“Good. Now, back up to the store, you two. Don’t you have jobs to do?”
Lan watched them running back to their posts. She shook her head and smiled. Family. She would cross a universe for her family.
In fact, she already had.
* * *
From what Astrid could gather, the house next to Miss Satomi’s had been owned by a Japanese family, then a Mexican family, and now a Chinese one.
Yet more than anything, this neighborhood reminded her of her childhood in Switzerland, of her grandmother bent over her carrots, peas, and asparagus. For whatever was parked in the driveway, whether VW or Toyota or Chevy or Mercedes, every family here seemed to have a grandmother, and every garden seemed to have vegetables.
Astrid had arrived a month before Miss Satomi to prepare the house. Luckily, Miss Satomi had retained a groundskeeper, so the persimmon tree was healthy, and the fishpond was fine.
But Miss Satomi’s garden had been woefully underused. And though Astrid was no grandmother, she would plant vegetables, as well. Turnips. Cabbage. Perhaps aubergines. If she started now, they would be ready by next year.
Then again, next year, would she or Miss Satomi even be here?
Astrid’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. On the porch were a bag of green beans and two bitter melons. Astrid waved to the old lady next door, who bowed and waved back.
Astrid looked at her newfound bounty. The beans she knew how to prepare, but bitter melon?
Grandma Strafeldas in Fribourg had never grown a bitter melon.
* * *
Los Angeles has days of blue sky, mountains, beach, eighty-two degrees, and palm trees all around. But LA truly becomes a paradise on those rare days with clear traffic, no obstacles, no accidents, just miles and miles of pure smooth road and any lane to choose.
However, Shizuka was not driving on one of those days.
A truck had lost a mattress just before the 605 interchange. The river of cars jostled her insides with stop and go, surge and swell.
Worst of all, the Queen of Hell had to pee.
Urine-filled water bottles litter the LA freeway system for good reason. The entire LA basin is filled with bathroom dead zones, often near industrial areas and freeways, where one cannot find public toilets.
Yet not everyone can urinate into a plastic water bottle.
At least there was a McDonald’s near the next exit. For now, Shizuka tried to concentrate on more pressing things.
Pressing. Okay, Satomi, bad choice of words.
Anyhow, the seventh. The seventh.
After Arcadia, Shizuka had received a second letter from Ellen Seidel, begging her to hear Tamiko Giselle Grohl once more, at the finals. Tremon Philippe had visited again, as well, needlessly reminding her that a musician with Tamiko’s gifts could be ready for world-class competition within a couple of months, if not sooner.
Even Astrid had voiced her concern. She recalled how long Miss Satomi had been searching, how exhausted she sounded when asking for miso soup, and that, even if Miss Grohl wasn’t perfect, might she not be enough?
Once her contract was settled, would Miss Satomi not have all the time in the world?
Shizuka yawned. She was almost over her jet lag, but not quite.
But even fully rested, could she ever make a demon like Tremon understand?
The Grohl girl was ready and willing. She said that she wanted to be just like Kiana Choi. She had played like it, as well. Every note the girl played had been an homage, a vow, a promise to give everything for a chance at recognition, at fame.
And then there was Astrid. Shizuka knew how much Astrid worried about her. Six times, Shizuka Satomi had taken brilliant but flawed talents, taken their souls for a curse and some lies. What was the harm in just one more?
How could Shizuka make them understand?
Of course. She couldn’t.
She wasn’t sure if she herself understood who the seventh was, what the seventh was. But even so, Shizuka Satomi could not let this student, this music, pass her by.
The seventh. Where was the seventh hiding? She could sense them, almost hear them.
And then Shizuka panicked.
She had been so deep in thought that McDonald’s, and its restroom, were already several exits behind her. Shizuka swerved around a pickup truck and a Lexus, rode the shoulder to the next off-ramp, and gunned her Jaguar off the exit. Desperately, frantically, Shizuka searched for a business with a restroom. But all she saw was residential street after residential street.
Damn these suburbs!
Then, in her rising sea of despair, she saw it. Peeking over from behind the trees was the Big Donut.
Of course!
Shizuka remembered the Big Donut from her childhood. She had never actually been inside—her parents had been strict about junk food, after all.