fatigue from the recording. Or maybe they were choosing their words carefully. Only the sound of forks and knives echoed quietly.

Tsurumi spoke up.

'I checked today's take.'

Everyone's gaze turned to him.

'The first and second movements are good. Only the end of the third movement had a slight waver. But it's not a problem.'

Ritsu nodded. 'I'll record it again tonight.'

'No, there's no need for that.'

Tsurumi took a sip of wine.

We can just connect it in editing. We'll record the same section again tomorrow and swap in only the usable parts. That will make it perfect.

I found myself opening my mouth before I could stop it.

That's impossible.

Everyone's gaze turned toward me. It wasn't normal for the production staff to speak up. But I couldn't stay silent.

This piece has an attacca marking. It's the composer's instruction not to stop between movements. If the seven movements aren't played without a break, the meaning of the work will—

As long as it doesn't stop, it's fine, right?

Tsurumi cut me off.

If we connect it in editing, it will sound like it didn't stop. There's no problem.

Just sounding like it—

You're production staff. You're not in a position to comment on the performance.

Silence fell.

Midori set down her fork. The sound echoed louder than I expected.

Komine-san is right. Opus 131 is a piece where seven movements continue without a break.

Her voice was quiet, but firm.

That 'connection' is the core of this piece. It's different from 'making it look connected' through editing.

Ritsu continued in a low voice.

We've been playing this piece for twenty years. We can record it in one take. Without any editing.

Tsurumi laughed. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but it lacked warmth.

Ritsu, I understand your ideal. But what the label wants is the 'result.' Not the process.

Shinichi cleared his throat.

"Well, we can talk about that tomorrow—"

"No, I want to decide now."

Tsurumi looked around the table.

"This is business. It's not art. Even if you can't play perfectly, I will finish it perfectly. That's fine, isn't it?"

No one said anything.

Only Rin was quietly drinking her soup. As if she hadn't heard anything. But her eyes—were looking somewhere far away.

I stood up from my seat and returned to the control room on the second floor.

I didn't want to hear their conversation anymore.

Seven o'clock in the evening. The second take began.

After dinner, the four of them returned to the hall in silence. They took up their instruments. They made eye contact. No one mentioned the dinner conversation.

Tsurumi went up to the second floor. It was a small balcony next to the control room. He could look down into the hall through the glass. He placed a chair there and crossed his arms.

He looked like a judge.

I sat in front of the mixer. I checked the levels. The recording was already running.

Ritsu took a breath. The four bows touched the strings at the same time.

First movement. C-sharp minor.

This time, they didn't stop. From the first movement to the second. From the second to the third. And four, five, six, seven—.

For forty minutes, the four of them became one. Their breathing synchronized, the phrases connected, and the seven movements flowed as a single story.

Final movement. Returning to C-sharp minor. It had momentum, but it was not a song of victory. It wasn't a triumph. It was destined to fall here from the beginning—that was how it ended.

The last note faded away.

Silence lasted for a few seconds. Then, Midori exhaled deeply. Shinichi relaxed his shoulders. Rin placed her bow on her knee.

Only Ritsu stared intently at the music stand. As if to confirm something.

I took off my headphones.

It was not a bad take. There were some fluctuations in a few places, but overall it flowed well. It might be usable.

Tsurumi came down from the balcony.

'It's so-so.'

That was all he said.

After the four of them returned to the waiting room, Tsurumi called me over.

'Got a minute?'

We were in the control room. Only the lights from the equipment illuminated his face.

'About what comes next.'

I remained silent.

'How long do you intend to keep doing this job?'

'...What do you mean by that?'

'I'm thinking of asking a different engineer for the next album. Don't you think it's about time you made way for the younger generation?'

I said nothing.

Tsurumi continued.

'It was the same story fifteen years ago, wasn't it? Back when you quit.'

I felt the blood drain from my face.

'They say it's hard to know when to descend a mountain. Knowing when to step down is important. Midori and Rin still don't know the real reason you quit, do they?'

I continued to remain silent. I couldn't say anything. If I spoke, I didn't know what I might do.

Tsurumi shrugged.

'Well, think about it. I'm saying this for your own good.'

He turned on his heel and walked toward the balcony.

I stared at his back.

Anything that doesn't fit the 'product' gets discarded. That's his way. Fifteen years ago, and now.

I think it was close to nine-thirty.

All the lights went out at once.

At first, I didn't know what had happened. The equipment lamps went out too. The monitors went pitch black. Outside the window was a blizzard, and there was no moonlight. It was complete darkness.

'A power outage—'

I heard someone's voice. I think it was Ritsu. It came from the direction of the waiting room.

I couldn't move. In the darkness, I had the sensation of not knowing where I was. Even when I groped around for something, I couldn't find anything with a familiar feel.

Cold air brushed against the nape of my neck. The heating had stopped. I could hear the sound of the wind through the gaps in the window. The blizzard was still continuing.

Something moved.

There were footsteps somewhere on the second floor. Or was it the sound of the wind? In the darkness, I couldn't tell the direction or distance of the sound.

'Mr. Tsurumi?'

I called out. There was no reply. Only my own voice was swallowed up by the darkness.

How much time had passed? It might have been five minutes. It might have been fifteen. In the darkness, the sense of time disappears.

The emergency lights turned on.

A weak, orange light illuminated the hallway. It was a battery-powered emergency light. It was just bright enough to barely see my feet.

I stood up.

I followed the handrail and left the control room. I walked toward the balcony.

Tsurumi's chair was empty.

I had a bad feeling.

I looked down at the hall from the handrail. The light from the emergency lamp reached the floor dimly.

Something was lying there.

Something in the shape of a person.

"Tsurumi-san!"

Someone shouted. The voice echoed against the high ceiling.

Footsteps approached. In the weak light of the emergency lamp, we gathered in the hall one by one.

Everyone saw the same thing.

Directly below the balcony. On the stone floor.

Eisuke Tsurumi was lying on his back.

His eyes were open. But he wasn't seeing anything anymore.

[Continues to TAKE 2]