“It did!” Astrid said.
“Did it, though? Yes, it won me awards. And admirers. But did it really change anything?
“Before I injured my hand, I wanted not just to play this music, but to share it. To get people to listen to this music—not just coming from me, but from everywhere.
“And after, for nearly fifty years, I have lain awake each night wondering how I’d escape damnation—not from Hell, but from the fear that my music—my truest, genuine music—was just a lonely, pathetic dream.”
“But then, I found that girl—playing that music. And then I knew. There could be no doubt that the music I was playing was real. For here, finally, was a music with the same magic as my own.”
“But, Miss Satomi! No one has ever matched you.”
“No, they haven’t.” Shizuka let herself smile. “But Katrina will find her own way. In fact, you may find, in time, that you may grow as fond of her music as you are of mine.”
“No—I mean, yes, Miss Satomi.”
“Or maybe not. It might be nice for you to remember how wonderful I was.” Shizuka chuckled. “But when I listen to Katrina, I realize she will take this music to places I would never dream. I think that’s enough for any teacher—to know that her music will continue long after she is gone.”
After she is gone? What was she saying? Astrid wanted to scream. Hadn’t Miss Satomi noticed? The laughter, the life, the fire—all of that was back in her music.
Hadn’t Miss Satomi noticed that her own music had so much more yet to say?
There had to be a way. Somewhere, they could find a soul—there had to be one. They had time. Surely— “Astrid?”
“Yes, Miss Satomi?”
“Will you please take care of Katrina Nguyen when I’m gone?”
“Y-yes, Miss Satomi.”
“And, by the way, Katrina knows that I have damned the souls of my previous students. But that is all she knows. So, Astrid, promise me that you will not tell her anything about what will be happening to me.”
“I … promise, Miss Satomi.”
“Thank you, Astrid. That will be all. Good night.”
“Good night, Miss Satomi.”
* * *
Katrina’s mind was racing. There was so much more that she wanted to ask!
Why did someone like you become the Queen of Hell?
What were your favorite pieces?
But most of all, What was that last song you were about to play?
But she had to sleep. Morning practice was in just a few hours. She turned off the lights and closed her eyes.
Then she opened them.
In the dark, she could hear music, wafting faintly … not from the studio, but from the practice hall. She did not know this piece.
She did not know anything like this piece. How many violins were playing?
No, it was just one. What was this?
The boy was in third grade, writing in his notebook.
And his hands wrote, for the first time, Katrina.
Why did he write this? Where had that name come from?
No one noticed. The other boys were whispering shit about the teacher. The girls were giggling and passing notes.
The boy grabbed his eraser. For some reason, he knew this was wrong, that nobody could ever know.
“Katrina? Is that your girlfriend’s name?” a girl said. Her name was Danielle, and her eyes were brown.
He did not know how to respond.
“That’s a pretty name.”
What if Danielle were to see her now? Of course she’d pull away.
But what if Katrina could make her listen? What if she could play everything she had become, despite every mistake she had made, every bridge she had burned?
What then? What a music that would be—as fresh and new as sky!
And yet why did this music sound like farewell?
Why did this music sound like goodbye?
30
The next morning, Katrina skipped breakfast and rushed to her studio. She needed to recall the music she heard that night.
Already, it was fading. Did she even hear it, or was it a dream?
So intent was she, that she did not notice her teacher enter the room.
“So someone was listening last night.”
“Miss Satomi? I’m sorry!”
“No, no, not at all,” Miss Satomi said. “Do you know what you’re playing?”
Katrina shook her head.
Miss Satomi chuckled. “I didn’t think so. Especially judging from what I just heard. Still, good try.”
“What is it?”
“Sonata for Solo Violin. The piece I was to perform in West Berlin. It was written by Béla Bartók, one of the twentieth century’s greatest composers.”