Chapter 79: A Beautiful Woman Must Surely Be a Source of Trouble

When Cheng Xiaoyu arrived at the Conservatory’s exam site, he checked the exam announcement. The Piano Department’s preliminary test was divided into six examination rooms, beginning at nine in the morning and running until noon, then resuming at two in the afternoon. Each session had seventy or eighty candidates, which meant nearly five hundred people were vying for admission to the piano program at Shanghai Drama Academy, while only thirty would be accepted, making the acceptance rate less than six percent. Apart from the Central Conservatory, this was likely the lowest acceptance rate in China; other conservatories at least offered a fifteen percent chance.

Still, everyone wanted to try their luck for a place at such a top institution. After all, as long as the exam schedules didn’t clash, taking more entrance exams meant more opportunities.

Compared to the one-in-two-hundred chance at the Film and Opera schools, this was already not bad.

Every year, throngs of media and photography enthusiasts gathered at the gate of Shanghai Drama Academy to capture fresh-faced candidates for the film and opera departments. The students in these two majors were typically handsome men and beautiful women—future stars were likely to emerge from among them.

Because the entry threshold was relatively low, anyone even slightly good-looking would come to compete in terms of appearance, leading to a surge in applicants; it was said that this year, over three thousand attractive young men and women were vying for just forty spots.

Cheng Xiaoyu checked his admission ticket number and began searching for his assigned exam room. He soon discovered he was the very last candidate on the list, scheduled for the final slot in the sixth examination room. He guessed this was Aunt Zhou’s arrangement, grinned, and realized he had nothing to do all morning.

His exam room was the small multifunctional recital hall on the first floor. Entering through the front door, Cheng saw many candidates already seated and headed toward the back, picking a random seat. Slightly bored, he took out a composition notebook and started jotting down a melody; he was planning to upload a new song to a music website soon. Lately, he hadn’t even checked to see if anyone had listened to the four songs he’d already uploaded. Even if no one had, he wasn’t anxious—he believed that gold would always shine eventually.

While Cheng was absorbed in his notation, the exam began. There were three proctors—two men and a woman. As each candidate’s number and name were called, they went up to perform.

Bach’s "The Well-Tempered Clavier" was a daily requirement for every piano student. Cheng could recite all the scores from memory, which was quite impressive since most candidates only memorized the pieces they’d chosen to play.

This year’s exam didn’t involve drawing lots for pieces, so the pressure to memorize was not so intense.

The first candidate was a delicate-looking boy. He bowed to the three judges, then loudly announced he would play the minor key Prelude and Fugue, BWV 885, from "The Well-Tempered Clavier." The prelude was a strict four-part adagio, but the exam didn’t require it; he began directly with the fugue. This four-part fugue was exquisitely structured, with melodies that interwove not only in the usual octave relationships but also using double counterpoint techniques that could shift to the tenth and twelfth intervals—a piece of moderate difficulty within the collection.

In "The Well-Tempered Clavier," the complexity depended on the number of voices: more voices meant a greater challenge. To be accepted at Shanghai Drama, four voices were considered the basic requirement, though an exceptionally performed three-voice fugue might still earn a high mark.

The fugue was the most complex and refined form in polyphonic music, perfected only in Bach’s hands. His fugues were not merely abstract; they combined rigorous logic with endless formal variation and poetic feeling. Thus, "The Well-Tempered Clavier" was not only the best practice material for pianists but also a mandatory exam piece everywhere.

The first boy was clearly nervous, sitting stiffly without relaxation, which affected both the tempo and flow of his performance. Fortunately, he made no mistakes, but since speed and rhythm were crucial in these pieces, he hadn’t quite mastered them.

His second piece was a Chopin Etude—two major-key Etudes from Op. 10. Chopin’s Op. 10 and Op. 25 etudes were the epitome of both artistry and technique, with musicality that sometimes surpassed the technical demands. In Chopin’s oeuvre, the Etudes were his most significant and representative works.

From his previous performance, it was clear the boy hadn’t reached Shanghai Drama’s standard. Before he finished, the middle judge called a halt and announced the exam was over.

The boy left the hall looking a little dejected. Cheng shook his head, thinking he didn’t stand a chance. These two Chopin Etudes were fast, technical works that suited non-legato or finger staccato to mimic the crispness of a harpsichord, but he had used wrist staccato instead. His right hand lacked accuracy; he should have prepared multiple fingers simultaneously rather than lifting each one individually, which made it harder to hit the keys cleanly and on time.

The multifunctional hall wasn’t large, so even from the back, Cheng could clearly observe the performers’ movements. At this age, being able to play piano pieces well was already impressive, and the fact that Cheng could spot and hear others’ shortcomings made his abilities all the more remarkable. But he himself had no idea where he truly stood.

After listening to a few more candidates, none of whom displayed particularly high skill, Cheng relaxed. Since their level was about the same, he had little to worry about and leaned on the desk to nap. As the last candidate, he wouldn’t be called up until the afternoon at the earliest.

When he woke to the cacophony of piano music, the morning session was nearly over; more than half of the seventy or so candidates had already performed. Cheng, uninterested in watching any more, left the hall to find something to eat.

With the afternoon session starting at two, he looked for a place to have lunch and rest. Yet his hopes were dashed—reality was much harsher. With so many candidates and parents waiting around, every restaurant near the Academy was packed. Cheng wandered along the street, peering through windows to see if any tables were free. Eventually, he found a somewhat upscale Western restaurant with a few empty seats visible from outside and decided to try his luck.

