The Ghost Sonata (13 page)

As Julian struck the last notes of the “Pathetique,” the concert hall erupted into enthusiastic applause. “Encore!” someone yelled, and giggles rippled through the room.

Professor Waldgrave scowled at the audience like an elementary school teacher chaperoning a field trip. “Excuse me!” he said. “This is a
serious
piano competition, and that behavior is terribly common.”

The room immediately fell silent.

“This was an expressive performance, but there was a bit too much cheap drama for my taste. Closing your eyes, staring at the ceiling, throwing your hands up in the air unnecessarily; it all went out with Liberace and wearing white sequined tuxedos.”

“Not true,” muttered Professor Maddox.

“May I finish, Rhiannon? As I was saying, I felt as if I were listening to the warped sound track of a bad silent film—a film with no story. It was too fast. And call me old-fashioned, but there were simply too many wrong notes.”

What wrong notes?
Gilda wondered. There had been a tornado of notes, and they had all sounded great. She stifled an urge to blow raspberries at Professor Waldgrave.

“I completely disagree,” said Professor Maddox.

“How completely surprising.”

“Beethoven's ‘Pathetique' Sonata is one of the most overplayed classics in the repertoire, and this performer actually made me
want
to listen.”

Julian's face opened into a hopeful smile. Professor Waldgrave gazed up at the ceiling with exasperation.

“You did miss lots of notes, and that was a little distracting sometimes,” Professor Maddox continued, “but you understand how to communicate with your audience. You told a story with the music, and you made us want to listen to you.”

Professor Waldgrave mumbled something inaudible.

“What was that, Nigel?”

“I believe the word he used was
rubbish
,” said Julian from the piano.

The audience chuckled.

“Time's up, performer number ten,” said Professor Waldgrave. “On to the next performer, please.”

As Gilda watched Julian leave the stage, she pulled out her journal to scribble a quick travel diary entry for Mrs. Rawson. She wanted to make sure she gave her teacher as many educational, tantalizing, and creative details as possible about her trip, and Julian's music had suddenly inspired her to write:

15

Dead Man's Walk

 

Wait! Gilda!”

As Gilda headed toward Broad Street, she turned to see Julian walking behind her without a coat or umbrella, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched in the rain.

“Can I share that very pink umbrella with you?”

Gilda felt jittery with the surprise of Julian's presence. “Oh—sure.” She waited for him to catch up. “Here, want to carry it? You're taller.”

Julian took the umbrella and held it over both of them. “I've always wanted a pink umbrella but never had the nerve to buy one.”

“You're welcome to wear my hat, too.”

Julian placed Gilda's hat on his own head. “Now I look like a real Oxford student. ‘Oh,
this
hat?'” He mimicked a posh, lisping accent. “‘Just something Mummy sent for me to wear.'”

Several passersby regarded Julian with interest and subtle approval, assuming he must indeed be an eccentric, theatrical college student.

“Your performance was great,” said Gilda, immediately feeling that this comment didn't come close to capturing how much she truly admired the way Julian played piano. “I mean, you sounded amazing.”

“You stayed to hear me play?” Julian looked genuinely flattered.

“At first I went back into the building because I forgot my umbrella.”

“I should have known; I can't compete with a pink umbrella.”

“But then I loved that spooky music you were playing, so I stayed to hear the whole thing.”

“Spooky? Oh, you mean the Beethoven. Yeah, I guess it is kind of spooky. Old Waldgrave hated it, though.”

“He's wrong.”

“He's doolally and a nutter.”

“Why is he so mean?”

“I have no idea, but I'm sure you've heard what everyone suspects—that all of his judging decisions are made by his cat.”

“No way.”

“I'm completely serious. If the cat purrs, you get a high score. If the cat puts its ears back and twitches its tail, then you can kiss your chances good-bye.”

Gilda made a mental note to keep an eye on Professor Waldgrave's cat just in case there was any truth to this theory. What a scandal it would be if the winner of the Young International Virtuosos Competition was actually selected by a cat!

“So what do you think it means when Waldgrave's cat licks between its toes?” Gilda asked.

“I have no idea.”

“That's what it did during your performance.”

“That explains Waldgrave's critique, then. ‘Toe-licking is far too expressive!'” He mimicked Professor Waldgrave's officious tone. “‘We haven't seen toe-licking since the days of Liberace! '”

Gilda laughed. “I wonder if that cat really does make his decisions for him. I guess it's possible; my mom has a friend who claims she let her dog choose her boyfriend. She says it worked out better than usual.”

“Thinking of trying that for yourself, are you?”

“We don't have a dog.”

“Then I'll assume you don't have a boyfriend.” Julian grinned mischievously, and Gilda was annoyed to feel herself blushing.

