Wait—this wasn’t from a video game. What was this? A few started to laugh. Many scratched their heads. But a few of the judges sat upright. Yes, it was a deviation from the program. But it was no joke.
It was Bartók. Sonata for Solo Violin.
First Movement: Tempo di Ciaccona
Ciaccona, chacona, chaconne—a swirling, shifting dance, usually composed in triple meter. If this were Vivaldi, it would drip with sentiment and romance. If this were Handel, it would sing and sparkle with Heaven’s joy.
But this was Bartók.
There seemed no clear way to classify this. The violin spoke in such contradictory voices—with, without, against each other. Even the key seemed to morph between major, minor, and irrelevant.
Miss Satomi had warned her that listeners would find this confusing, alien, even incorrect. But for someone who had played her life in multiple parts, to similar reactions, this was music that Katrina knew was hers.
Might they think she was trans, queer, an abomination? Might they whisper she was ugly? Might they find her entrancing, exotic, grotesque, horrifying?
Might she not care? Because she played, Katrina began to realize that yes, she was staring into a wall of darkness. But didn’t that also mean the lights were on her? Didn’t that mean that the stage was hers?
And how was this different from doing webcams, when any these faceless viewers might log on one night and pay to see her cum?
The audience wanted transgender? They would get transgender. Or queer, or whatever else they wanted. But they would also get her.
And she was beautiful.
Listen to me. Listen to me now. For if this dogwood bow can force beauty upon you, then I shall shove every part of myself into that beauty. I shall make you feel all the joy, the terror in loving who you are.
The audience might have wanted to turn away, but the cursed bow rendered them helpless. Katrina played a love song smashed against a wall, a dream for a child left beaten in their bed.
As Aubergine wailed in Katrina’s hands, there was more shifting, more confusion, as the ciaccona held them, aroused them, touched their secrets, made them ache for the happy ending to come.
But instead, silence.
Because too many stories end unfinished.
Because that’s all that freaks like us get.
As the first movement ended, a few people faithfully applauded where they shouldn’t.
And with that mistaken applause, Katrina knew that her soul was forfeit.
Who would have thought one’s destiny could be sealed not by a parting of the sky, nor the horror of an infernal flame, but with awkward titters and shhh …
Well, at least no one was asking her to leave the stage. And if she were to be damned for all eternity, they could listen for another seventeen minutes.
Second Movement: Fuga （Risoluto, non troppo vivo）
Mention “fugue,” and one thinks immediately of Bach’s perfect universe of divine watchmakers and transcendent harpsichords.
But the universe is not perfect, is it?
Fuga, fugue—a theme, introduced by one part and successively taken up by others. But counterpoint is not always harmonious. Not always consensual. There are threats and arguments, empty apologies, messy excuses, blame.
Fuga, derived from fugere, to flee.
Girl clothes. Boy clothes. Money. Birth certificate. Social security card. Toothbrush. Spare glasses. Backup battery. Makeup. Estradiol. Spironolactone.
And fugare, to chase.
Risoluto, non troppo vivo. Resolutely, not too alive. As how you smile when a stranger spits at you. As how you keep breathing while a friend rapes you. As how you think calmly as a parent is kicking down your door.
Yehudi Menuhin himself claimed Bartók’s fugue was perhaps the most aggressive and brutal music he had ever performed.
But, Katrina realized, such brutality made her neither nervous nor afraid.
She was not intimidated. Instead, she was angry. How long had she lived in this fuga, with a fake smile, a fake nod? How often had she buried her voice to placate others? How often did she say her voice was too ugly, anyway?
Harmonize, complement, counterpoint … apologize. Apologize again.
But why? Why did it have to be that way? To live a lie? To save her soul? At least with the cursed bow in her hand, her damnation made sense.
Dash around the corner, lock the door.
Into the dark, she hurled arpeggios of catcalls and Internet trolls. There was a customer clawing at her hair. And here was another one biting her and drawing blood. These were people liking a post saying that she should be set on fire. This was a penis forcing itself bluntly into her mouth.
This is the song of a queer kid who escapes from a window to a sidewalk in the middle of the night. This is the song of a trans girl just wanting a fucking bathroom in the middle of the day.