The Ghost Sonata (2 page)

As she hastily gathered her belongings and stuffed them in her backpack, Wendy sensed the disquieting residue of the nightmare she had just experienced. She couldn't quite recall the details, but she felt as if she had just received an ominous warning.

2

The Piano Lesson

 

Waiting outside the front door of her piano teacher's house, Wendy clutched her sheet music and did her best to stifle the feeling of trepidation that often preceded her lessons.

“Windy! Come een; come een!” A petite, exquisitely dressed woman threw open the door and beamed at Wendy, her deep-set eyes framed by heavy, black eyeliner and a web of wrinkles.

Mrs. Mendelovich spoke with a Russian accent. She wore an ornate red scarf around her neck, and her silvery hair was slicked back tightly in a French twist, her perpetual hairstyle. She walked gracefully, with poker-straight posture, reminding Wendy of an aging ballerina.

Mrs. Mendelovich had converted her living room into a piano studio where two full-grand pianos filled the room like black racing cars in a garage.

“I haf wonderful news,” Mrs. Mendelovich declared as Wendy sat down at one of the pianos.

Wendy immediately felt nervous.

“Windy, my darling, your audition was a success! You haf been chosen to travel to Oxford, England, to compete in Young International Virtuosos Piano Competition!”

Wendy felt dizzy, as if she were suddenly peering down at Mrs. Mendelovich from a tightrope. The words “international virtuosos piano competition” seemed to soar with too much importance.

“Are you happy?”

“I guess.”

Wendy imagined how her parents would respond whey they learned the news. Her father's face would turn ever-so-slightly pink. He would come close to breaking into a huge, sloppy grin—a smile he would quickly control with a more appropriate, humble appreciation. Her mother would slyly post information about the competition next to her manicure station at the Happy Nails Salon so she could tell her clients all about her talented daughter who is “one of the best young piano players in whole country! Going to England!” Her parents would be thrilled. They would also nag her incessantly during the next few weeks to make sure she practiced enough.

“Wish to win,”
Wendy's mother would say.

“Play that spot again,”
her father would say, eavesdropping on her practice sessions.
“Sounds messy there. Do over. No, no. Still not right. Here, listen to how Lang Lang plays on this CD. You do enough times, you can be perfect, too.”

Wendy's father greatly admired the pianist Lang Lang, and he often enjoyed reminding Wendy how Lang Lang gave his first public recital at age five; how Lang Lang and his father had shared a tiny, cramped apartment and endured much suffering for the sake of Lang Lang's music studies in Beijing; how Lang Lang was so grateful to his family—his father in particular— that he allowed his father to perform with him in concert at Carnegie Hall.

“But Dad, even if I make it to Carnegie Hall someday, you won't be able to perform with me because you won't take any music lessons.”

“Too late for me,” said her father. “Too old now. Point is that Lang Lang is a great boy. A great son.”

“Sorry to be such a disappointing daughter.”

“You will surprise me,” he said. “There is greatness in you. Your mother and I have sacrificed much, and someday you will make us very proud.”

“Ming Fong and Gary weell also compete,” Mrs. Mendelovich continued, shaking Wendy from her reverie. “I am so ploud of all my very best students!”

Ming Fong was also in ninth grade, and her mother, Mrs. Chen, worked with Wendy's mother at the salon. Because the workplace friendship between the two women masked a thinly veiled competition, Wendy constantly heard about Ming Fong's achievements. Ming Fong made straight A's (“not a single A minus! Only A pluses!”). Ming Fong never wasted time watching television. Ming Fong always helped her parents cheerfully and expressed humble gratitude. Unlike Wendy, who was born in America, Ming Fong had come to America only a few years ago, but her English was excellent and she constantly helped her parents communicate with hospitals, schools, employers, and the Department of Motor Vehicles. Of the two girls, Wendy had won more piano competitions, but Ming Fong was hot on her heels, often placing second. It bothered Wendy that she often caught Ming Fong watching her, as if observing her behavior and calculating something—striving to either imitate or undermine the object of her ambition.

“Wow,” said Wendy, feeling at a loss for words as she imagined traveling to England with Ming Fong, Gary, and her piano teacher. “All three of us qualified for the competition?”

“They found the audition tapes of my students superb. This is gleat, gleat honor for me as well, being your teacher.”

Wendy sighed and tried to smile. She felt a great sense of honor and a greater sense of dread.

 

After her lesson, Wendy sat on Mrs. Mendovich's front porch, waiting for her mother to pick her up. A slate-gray January sky glowered overhead. Wendy watched as two young girls wearing parkas dragged a sled down the icy sidewalk, followed by a small dog. For some reason, she envied both the girls and the dog.

Wendy pulled her cell phone from her backpack and dialed Gilda's number.

“Gilda Joyce here.”

“Why do you answer the phone that way? You know it's me calling.”

“This is my business phone, Wendy. For all I know, it could be a client looking for help with a haunting. Anyway, I'm kind of busy right now.”

“What are you doing?”

