The Ghost Sonata (12 page)

Wendy breathed a sigh of relief as she concluded the Bach without a memory lapse or major stumble.

Her second piece—the Mozart D Minor Fantasy—was more simple and exposed than the fast-paced Bach. A mournful melody in the right hand alternated with chords in the lower register—like an orchestra that plunged the music into darkness before the return of a single, poignant voice. Mrs. Mendelovich had worked with Wendy to perfect every detail of this delicate, sensitive music, hoping that the piece would showcase Wendy's ability to play “at a more mature level.” All the other kids would stick with music that featured what Mrs. Mendelovich called “big technique”; Wendy would stand out by demonstrating her more sophisticated artistry—her ability to control moments of silence as well as the notes themselves.

Usually, when Wendy performed the Mozart Fantasy, she heard her teacher's voice in her head, guiding her through the music—
“Soft here; steady!”
and
“Build now! Crescendo!”
But Mrs. Mendelovich's voice did not come to her this time. Instead, there was another voice she didn't recognize—the maddening intrusion of that dream-melody in A minor.

She missed a note. It wasn't a subtly missed note; the dissonant sound was like a sudden stab wound in the middle of the music. Wendy was so surprised, she actually stopped playing for a moment.

Oh no, Wendy!
Gilda thought, struggling to keep from standing up in her chair and running to Wendy's aid.
Whatever you do, keep playing, keep playing, keep playing!

A snowdrift of silence settled across the concert hall.

Where was she in the music? Wendy realized with horror that she was
lost.
She glanced into the audience and saw the judges watching her expectantly. Was it her imagination, or was a
cat
also sitting on the table watching her?

“I'm sorry,” said Wendy, her small, clear voice carried by perfect acoustics up to the highest levels of the performance hall. “Would it be okay if I started over?”

Gilda couldn't believe what she was seeing. This sort of thing simply didn't happen to Wendy. Everyone knew that Wendy
never
caved under pressure. In fact, Gilda had come to regard Wendy as virtually invincible when it came to any kind of performance, whether it was a math quiz, a school talent show, or an international competition. She did her best to send Wendy a thought message:
Stay calm. Forget everyone is looking at you. You can do it; you can do it; you can do it....

Time itself seemed to stand still as Professor Maddox stood up and walked toward the piano holding the copy of Wendy's sheet music. The pointy heels of her witch's shoes hit the wooden floor like the beat of a steady metronome. The audience rustled and whispered in the upper benches as Professor Maddox pointed to the measure where Wendy had lost her way. Wendy took a deep breath and lifted her hands to the keyboard again. This time, she made her way through to the end of the piece, but she felt as if she were the last person limping across a finish line in a marathon.

Polite, sympathetic applause welled from the audience. Gilda bit her fingernails on Wendy's behalf. What would Professor Waldgrave say to her after such a noticeable memory slip?

The judges looked at each other for a moment, as if sharing some private, sad memory. “Shall I go first this time?” Professor Maddox asked.

Professor Waldgrave nodded, covering his mouth with a tight fist.

“The Mozart is a deceptively difficult piece,” said Professor Maddox. “You did remarkably well until you lost your way. Believe me, it happens to the best of us at one time or another.”

Wendy attempted to smile ruefully. She wished that Professor Maddox wouldn't say nice things that made her want to burst into tears.
Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry,
she kept telling herself. It was bad enough to botch her performance. The only thing that would make it worse would be crying onstage in public.

“You have good technique and a very expressive playing style, but I didn't feel I was really hearing
you
playing, it was as if part of you was somewhere else. Try to tell a
story
with the music—convey some of your own feelings.”

Somewhere behind Wendy's eyes a wall of tears was rising, threatening to leak out. So far, she held back what felt like an imminent flood.

It was Professor Waldgrave's turn to speak. “Try not to get so nervous,” he said gruffly.

The musicians in the audience tittered.

“I'm serious,” Professor Waldgrave continued. “Getting nervous means that you're thinking about
yourself
too much. Stop thinking about yourself, and start thinking about
Mozart.
”

“That was a bit rude,” said Professor Maddox.

“Excuse me, Rhiannon; I'm not finished.”

Wendy actually felt grateful for this hostile exchange; it surprised her enough to make her momentarily forget her imminent tears.

Gilda leaned forward, suddenly very curious about the relationship between the two competition judges.
They obviously loathe each other
, she thought.
But why?

“In my opinion,” Professor Waldgrave continued, “you should work on playing the piece the way
Mozart
would want it played instead of infusing it with adolescent emotion. But of course, Ms. Maddox and I disagree on that front, amongst others.”

“Yes,” said Professor Maddox. “We disagree completely.”

“The Bach was quite good, actually,” Professor Waldgrave continued, “but the Mozart needs work. You weren't listening to yourself as you played. Want to know a little secret that can teach you more than any piano teacher ever will?”

Wendy nodded and did her best to avoid glancing in Mrs. Mendelovich's direction.

“Two words.
Tape recorder.
You'll hear yourself and say, ‘No, that
can't
be me. I don't sound like
that
!' Well, that
is
how you sound. So once you know how you
really
sound, you can start improving. Thank you very much, number nine.”

“Thank you,” Wendy murmured. She stood up and bowed apologetically.

As Wendy left the stage, she felt grateful for one thing: her parents had not been there to witness her public humiliation.

14

Julian's Performance

 

Hey, wait! Wendy!” Gilda caught up with Wendy just as she slipped out the front door of the Holywell Music Room.

