‘Look,’ Mr Yanagi said, opening and closing his black umbrella to shake off the flakes that had settled. Hokkaido people don’t usually bother using an umbrella when it’s snowing, but we always tried to carry one to protect our precious cases of tuning tools. ‘So you don’t feel the concept of something being a waste. Take that a step further and it means you don’t truly know the word “waste”.’

He was climbing into the car, and for some reason a look of wonder came over his face. ‘You don’t know much, Tomura. And yet I feel, conversely, as though you’ve taught me something remarkable and new.’

‘Well, you’re welcome,’ I said vaguely, and started the engine.

There’s no shortcut through the forest. The only way forward is to keep honing your skills, little bit by little bit.

There were times, however, when I wished – with the utmost fervour – that I was blessed with a miraculous pair of ears and miraculous fingers. Couldn’t those all of a sudden blossom for me one day? How wonderful it would be to actually manage to produce with these hands the kinds of sounds I imagined in my mind. The place I was heading for was so deep within the forest. If only I could get there in a single bound.

‘But I still don’t think anything’s a waste.’

The car inched forwards, scrunching on the thin layer of unseasonal snow as it travelled.

‘Sometimes I get the feeling, Tomura, that you’re only pretending to be apathetic, and that really you’re quite the greedy fellow.’ Mr Yanagi tilted his seat back and stretched out leisurely, sighing loudly.

If piano tuning was a totally individual act, you could think of it in terms of hitting a target. It would be fine to take a taxi to your destination instead of walking – as long as tuning was your only goal.