“Watching a rerun of
Saved by the Bell.
”

Wendy wished she could sit down next to Gilda with a bag of potato chips and do absolutely nothing except watch a simpleminded television show that she had already seen several times before. Gilda always had multiple projects in the works, but she somehow also managed to prioritize things like watching television and reading books that had nothing to do with school. Of course, Gilda's grades were far less consistent than Wendy's straight-A average.

“If you can believe it,” said Wendy, feeling reluctant rather than excited to share her news, “I got into that piano competition I was telling you about.”

“The international one?”

“I'll be going to England in just a few weeks.”

There was a moment of silence at the other end of the line because Gilda was so excited, she jumped up from the couch and began to pace back and forth. “No way.”

“Way.”

“Then why aren't you jumping up and down and screaming? Wendy, this is
awesome
!”

Wendy wished she could share Gilda's enthusiasm. For some reason, she felt a lump rising in her throat—a strange homesickness. It reminded her of the feeling she had on the first day of summer camp.

“You are so lucky!”

“It isn't luck; I spent the whole year practicing.”

“That's true; you kept practicing even though I did the best I could to thwart you.” Gilda often called during Wendy's scheduled practice times to tell her what was on television or to encourage a “mental health” break. Occasionally, she turned up at Wendy's house uninvited and offered her services as a “live studio audience.”

“Wendy, I can't wait! You know how I've always wanted to go to England!” Gilda's many career goals currently included plans to become a novelist who lived in either a cramped, dimly lit London apartment or a grand English manor house filled with ghosts. Her published books would all be based on the bizarre and extremely dangerous mysteries she solved in real life.

“Gilda, I don't think this competition is going to provide free airfare for friends of mine who want to come along for the ride.”

“You can't possibly go without me, Wendy. That would just be
wrong.
”

“Believe me, I wish you could go, too. I just doubt your mom is going to pay for a plane ticket and hotel on such short notice. In fact, I doubt my parents will even be able to afford the trip right now; I'll be stuck traveling with Mrs. Mendelovich, Gary, and Ming Fong.”

“I'll think of
some
way to get there,” Gilda insisted. “If you're going all the way across the pond, you're going to need my help.”

“Why would I need your help?”

“You don't understand the English and their ways.”

“And you do?”

“I read novels, Wendy. I know all about tea and crumpets and bangers and mash, and all that stuff. For example, when you're in England and you need to find an elevator, you say, ‘Where's the lift?'”

“You're right. I can't possibly compete in a piano competition without knowing about English elevators and the history of tea and crumpets.”

“You'll also need someone to cheer you up between practice sessions. You know how grumpy you get.”

Wendy stood up because her mother's car was pulling into Mrs. Mendelovich's driveway. “Gilda, if it makes you happy to pretend you're traveling to Oxford with me, go right ahead.” Secretly, Wendy reflected that if there was anyone who
could
find a way to get herself to England on short notice, it would be Gilda.

3

A Dubious Plan

 

As Wendy practiced her scales and arpeggios, she did her best to ignore Gilda, who sat on the Choys' living room couch. Gilda, in turn, was doing her best to ignore the stack of untouched homework that sat next to her. Instead, she flipped through several books she had found at the library with titles like
A Photographic Tour of Oxford Colleges
and
“Spotted Dick”: An American's Guide to British Language.

“Get this, Wendy. In England, if you want to say that someone is totally crazy, you say, ‘She's gone doolally!' or ‘She's gone dotty and barmy!' And if you want to describe something that's way too girlie and cutesy, you call it ‘twee'!”

“Good words to know when I'm hanging out with you,” Wendy muttered as she continued to progress through her scales in a series of major keys.

“And listen to this, Wendy. If you feel like you're going to throw up, you could say, ‘Stand back, mates; I think I'm to park a custard!' Isn't that
great
?”

“Lovely. I can't wait to puke like an English person.” Wendy began running through the minor keys.

“I can't wait to start talking this way,” Gilda continued, half speaking to herself. “I can just see us in England—slurping tea, drinking warm beer, eating scones and clotted cream, driving on the wrong side of the road . . .”

Wendy abruptly stopped playing. “What are you talking about, Gilda? For one thing, we aren't old enough to have our licenses, and for another thing, you just told me yesterday that you missed the deadline for that study-abroad program you were thinking of. Why do you keep talking as if we're actually both going to England? At first it was cute, but it's beginning to seem like you're just in denial.” Wendy turned back to her series of scales.

“There's more than one way to get to England, Wendy. I'll figure something out.” Secretly, Gilda had to admit that Wendy had a point. At the moment, she had no feasible way of getting permission to leave school for a week, not to mention the expense of traveling overseas. But as she skimmed through photographs of medieval architecture with soaring spires, college students laughing in dim pubs, cobblestone streets lined with lampposts, and picnics in rose gardens, Gilda felt certain that she was meant to go to Oxford for some reason.
It isn't fair that Wendy gets to go and I don't
, she thought.
Wendy doesn't even seem excited!