The Ghost Sonata (15 page)

After adjusting the bench and running some scales and arpeggios, Wendy turned on the tape recorder and took a deep breath before beginning the Mozart Fantasy in D Minor.
I know this piece backward and forward
, she told herself.
Why did I get lost?

She played through the music from beginning to end, then began once more. As she played, she began to question her interpretation of the music.

“Try to tell a story with the music,”
Professor Maddox had urged.

“Play the piece the way Mozart would want it played,”
Professor Waldgrave had argued.

But what is the story?
Wendy wondered.
And how should I know how Mozart would play it?

Wendy stopped playing for a moment and stared into a shaft of sunlight that streamed through a tiny, dirty window, illuminating flecks of lint floating languidly in the air. An answer came to her:
Mozart is telling you about something he dreads. He's telling you he
knows
he's going to die.

Wendy had no idea
how
this answer popped into her mind, but she began to play the piece again, and this time, she heard the somber tolling of a bell and the echo of a funeral march from within the piano music. She understood now that the bright, major sections of this piece were just
memories
of happy times—ghosts of laughter and dancing that would soon vanish. She remembered that Mozart had died young, struck down by illness. Had he experienced a premonition of his own death? As she played, she had a heightened awareness of the fragility of her own life—a sense of the many fleeting memories that had already disappeared.

When she reached the end of the music, Wendy sat very still, listening to the overtones that hovered in the air for a moment, like a rainbow of sound.
That's it
, she thought.
That's what the judges wanted.

Goose bumps ran down her arms and legs as she felt the soft touch of a hand on the back of her neck. It was as if someone else in the room was offering a tiny gesture of approval.

Wendy quickly turned to look behind her, but she was alone in the room.
Did that really just happen, or am I going crazy?

She suddenly remembered reading about a boy who developed schizophrenia—a disease that made him hear voices and see things that weren't really there.
But I can't be schizophrenic
, Wendy told herself.
I'm Wendy Choy—a smart, rational person who's in control of her life.

As if mocking her, the melody in A minor entered her mind again, interrupting her thoughts with maddening persistence.

“Okay,” Wendy said aloud to whomever might be listening. “You win.”

Wendy slowly placed her right hand on the keyboard and began to sound out the notes of the melody that haunted her. She was beginning to feel convinced that
somebody
desperately wanted her to play this music.

18

Professor Sabertash and the Tarot

 

Gilda walked down Broad Street and into Blackwell's Bookshop, where she immediately began perusing texts devoted to ghosts and English hauntings. As she scanned the shelves, Gilda noticed a book that caught her interest entitled
The Oxford Guide to the Tarot
by Alphonse Sabertash. She opened the book and began to read:

 

Gilda flipped through several more chapters until she found an image of the card Wendy had received—the Nine of Swords. She saw that it was from a deck of cards created by the artist Elizabeth Gill.

 

Intrigued, Gilda flipped to the end of the book in search of some information about the book's author.

Professor Sabertash lives right here in Oxford!
Gilda thought with excitement.
I bet he'd have some insights about the tarot card Wendy received.

Without wasting a moment, Gilda turned to a clean sheet of paper in her notebook and began to write very quickly:

Gilda decided she would stop by Merton College and drop off her letter on her way to the Music Building to find Wendy. She carefully folded her note and addressed it to Professor Sabertash's attention:

19

The Voice

 

Wendy turned off the tape recorder as Gilda burst into the practice room and tossed her hat on top of the piano. “So!” Gilda brushed a lock of limp, rain-bedraggled hair from her eyes. “What's different about me?”

Wendy scrutinized Gilda. Her cheeks looked happily flushed. Her hair hung in messy, windblown waves, and mud coated the toes of her shoes. It was obvious Gilda had been outside having some sort of interesting experience or adventure—an experience completely opposite of Wendy's own afternoon in the practice room. “Your eyes look kind of glassy,” said Wendy with a note of irritation in her voice. “Maybe you're fighting a cold or something.”

“I'm in love!” Gilda twirled around in a little pirouette. Somehow, between reading the book about tarot cards and walking down Dead Man's Walk to St. Aldate's Street, she had convinced herself to forget about the little argument she had with Julian.

Wendy stared. “Not with that weird English boy.”

“What do you mean, ‘weird'? You said Julian was cute.”

“No, I didn't.”

“You
pinched
me.”

“He was okay.”

“You
definitely
thought he was cute.”

“Okay—so he's cute.”

“And you should hear him play the piano! I've never heard anyone play the piano like that; it was like being at a concert . . .”

Something in Wendy's face seemed to close, and Gilda realized too late that she had stuck her foot in her mouth. “I mean, he doesn't play as well as
you
, but he's pretty good.”

“If he plays better than me, he plays better than me,” Wendy snapped. “I gave him an easy act to follow, that's for sure.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Waldgrave was even tougher on him than he was on you.”

Wendy shrugged. “I'm just glad that one of us is having a good time in England.”

“Wendy, I would have done something fun with
you
, but you said you wanted to practice.”

“I know.” Wendy sighed and rummaged through her bag in search of a book of music.

“You know,” said Gilda, now staring at the back of Wendy's head, “if
you
were the one who had just told
me
that you were in love, I'd be excited for you. I'd want to hear every detail.”

“Oh, really? When I had a boyfriend at music camp, I recall a letter from you telling me to ‘spend more time practicing my instrument.'”

“Oh.” Gilda had forgotten about this. “Well, that was because you described him as ‘a chubby boy who plays trumpet.' I was just looking out for you.”

“Whatever.”

“Plus, you made it sound as if the two of you were French-kissing in public all over the place. I didn't want you to get a bad reputation.”

Wendy pushed the REWIND button on the tape recorder. “Okay.” Wendy sighed. “Tell me about Julian. Did you actually
talk
to him?”

“What do you mean? Of course I talked to him!”

“I'm just asking because of the whole Craig Overcash saga back at home. In your mind, you were practically married to him, but I don't think the two of you ever talked for more than thirty seconds.”

“I did a tarot card reading for Craig that took exactly six minutes and thirty-two seconds.”

“He obviously was your boyfriend.”

“Why are you being so snotty?”

Wendy rubbed her temples. “Sorry. I guess this has been a bad day.”

“You need a vacation—maybe a trip to a foreign country or something.”

“You're a funny person, Gilda.”

“Thank you.”

“Actually, I really need to use all my reserved time in this practice room. This is the best piano in the building, and I just tape-recorded a bunch of music I want to play back.”

“Great!” Gilda sat down in a plastic chair in the corner. “Let's hear it.”

Wendy pressed the PLAY button, and the practice room filled with the Mozart D Minor Fantasy. Gilda and Wendy listened to the entire piece in silence. The music sounded different from Wendy's performance earlier in the day, almost as if someone else were playing.