“I recently broke up with someone,” Gilda fibbed. Being completely ignored by Craig Overcash could hardly be called a “breakup,” but for some reason she wasn't about to let Julian know that she had never had a boyfriend in her entire life. She felt eager to change the subject. “So—why do you think Professor Maddox and Professor Waldgrave hate each other so much?”

“Lover's quarrel.”

“You have to be joking.”

“No joke. I reckon they snogged in one of the practice rooms, and then everything went sour.”

“Ick. There's no way I can picture those two kissing.”

“You can never tell. Some people go for the balding, grumpy professor type.”

Gilda wondered whether the two judges had a relationship that went bad.
That would explain some of the cutting remarks
, she thought. “But if they're so mad at each other, how can they be fair judges?” she wondered aloud. “They'll always disagree with each other no matter what.”

“Exactly. Which brings us to the fact that nothing's ever fair in the end, so there's no point caring too much about the whole thing.”

Gilda was struck by how different this attitude was from the intensity with which Wendy, Ming Fong, and Gary viewed the competition. How could somebody with so much talent take such a nonchalant attitude toward the opportunity to win thousands of pounds and gain international recognition?

“You honestly don't even care whether or not you win?”

“I'm just doing this for a lark, really. My dad didn't want me to go at all.”

“Why not?”

Julian shrugged. “My dad, he's glad I have a hobby that keeps me off the streets and such, but he doesn't see what it's all leading to—all this sitting at an instrument for hours. He was a musician himself—playing in pubs and all around town, and it never really came to much. He installs toilets for a living now.”

“Oh.” Gilda thought this sounded like one of the worst jobs anyone could have.

“It's odd. Sometimes I almost get the feeling that he'll actually be disappointed if I prove him wrong—if I show him that I
could
make a career of music.”

Gilda remembered how her father had encouraged her to pursue her passion for writing, how he had given her the gift of his lucky manual typewriter before he died. He had never said anything like,
That's not a very practical career, Gilda. You'd be better off pursuing plumbing.
Of course, Gilda had no idea what her dad would have thought of her career as a psychic investigator.
That
interest had evolved only after his death.

“It was my piano teacher who actually convinced my parents to let me come down here and compete,” Julian explained. “I'm staying with some of my teacher's friends who live nearby. Oh, and I'll definitely be beaten to death if any of my friends ever discover that I traveled to Oxford with Mr. Goodwin for a piano contest.”

“There are some kids like that in my school, too. Only I'm not friends with them.”

“In Crawling, you don't get to pick your friends; you just fend off attacks.”

Gilda laughed, but she sensed a conflict in Julian—a hidden sadness. “For what it's worth, I think you could actually win this, Julian.”

“Well, thanks for saying that.”

“I
shouldn't
be saying that because I'm really rooting for Wendy. We've got big plans for the prize money.”

“Send some of it in my direction, then. Wendy's quite good; the nerves got to her a bit, though.”

“I know. I really should go try to find her and see how she's doing.”

But Gilda didn't want to leave Julian. They passed a sea of student bicycles leaning against the stone walls of Lincoln College, then wandered into the Covered Market—an indoor market filled with flower stands, butcher shops, vegetable and fruit displays, bakeries, and small cafés. Outside the butcher shops, the smell of cold sausages permeated the air. Rabbits and pheasants hung from their feet with fur and feathers still intact. Julian pointed to a window display featuring THE WORLD'S OLDEST HAM!—a dried, shriveled piece of meat.

“I'd fancy a posh lunch,” said Julian, staring at the dessicated ham.

“Me, too,” said Gilda, suddenly realizing that she was very hungry. “I'm starved for something posh and gooey, like macaroni and cheese.”

Julian laughed. “I was thinking more along the lines of something fancy and expensive. I've only got five quid at the moment, though, so I think we'll have to settle for Brown's Café here—unless you're secretly loaded with cash like any self-respecting American.”

“Sorry, I left my millions in the States.”

The two wandered into Brown's Café to order lunch.
This is almost like a real date
, Gilda thought, suddenly feeling self-conscious about the idea of eating with Julian.
I'm actually on a date with an English boy!

Gilda and Julian ordered sandwiches at the counter, then found a small table at the back of the café. A portly man plunked himself down at the table next to them and gobbled a plate of sausages while reading a book entitled
A History of Gastronomy.
He picked up a plastic container of mustard and squirted it loudly, then blew his nose into his napkin with a trumpeting sound. At the same moment, a shiny button burst from the waistband of the man's trousers and skittered across the floor, drawing the attention of several diners. Red-faced, the man glared at the button, which now lay on the other side of the room.
It isn't that funny
, Gilda told herself.
Don't laugh!
Nevertheless, she snorted with glee as Julian grinned and kicked her under the table.