The Queen of Hell folded her arms. Lan had ignored her, trivialized her music, misread her intentions, even sent Shirley to kidnap Katrina.
“So, where shall we go?” Lan asked.
“Go?”
“I mean, would you like to go for a drive? I can drive!”
How could she be so exasperating, yet so cute?
“Drive? Where?”
“Anywhere you like! I mean, if you want to go anywhere. Would you like lunch? I can buy lunch. If you don’t mind going. With me, I mean.”
She really had missed her, hadn’t she?
“Oh, shut up,” Shizuka finally said, barely able to contain her laugh.
Li’s Sandwiches had started in Westminster, in Orange County’s Little Saigon, but had spread northward to the San Gabriel Valley. Its brightly lit stores sold not only Vietnamese banh mi, but also Euro-style sandwiches, fresh baked baguettes, and croissants.
Shizuka told Lan what she wanted, found a table, and waited while Lan ordered and paid. Eventually, Lan came to the table with their sandwiches and drinks.
“Eat it while the bread is warm,” Shizuka advised.
Lan nodded, then took a bite. She tasted onion and cilantro and peppers. There was sliced pork and pickled radish and carrots and liver paté … The bread was crunchy and crumbly on the outside, yet chewy, warm, and almost sweet.
“What is this?” Lan asked.
“A sandwich. How’s the coffee?”
Lan sipped the coffee. She paused. Of course she knew what coffee was. But she had never tasted Vietnamese drip coffee with condensed milk.
Lan looked about her at the happy customers. They seemed so different from the ones who were now coming to Starrgate. Why was this different from the donuts at the shop? And why did sipping a sweet Vietnamese coffee—why did that make her heart skip?
A sandwich that is more than a sandwich. Coffee that is more than coffee.
Shizuka was telling her something important, wasn’t she?
Lan recalled their trip to Kim Ky. Lan had ordered for Shizuka, poked fun at her with the waitress, so knowingly explained why she should get the soup noodles.
Lan had been so sure of herself.
But then she remembered Shizuka’s reaction to the noodles, the slices of braised kidney, how she savored the aroma of the dumplings. Lan recalled Shizuka’s expression as she chewed on the noodles, sipped the broth, added a bit of chili paste, some grated ginger.
And all that time, Lan had been talking, explaining, correcting. But had she really tasted anything?
“So, the value of your music … is that it rewards the person paying attention?” Lan ventured.
“No … but paying attention is always a good start.”
Shizuka put her coffee down.
“So, Lan, will you please do so?”
And so, Lan listened, as best she could, not just to the sound of her voice, but to everything that Shizuka Satomi said. No, she couldn’t understand all of it. In fact, most of her words still did not make sense.
But she listened. And as Shizuka continued, Lan became more and more intrigued by what she did understand.
Shirley was right. This was not a simple planet.
After this, she’d go back to the shop. There would be fewer customers than yesterday. There would be another mediocre Yelp review.
But here, sipping this coffee and tasting these delicious sand wiches, just by listening to Shizuka talk about music, somehow Lan Tran felt neither alone nor hopeless at all.
* * *
“Again.”
Miss Satomi nodded to Astrid, who repeated the accompaniment. Ever since Katrina had gotten Aubergine back, her playing had become unsteady.
“Again.”
Dammit! The Astring had slipped a little. No, the string was fine—she’d simply missed the note. She knew where the note was, but it was not the note she wanted—what did she want?
“Again.”
What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she sing?
It was breakfast. Astrid served cold cuts, crusty breads, semisoft cheeses, and a soft-boiled egg in an eggcup. She had never seen an eggcup.
“Katrina, why do you play?” Miss Satomi asked.
Of course, her plan was to make more videos, post them, and get paid. But that was not what Miss Satomi meant.
She took a thoughtful pause, then, like a schoolchild trying to say the right answer, recited, “Because, when I play, I feel like I can be normal. The music doesn’t care who I am. My violin is just happy to be played.”
It had felt so safe then. So pure.
So full of bullshit.
Why play? To be safe?
Aubergine was wonderful, Miss Satomi was amazing, Miss Astrid made the best tangerine juice. With the recording studio, her videos were more professional and prettier than she could have dreamed.