Whatever the reason, with each passing year, more people assumed that the Queen of Hell had no intention of ever teaching again.
Idiots.
For ten years, Shizuka Satomi had been searching. From Lausanne, Salzburg, Sydney, most recently Tokyo, she had listened, searched prospect after prospect.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Not that they didn’t try. Not that musicians had not traveled to her, offered her everything they had, all they could imagine.
As if all they could imagine could be close to enough.
Others around her, including Tremon Philippe himself, had suggested she was being too selective, perhaps even arbitrary. Surely over the past ten years, she had found musicians who might be appropriate.
Of course she had.
Her previous six students had been an almost uninterrupted string of genius. All had been perfectly appropriate. Yet, with each one, Shizuka became more and more aware that something was wrong. No. Something was missing. As she watched each of them shine and fall, sparkle and burn, Shizuka became more and more obsessed with a music playing just beyond hearing—maddeningly familiar, yet always beyond her grasp.
Until finally, in Tokyo, she heard it.
Through the din of thirteen million people, and vending machines, ramen joints, Internet cafés, electric trains, and cherry blossoms for each of them twice over, she heard it—coming not from within that city, but from far across the sea.
Coming from, of all places, home.
Shizuka swerved past a very slow Lexus, then accelerated onto Huntington Drive.
The San Gabriel Valley resembled an Asian-American Monopoly board. Cambodians, Chinese, Vietnamese, Laotians, Vietnamese-Chinese, a few Koreans, even some Japanese crisscrossed past the working-class neighborhoods of Rosemead, Monterey Park, El Monte, through middle-class Temple City, San Gabriel, and Alhambra, all the way up to Boardwalk and Park Place—San Marino and Arcadia, where Shizuka was arriving now.
She could feel herself breathing faster as she passed the Santa Anita Plaza, a gilded shopping mall where one might procure truffle-filled dumplings, a Hello Kitty latte, and a two-thousand-dollar box of Chinese bird nest.
Quickly, she sped by the Santa Anita racetrack, home to the fashionable 626 Night Market, drawing Asians of all persuasions for a night of stinky tofu, boba, taro macaroons, and international indie film screenings.
Until finally, she arrived at her destination: Xinhua Phoenix Hall.
Xinhua Phoenix Hall was actually the smaller of two buildings designed by the renowned Chinese architect An Wei. Across the courtyard, still shrouded in construction covers, was the site of Xinhua Phoenix Investment Bank’s grand “Golden Friendship Pavilion,” due to open the following year.
Between them was a massive fountain, in the shape of an ever-flowing teapot. Inscribed in its side was a carved and gilded 永， the character for Eternity.
It had seemed like 永 since Shizuka had so anticipated a performance. She didn’t know exactly how she knew, but she knew. And when Tremon Philippe mentioned the Grohl girl, that was confirmation enough.
By now, she could almost feel it physically pulling her—a timeless music that her other students, for all their genius, had only been able to trace.
Shizuka Satomi took a deep breath. There was no need to hurry. The Queen of Hell did not hurry.
She checked her makeup one last time, then put on her sunglasses.
Here would be her last and seventh student.
Here would be her last and seventh soul.
And then, what would be left to accomplish?
Everything.
* * *
When one hears “violin competition,” one may envision nervous contestants and a stage. But within the foyer and surrounding hallways, a whole other competition is being waged.
Someone mentions a trip to Berlin. Another invokes Juilliard. In the foyer of who-is-who, students don’t have teachers. Rather, they are “studying with somebody,” often identified only by last name, as in “she is studying with Korsakova.”
Regardless of age, whether the competition is international or local, amidst chatter and coffee, in various accents, real and acquired, everyone wants to know: Who is more important than whom, and why?
“I see that the princess reigns, as usual.”
Landon Fung, of Freiberg Music in Temple City, was talking to Ellen Seidel, a longtime violin teacher, also from Temple City. The princess, also known as Tamiko Giselle Grohl, sat in the corner eating a tiny serving of macaroni potato salad. Amidst all the nervous patter around her, she seemed almost nonchalant as she reviewed her music.
“Did you tell her?”
“Of course. But I told her she’d be watching via webcast.”