By Lim Yeong-ae

When I was an elementary school student Schumann’s ``Traumerei” was a gateway to light classical music. When I encountered that melody for the first time on the radio, I became fascinated even without knowing its title. I may have been dreaming of a princess in a fairy tale at that moment. It seemed beautiful even if my imaginings were childish.

As I grew up I began to practice the melody on the piano at home. In those days, taking music lessons was an impossible dream in my situation. My performance was clumsy due to my lack of skill. It was far from a perfect ``dream.” Anyone listening to my playing would have felt uneasy, waiting for my next mistake. At that time in my life it was as if my future dreams were as imperfect as my rendition of Schumann’s.

While pregnant with my first child I would listen to that piece often for my unborn child _ a practice known as ``taegyo-eumac,” or music for antenatal training. Owing to the sweet adagio melody, a would-be mom's uneasy dream could become stable and beautiful.

The early years with my two children were not easy. I was taking care of a sick father-in-law, and was suffering from tuberculosis myself. I was still studying at graduate school and our finances were strained.

Because TB had affected my throat, I lost my voice. I played a recording of that piece to my children as I could not sing lullabies to them. They required this music in order to fall asleep. I became sick and tired of that composition. At this time in my life it seemed as if my dreams were broken and scattered in pieces. My eldest was quite sensitive and would begin crying if she heard the rather strangled cries I made while weeping.

Sometimes I would try to hide the sound of my crying by turning the volume up. That would cause the children to wake up crying, so the three of us would sob together listening to that piece. Once my children could fall asleep without Schumann’s assistance I began to intentionally avoid Traumerai.

Several years ago my husband was transferred to Singapore. One Saturday evening, we were placed at the same table with a Singaporean family in a crowded restaurant called ``Coca.” We made friends with the couple (Wayne and Amy) and their children _ their family was the mirror image of our own. Their children were very kind to mine who were not yet fluent in English. We exchanged business cards and began to become closer.

After a week we were invited to their home. Wayne welcomed us by playing Traumerai on the piano. An amateur musician, he was a talented and attractive person. His rendition was a little bit jazzy, ebullient, much like Wayne himself. As I saw him in profile, playing, I thought as if I were in a beautiful dream like the Chagall painting he had on the wall. I felt he was repairing the broken and scattered pieces of my dream. We shared an interest in music and spoke together at length. I was infatuated, and this did not escape my usually even-tempered husband’s notice.

We were to reciprocate in three week’s time. We were getting ready to welcome them when Amy called, sobbing. Wayne had been diagnosed with leukemia. My heart was broken and I felt both astonishment and grief.

While preparing for their visit, my eyes welled up with tears while making ``japchae" (chop suey), and hanging a new curtain in the living room. I had also practiced Traumerai for the sad family. My rendition during their visit was con dolore (sadly), not con brio as Wayne’s had been. While playing, I was dreaming earnestly that he would be healthy again. We were a gloomy, dark, and sad group. My husband and I were determined to become bone marrow donors for him but the chance of a match was slim.

Several months later we had to return to Korea. We heard that after a one-and-a-half year search he found a donor in China. Unfortunately he passed away six months later from complications of the bone marrow transplant. Heaven did not repay his happiness.

Now, several years later, I sometimes come across Traumerai. To others it may sound romantic and sweet, but for me, it is still a faded sorrow.

The writer is an essayist and adjunct professor at JEI (Jae Neung) University. She can be reached at annielim31@naver.com.