The Bartók?
Shizuka shook her head.
“Absolutely not. Too risky.”
“I am playing the Bartók,” Katrina repeated.
“Katrina,” Shizuka explained, “the Bartók sonata has no accompaniment. It is completely solo. If you falter, there is no fallback, no camouflage.
“Besides, even if you do manage it, people will still say it sounds wrong. Play Paganini or Mozart, and the crowd will recognize that what you did was flashy and difficult. They will love you because you channeled something beautiful.
“But the Bartók? Play the piece flawlessly, and the audience may still hate it. Split times, notes in between notes … Why would you play such a piece?”
“Because it is perfect.”
“Did you not hear what I just said?”
“Miss Satomi, remember how you wondered what Bartók might say in a voice that is not his own? Well, I’ve spent my life that way. And as for sounding wrong, no matter what? I can live as well I can, and people would still…”
Katrina’s voice drifted as she opened her case and retrieved Aubergine.
“Miss Satomi, will you please, at least, listen?”
“Yes,” Shizuka finally said.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even pretty good. But Shizuka realized immediately that Katrina had not been unsteady from fear, but from working through the night.
There were marked improvements in her intonation and interpretation.
Her musicality, her voicing had evolved—but there was Katrina’s special talent.
For it was obvious that she’d not been merely practicing; the seventh soul had been listening, and following, too. But listening to whom? Menuhin? Not exactly. Definitely not Mullova; the tone did not have the same color. But this was somebody, someone she’d heard a long time ago.
“STOP!”
“Miss Satomi?”
Her teacher was shaking.
“How … did you find me?”
Slowly, calmly, Katrina explained how Shirley had received the transmissions when they were approaching the Earth.
She pulled out her phone.
And then, for the first time since Berlin, Shizuka Satomi heard herself play.
Shizuka Satomi.
She was Shizuka Satomi.
The music was heartbreaking, joyful. The sound was so full of yearning, yet every note was full and wise. Was that her?
Yes! But why hadn’t she remembered—no—why had she never known that she sounded like that? As a performer, she never had time to listen, just listen, to herself.
If only she had been able to hear her own voice.
Her voice! Part of her danced. More of her cried. If only … If only …
Oh, if only she could play again, how she would appreciate it! She would play to the world, to eternity. She would play joyfully.
But of course, she could play again.
All she needed was one last soul.
The Queen of Hell looked at Katrina. Her student regarded her with complete trust, complete belief.
“Miss Satomi?”
Maybe yesterday, but not today. Her time was over. Homesick or not, her music would remain quiet. The world would have to wait.
And Hell?
“You do realize we only have three months, right?”
Katrina nodded.
“Yes, Miss Satomi.”
Shizuka patted her student’s head. “Let’s get noodles. Then boba.”
“And then?” Katrina asked.
“We’ll come home, and you’ll practice until you kick their asses in.”
Somewhere, not too far away, Shizuka was sure Tremon Philippe was smiling. The seventh student, playing the very sonata that made her the Queen of Hell.
So poetic, don’t you think? he would say.
She could almost hear his accursed croak of a laugh.
Fuck him.
Really, she should not let her personal feelings influence her. She should not get Katrina involved in her battles. She should not let Katrina touch this piece.
But if this was Katrina’s desire? Well, aspiration is not a privilege. It’s a birthright. Shizuka looked at her wall of violins.
She had three months left.
Might as well make them glorious.
* * *
Lan watched Shirley sell yet another box of donuts. Customers were raving about these “old-school donuts,” that no matter how crazy life got, a box of Starrgate donuts could bring you back to simpler, better times … your grandma’s kitchen, your first paycheck, knowing one day you were going to get married, have a house.
Not even the Thamavuongs had enjoyed this success. It seemed unbelievable. Yet Lan could not deny the smiles and miles of people rolling up in vintage Chevys, sensible Toyota Corollas, shiny Honda Civics, beat-up pickup trucks with lawn mowers in the back.