Between a Wall and a Piano in the Pandemic

Image Credit: Pinterest

‘Crash!’

For years, I have been awakened by sounds of shattered glass from above. In between lucid dreams and consciousness, I lie on my bed with eyes glued to the ceiling, marveling at the number of glassware my neighbour has unsparingly smashed. I can’t recall when this started. I have long grown numb to it, and simply forget how I woke up every morning.

As if coming from the adjacent room, even a sneeze or a cry from a baby is loud enough to interrupt my sleep.

Imagine a city where people on average humbly occupy 143 sq. ft. of living space, and what would happen if all of them were to stay in almost 24/7 for three months. Locked alone in one of the most cramped apartments in one of the oldest housing estates, I realised how devastating it could be to put up with total strangers. Only this time, I was the noisy one.

Since we started working from home, the piano was my only emotional outlet. I began practicing it for an hour every night. One day, a man knocked on my door, complaining about the piano sound and asked me to close my window whenever I played it. I promised.

Our flats are only separated by a thin wall. If I look rightwards from my window, I can see my neighbour’s, perpendicular to mine and only a step away, and every single item in his room. To make things worse, my upright piano stands only 10 cm away from our common wall, as it is the only space that can accommodate it. A year ago, I checked in with my former neighbour, father of two, but from what he said, the sound did not seem much of a problem.

Nonetheless, I did everything I could think of: playing a quieter repertoire, stopping from 9:30 pm onwards, an hour and a half before the legal restriction limit, and stuffing pillows and rugs between the piano and the wall.

So one night, I practiced the pieces as usual, but forgot to close the window. I heard banging noises outside and peeped out. My neighbour, as if caught up in a frenzy, was frantically opening and closing his window. He was obviously turning from my gaze.

I rolled my eyes, shut my window, and continued.

All was well the following nights, but it was hard to put that scene out of my mind. One night, I rang at his door, tried to show a smile under my facemask, and asked him if the sound problem improved. Politely, he said it was a bit softer, but most of the sound actually came through the wall. Since he worked from home, the sound was disturbing to him, but he understood that I had already tried my best. I apologised and told him I was open for further adjustments if he needed.

That turned out to be a sensible conversation. I thought this had put an end to everything, but I was wrong ...

Two weeks later, during the weekend, I had my instrument tuned. After an hour of mechanical knockings on the keys, I played the piano, finally at the right tune, for another hour, when someone next door clanked his gate hysterically. I had to stop and ask my neighbour what the matter was.

‘The sound is too loud.’

‘Then why didn’t you come and talk it over?’

‘That won’t do. There’s no solution. Can you think of any?’

‘I can’t say I can solve the problem, but I’m happy to adjust.’

Poker-faced, he shrugged.

‘I can’t ask you to stop playing. I just wanna vent. That’s all.’

It was too late to hide a look of sheer disgust, and unnecessary.

‘Fine, but if this goes on, I’ll play on as usual.’

‘Sure.’

As I almost banged the door behind me, I dismissed altogether the idea of installing sound-absorbing panels on my wall. If I spent a dollar for this jerk, I would be ridiculous like him.

In the end, there was nothing more I could do. As the popular saying goes, every misfortune in Hong Kong comes down to the ‘land problem’.

It was not that I was uncooperative, but his vengeful reaction was outrageous and shut the door on communication. Not even once did he approach me. Apparently, he didn’t seem dissatisfied. Yet at times, in the middle of my practice, stormy clashing of the poor gate erupted, lasting until I finished my routine. It was impossible not to jump. My heart pounded helplessly and my icy cold hands trembled at the disconcerting outbursts of wrath.

In the following months, whenever I laid my fingers on the keys, I cocked up my ears in alarm. The aggression only intensified in time. In between the dissonant bombardments, I heard metal, weighty furniture, and even machines violently hit the ground. Upon every crack of ear-splitting thunders, I had to stop to take a deep breath. What if he suddenly went wild and turned against me? I found it so hard to concentrate. Even the clicking sound of my rice cooker could make me start.

Hard as I tried hammering it into his head, it was wrong to expect that a mean person would learn self-reflection. I eventually turned inward for peace. Amid the maddening cacophony, I managed to play my pieces as usual, except that my sweaty fingers kept slipping off and hitting a few wrong notes. Half a month passed and, as if getting used to periodic seizures, even when the infernal fire was burning outside, I played on unperturbed. Seriously, I could not wait to thank this man for training me rigorously in stage stress management.

One day, I found in my mailbox a notice from the security management office, warning all the residents of my floor that loud noises were reported from one of our flats, and reminding us to observe the sound regulation. I called the security officer and found out that the occupants living below had been complaining about the man.