Upon entering, the host led him to a four-person table in the middle, still wet from recently departed guests. Cheng sat down, wiped the table with a tissue, and placed his admission ticket—tucked inside his composition booklet—in a clear folder. Without paying much attention to the menu, he ordered a sirloin steak and an iced orange-lemon drink, then began scrolling on his phone. Both Wang Ou and Xia Shamo had texted, asking how his exam had gone; he replied that he was up in the afternoon and received their messages of encouragement.

Before his food arrived, a manager in a black suit approached and asked if he minded sharing his table. Two girls were looking for seats and hoped to share his table. Cheng had always believed that helping others was helping oneself, so he agreed readily—though if it had been two boys, he might not have been so accommodating.

He kept his head down, absorbed in his phone until the two girls sat opposite him, prompting him to glance up. One was strikingly beautiful, with sharp eyes and a proud aura; she wore the uniform of Gezhi Academy and was busy texting. The other, dressed casually, was average-looking but still attractive—by Cheng’s critical standards, “passable” meant she was a beauty in most eyes. The one in uniform was a fresh, delicate beauty, certainly the class belle.

Neither girl thanked him for agreeing to share the table, but Cheng didn’t mind; a meal with pretty girls was a bonus.

He was playing the piano app “Perfect Piano” on his phone, which had an interface simulating a real keyboard. To maintain a good user experience, not all keys were shown at once; the app adjusted the display automatically, though users could set the number of visible keys for a greater challenge.

Wearing headphones, Cheng tapped lightly on the screen. Across from him, the two girls seemed to discover something entirely new. They both still used stylish flip phones—in the era before smartphones, they hadn’t seen anything like this. Their phones only had games like Tetris or Snake; a piano game was a novelty.

The PON3 was much more impressive than PON1, with its curved white ceramic shell and beautiful large screen—just the kind of gadget girls who loved exquisite things would find irresistible.

The class belle leaned over to whisper to her friend, then the ordinary-looking girl spoke up, “Excuse me, hi!”

Cheng, absorbed in Schumann’s “Traumerei,” didn’t hear her. She reached out and tapped his arm.

Somewhat surprised to be approached, Cheng looked up at the two girls. He took off his headphones. “Can I help you?”

The ordinary girl said, “Your phone is really pretty! Where did you get it?”

Cheng realized her interest and, with a touch of disappointment—such a pretty girl, yet he might not get to know her—answered with an innocent smile, “It’s called Apple PON3. My friend gave it to me. You can probably find it at Dixintong or other big phone retailers.” Cheng didn’t like to show off, so he didn’t claim it was newly launched from overseas.

The ordinary girl, lively and talkative, asked, “That’s a piano game, right? Does it help with piano practice?”

Cheng shook his head. “Not really—it’s just for fun, to kill time. Sometimes you can use it to jot down melodies or practice finger flexibility.”

“Can I try it?” she asked, eyes wide.

Cheng took off his headphones and handed her the phone. The two girls were instantly enamored with the gadget. The class belle tried playing “Traumerei,” while the other introduced herself, “I’m Zuo Yan, and this is my friend Duanmu Linsha. We both go to Gezhi Academy.”

Cheng stood, half-intending to shake hands, then thought it too formal and awkwardly sat back down, scratching his head. “I’m Cheng Xiaoyu, from Fudan High.”

Linsha, playing with the phone, exclaimed, “Oh! What a coincidence, you’re also here for the piano performance major, right? You’re the last one on the list today—I saw your name.”

Cheng thought his name was quite ordinary and wondered how she remembered it. “Are you in my exam room?”

Linsha smiled. “Yes, I’m right before you. Your name is so familiar, but I can’t remember where I’ve seen it.” She furrowed her brow, trying to recall.

Cheng broke out in a cold sweat, thinking any notoriety couldn’t be good. “Lots of people have my name—there are several in my school alone!”

Zuo Yan then added, “I think your name is familiar too!” After a moment’s thought, she exclaimed, “Weren’t you the chubby guy who fell on stage at the New Year’s Gala?”

Cheng could only smile wryly and nod, thinking it was better than being known as a troublemaker. “You guys were there? My friends set me up.”

Linsha returned the phone and said, “No wonder you looked familiar. Your band’s video is pretty popular online now.” Though she tried to keep a straight face, her eyes betrayed her delight.

Cheng smiled. “I wouldn’t know; I rarely go online. I’m always busy practicing.”

Zuo Yan snatched his phone again and said, “That won’t do, we have to exchange numbers. Don’t let Linsha’s calm demeanor fool you—she loves your band. She watches your videos every day and, after hearing your ‘Dragon Inn,’ wanted to learn guitar. Actually, a lot of our classmates like your lead singer. Isn’t she applying here too?”

Linsha blushed, a hint of shyness in her expression.

Cheng didn’t notice and thought of Xia Shamo, who had wanted to apply to the music department at Drama Academy. Her mother, however, was dead set against her studying music and tearfully recounted her own misfortunes. Xia Shamo, always obedient, was moved by her mother’s distress and began to waver. She asked Cheng what to do, and he told her that as long as she loved singing, she could do it anywhere; he could teach her the professional knowledge. Relieved, she gave up on applying to Drama Academy.

Shaking off thoughts of Xia Shamo, Cheng smiled. “She’s applying to Fudan, but don’t worry, our band won’t break up.”

Zuo Yan saved her number in his phone. “Great! Next time you guys perform, you have to tell me! Your New Year’s show is still ringing in my ears.”

“Sure,” Cheng replied.

Just then, a male voice interrupted. “Linsha, I’ve been looking for you. You didn’t reply to my texts or answer my calls.”

Cheng looked up. A young man, handsomely built in a way favored by older generations, stood by their table, an air of arrogance in his brows. He gazed at Duanmu Linsha with undisguised affection, but she remained expressionless.