In January 2003, while I was hospitalized in the cardiology ward of the county hospital, someone in my room told me that three people had recently died where they lived. Many people from a coastal village had gone to the beach together at night to dig for razor clams. Fog rolled in along the way, and three young men, afraid it was dangerous, turned back halfway. Everyone else returned with a full haul, but the three young men lost their way and perished in the sea of fog. The story deeply affected me. For the five years from 1992 to 1997, when I had taken unpaid leave from work, I went fishing by the sea every day, then hurried back to sell my catch at a small market in the county town before dark. I had dug for white clams on the beach, and once, when the tide was up to my shoulders, I had returned to shore with a companion, carrying fishing nets and baskets of fish. I had also been to the seaside at night. So I felt great sympathy for the three young men who had died. I had long wanted to write a novel, and after spending four years reading classic works of Chinese and foreign literature, I was moved to finally begin one.
The two musicians in this concerto are Zhuzi and Juan'er. They know nothing about music, and their instruments are invisible: they are called love. The music they perform together is called a