Someone finally spoke up. I thought that things would get solved in time. For weeks, however, I tore and threw away the same notices. Something told me that this saga had spread its malicious cobweb and caught innocent neighbours in the tangle. I was not wrong to hold firm, but it would be unfair to get others involved just because some insane man was too stubborn to control himself.

All I wanted was making music. My head spun at the thought of many rounds of negotiations and confrontations with future neighbours that would have to happen.

Finally, I checked my bank account. Moving into a bigger flat in a better neighbourhood would be out of the question at the moment. The only way out was to stick wall panels. My landlord was willing to share only one-third of the cost, saying that if they did not look ‘decent like a normal household installation’, I would pay for the uninstallation cost when I moved out. I tightened my belt, which to my relief was not too hard during the lockdown.

The situation of the pandemic eased soon and we all went back to work as usual. I kept practicing the piano, but noises from the next door had subsided. Instead of putting on a carnival of household goods sounds, that man just shut his gate several times repeatedly. Maybe he was too tired, or like many Hong Kongers, his mental issues got healed as soon as he could go back to work. Anyway, what more could I ask for after the three-month nerve-wrecking ordeal?

In summer, it was officially announced that the plague had ceased at least in the next couple of months. Finally, we could resume our normal life. I spent weekends in crowded shopping malls visiting music studio equipment stores. Once the right moment came, my plan was ready to go.

One day, coming out of the lift, I saw cabinets lining along the corridor near my flat. The door next to mine was wide open. I immediately stepped back, went down and bought a bottle of cold cider, went back up, slipped into my flat, and called the installation company.

Amid the lacquer smell and wall-drilling sound from the next door, I stood, not without some pride, looking up at the extravagant-looking vintage-patterned plush panels, where every cent from my half-a-year savings was stitched in. It was the first time I saved money not for food or trips, but for the greater good. From then on, I could blast angry Beethoven pieces at midnight. A fair deal.

On a Sunday morning, I woke up hearing rolling furniture carts outside. Curious to meet my new neighbour, I waited until the evening and pressed the doorbell. As the door flung open, a shaggy bunch of silver hair blocked my sight. Someone squeezed her face up to mine and hugged me.

‘Mum! Dad! Why are you here?’ I knitted my brows.

‘Surprise! We’re neighbours now! Haven’t I been telling you I’ve always wanted to hear you play the piano?’ My mum finally released her grip, beaming.

Mind-blown, I went in with them. My parents were too excited to say anything coherent. It was only after I pulled my face and shot them endless questions that I finally pieced together the whole story.

During the height of the coronavirus, my father and mother gathered from hearsay that the property market had tumbled, and impulsively rushed to the property agent near my estate. Soon, they agreed on the prices with landlords, and paid the down payments for this flat and mine with most of their savings.

‘We’re sorry we didn’t talk to you or your brother, but this chance was just too good to be missed.’ My father was trying his best to put on the most expressive demeanour, but I caught a triumphant grin escaping from the corner of his mouth. ‘And see, what a nice flat this is for a family!’

According to their plan, I was to move into this bigger flat with them. Until I had my own family and they moved away to the other one, we would rent it out.

‘What do you think? Isn’t this splendid?’

My mouth twisted. I struggled to smile. What could I say? I didn’t pay to get these flats.

Oh, by the way, of course I could, and should keep my piano. In fact, I would have to be a part-time piano tutor soon, so that we could pay all the instalments as soon as possible.

Two months after I had my wall renovated and everything solved, they burst in telling me we had to tear it down and put it on the other side.

Wait, wasn’t this also what I had been dreaming of? A flat of my own where I could play music freely. After all, if it weren’t for them, I couldn’t even touch a piano. I took out my phone and called the installation company again.

A month later, we had a little family gathering to celebrate our new renovated flat and my ‘return’. My brother and sister-in-law, who joined us from the town, announced the coming of a boy next year. His name would be Eugene.

We cut a homemade cake to welcome Eugene. After I finished my piece, I slipped onto the piano stool, my fingers running on a few keys lightly. I was trying to recall some melodies for the little one and the mother-to-be, when my brother walked up to me. Leaning against the piano, he asked me if they could send Eugene to me for piano lessons when he turned five. I smiled.

‘Certainly! The honour is mine.’

Our little Eugene will never need to worry about his neighbours when he plays the piano. As his parents and grandparents have been working very hard, a beautiful flat in a respectable community is already there expecting him. I pulled out and flipped over my piano scores, and blushed to admit that these shabby-covered antiques were everything I could give him, whether he likes it or not. As for the others, let him find out one day that between a high, solid wall and wherever his heart lies, there is not much of a choice, but ...

‘Pop!’

The champagne fizzed, glasses clinked. Peals of laughter burst out from behind. I closed my eyes and music flowed. The wall, my friend, uncomplainingly, stood and listened.

2 May 2020 Tai Po