Wendy regarded Gilda with a stone-faced expression. “Thank God my parents weren't here.”

“I'd like to see
them
get out there and play in front of all those people.”

This only made Wendy more upset. She turned and sat down on the wet steps that led to the front door of the building, her head buried in her arms. Gilda sat next to her under a steady drizzle of rain that coated their hair and clothes with a fine mist. “Do you want my hat? I just remembered I left my umbrella inside.”

“No. I don't want to wear your stupid hat!”

“None of this is the hat's fault, Wendy.”

Wendy reburied her face in the crook of her arm.

“I know nothing I say right now will help,” Gilda ventured, “but I honestly think the judges were seriously impressed with you. I mean, aside from that one little glitch—”

“You mean the gaping
silence
in the middle of the music?”

“But
before
that, I was watching the judges, and even Professor Waldgrave looked seriously
interested.
” This was actually true. Both professors had stopped scribbling with their pens and looked at Wendy as if they were genuinely intrigued with
something
about her performance.

“Well, it won't be enough to get me into the final round after this. I can't believe it's already all over.”

“It's never over until the fat lady sings.”

“Whatever that means.”

“There's still the sight-reading competition tomorrow, and that could really bring up your score. Plus, I'll be right up there with you to keep you company and help you look good onstage.”

Wendy stared at the entrance to New College across the street, where a plump porter argued about something with a small group of tourists. “I can honestly say that I've never had nerves like that before in my whole life.”

“Tomorrow we're going to set about five alarm clocks and get you up in time for your ritual, okay?”

“I'm not sure that was the
real
problem.” Wendy dug through her music bag, found a wad of tissue, and blew her nose.

“Was it that tarot card that turned up in your room?”

“Maybe.” Wendy hesitated, watching the tourists walk glumly down Holywell Street after being thwarted from entering the college. The porter retreated through the arched wooden doorway. “I was just wondering...did you hear anything strange in the house last night?”

“Like what?” Gilda felt a strong tickle in her left ear as she remembered the vision of the boy's face that she had seen in her room. She had purposefully avoided mentioning it to Wendy before her performance, but now she wondered whether Wendy had also perceived something out of the ordinary.

“I heard piano music in the middle of the night.”

“But Mrs. Luard said she doesn't own a piano.”

“I know. And there was something really odd about the music,” Wendy continued. “It seemed to shift around—almost like a piano was floating from room to room.”

Gilda decided it was time to tell Wendy about the apparition she had seen. “Wendy, I think Wyntle House might be haunted.” Leaning closer, she spoke in a low voice. “I didn't hear the piano music, but I'm pretty sure I saw a
ghost
in my room.”

“You've got to be kidding. You saw a ghost and didn't rush into my room to tell me?”

“I thought you needed your sleep.”

Wendy looked skeptical. “Are you sure you weren't dreaming—or seeing shadows on the wall or something?”

“Are you sure
you
weren't dreaming about the piano music? After all, you are in a piano competition and you're totally stressed.”

“I was awake when I heard it.”

“I was awake when I saw a ghost.”

The girls were distracted by Mrs. Mendelovich's voice from the entranceway of the Holywell Music Room. “This is Ming Fong—my prize student!” Mrs. Mendelovich and Professor Heslop stood in the doorway with Ming Fong between them.

“She certainly performed brilliantly today,” said Professor Heslop.

“How annoying,” Gilda whispered, sensing Wendy's irritation.

Wendy shrugged. “I don't give a crap.” But in truth, she did care. In all the years she had studied with Mrs. Mendelovich, she had never once let her piano teacher down. In fact, she had always played
better
at public performances than she did at her piano lessons. “Windy always rises to the occasion!” Mrs. Mendelovich always bragged. “Tough as nails! Handles pressure like a true concert soloist.”

“Hey,” said Gilda, hoping to distract Wendy from the awkward situation, “why don't we go do some sightseeing?”

“Not now,” said Wendy, hurrying to stand up. “I'm going to go buy a tape recorder like Professor Waldgrave suggested. I want to know how I
really
sound.”

“You sound great, Wendy. Let's go have some tea and scones.”

“I just really need to be alone right now, okay?”

“But—”

Wendy abruptly fled down the steps just before Mrs. Mendelovich and Ming Fong approached, smiling and laughing. Ming Fong beamed with pride as she sprung open her black umbrella. Neither of them noticed Gilda sitting on the step or Wendy disappearing around the corner as they made their way toward Holywell Street.

 

Gilda walked back into the concert hall to retrieve her umbrella and discovered Julian onstage performing. As he concluded his first piece—Chopin's “Fantasie Impromptu”—and launched into Beethoven's “Pathetique” Sonata, Gilda found herself fascinated and unable to leave.

Julian's performance style was highly dramatic; he threw away notes with big flourishes. Gilda loved the anxious, melodramatic, slightly
spooky
sound of the music by Beethoven, which reminded her of someone tiptoeing down a dark hallway where ghosts lurked in the corners. Then—suddenly—there was a chase scene, as if a ghost or monster were in close pursuit.

He seems to be having fun out there
, Gilda thought. She noticed that Professor Maddox smiled happily as she listened. Next to her, Professor Waldgrave frowned and squinted through his glasses, as if shielding himself from Julian's exuberant performance. On the table, Professor Waldgrave's cat concentrated on licking between its splayed hind toes.