Extract from Journey of a Thousand Miles
by Lang Lang, with David Ritz

Original full-length version published by Hachette Australia.
Condensed version © Reader’s Digest (Australia) Pty Ltd

Sponsors of the contest provided rehearsal space. When we arrived at the practice rooms, we were met by the sound of music. Suddenly my father stopped outside a half-open door. ‘Listen to this playing,’ he said, amazed. ‘It’s magical.’

I saw a Japanese pianist, perhaps eighteen years old, swaying back and forth in a kind of free-form dance as he played. I realised he was blind. Intrigued, I sat down on the bench next to the young man. He turned his head towards me. In broken English, he asked me where I came from. I managed to tell him that I was Chinese. He smiled and said, ‘Play.’

I played from Liszt’s ‘Tarantella’, the story of a poisonous spider. The young man smiled and swayed to the music. When I was through, he said, ‘Yes, very good.’

Then he played the same piece, except it was entirely different. His touch was softer, more delicate. He wasn’t trying to capture the emotions; he became the emotions. The joy of playing came from his heart. He embodied the colourful melodies, the frenetic rhythms, the desperate story, the wild movements.

‘Please play more,’ he said to me.

I played the Neapolitan song of the ‘Tarantella’.

‘I don’t know this part,’ he said. But as I continued to play, he put his hands on the keys and began accompanying me. He created harmonies—right there on the spot—that augmented the song, infusing it with deeper beauty.

I had heard hundreds of pianists, but I had never heard anyone play like him. When I told him my age, he said, ‘I’m lucky you are in the younger group or else you would beat me.’

‘I’m the lucky one,’ I said. ‘You’re unbeatable.’

For the next hour, we played for each other, sharing our mutual love of music. Witnessing his sightless touch was one of the great lessons of my life: there were more ways to see the world than I had known.

I kept this in mind during a series of lessons from my teacher who had come with us to Germany, Professor Zhao. The lessons were good, but my mind circled back to that Japanese youth. The day before I was to play in the concert hall, I performed the ‘Tarantella’.

‘My God, Lang Lang!’ he said. ‘There’s a wrong note in there. You’ve learned the piece with a wrong note!’

I wasn’t upset because, thanks to my Japanese friend, I had discovered the soul of the composition. Besides, when one practises as many hours as I had, it’s difficult to unlearn something. To take out that wrong note might have upset the whole construction of the piece for me. I explained my reservations. Professor Zhao thought about it and said, ‘You may be right, Lang Lang. Go with your instincts. Your emotions are very heightened right now, and I don’t want to upset you.’

The concert hall, with its ornate Baroque architecture, was grander than any I’d ever seen. When my dad patted me on the back, as always, his pat gave me courage; this time, though, it also reminded me of the inspiration I had drawn from my ­Japanese friend. The sweetness of his musical soul had given me something I’d never had before—a sense of poetry.

First I played the Haydn Sonata in C Major, then a Chinese piece called the ‘Liu Yang River’, a Chopin waltz, and finally the Liszt ‘Tarantella’. The pianist isn’t always the best judge of his own performance, but I knew I had played well. I had certainly played lyrically. I danced through the pieces, especially the Liszt, with tremendous confidence, and the concert hall erupted in applause—I was called back to take five ­separate bows.

I felt that my Japanese friend had given me a gift that all the skill in the world could not top. I appreciated the ferocity with which the other Chinese pianists had played, their killer concentration, their absolute mastery of the compositions. But I also felt them trying too hard. Their interpretations, to my ears, lacked heart.

I was sitting next to Professor Zhao in the first rows and my father was in the balcony when it was time to announce the winners. The judges began with the consolation prizes, which were awarded to a Ukrainian, a Lithuanian and a Spaniard.

Then the big prizes.

Fifth place went to a Chinese pianist, Zhe. He started crying.

Fourth place was a Russian boy.

Then third—a French girl.

Second place was big. It meant defeat. I put my hands over my ears when they announced it, terrified of hearing my name.

My teacher nevertheless whispered into my ear a translation of what our German host was saying. ‘Second place is from China.’

No, not second place!

‘Second place goes to Yu,’ Professor Zhao said.

I was as relieved as Yu, another Chinese pianist, was furious, but at the same time I couldn’t be certain I would be number one. There was a long silence.

If I didn’t take first place, I would be devastated. Not only that, I didn’t know what would become of us. We would be in irreparable debt.

But the German broke his silence. ‘It’s been a very good competition this year, and we are pleased with the quality of our contestants. It was very difficult deciding who would win. To be number one requires a truly extraordinary performance.’

My heart thumped so loudly I was certain everyone could hear it.

‘This year,’ the host continued, ‘one player towered above all the others, although he is a short little guy. This year we are proud to give the number one prize and five thousand German marks to ...’

Another pause, another moment of excruciating suspense.

‘Lang ... Lang.’ Amid the German, I heard my name clearly.

I jumped up and hugged my teacher, but he shushed me so that he could keep interpreting as the host continued his speech.

‘This year we are also awarding Lang Lang a special prize for the most outstanding artistic performance in the history of our competition, including four thousand German marks.’

Two prizes! And one created just for me! I began jumping up and down, screaming.

A famous Chinese piano professor I recognised came up to me. He had trained his own students to win this contest, and he must have been disappointed, but with great sincerity and kindness he said, ‘Lang Lang, I’ve never heard anyone play as you played. God was moving your fingers. God was whispering in your ear.’

Someone sitting in the balcony next to Dad had a video camera and filmed my father’s reaction. I didn’t see the video until years later and I was shocked: he was racked with sobs, his face covered with tears. I never saw him like that before or ever again. But on the afternoon my victory was announced, it wasn’t my father I sought out—it was my Japanese friend. I hugged him and said, ‘Thank you. I’ll never forget you.’

And I never have.