The Ghost Sonata

by Allison, Jennifer

  Gilda wished she could switch seats with Wendy. Mrs. Mendelovich probably had lots of interesting stories about musicians who were “crazy in the head,” and that would at least be more interesting than being stuck between Ming Fong and Gary.

  It was difficult to hear Mrs. Mendelovich over the drone of the plane engine, so Gilda decided to eavesdrop on an English couple directly behind her instead. Maybe I’ll pick up some observations for my travel diary, she thought. Gilda had decided to make her diary as lively and interesting as possible for Mrs. Rawson, who had never been overseas in her entire life.

  “I couldn’t believe the portion sizes Americans have at restaurants,” the woman was saying. “I’d be a size one hundred if I stayed over here much longer. Absolutely ginormous amounts of food!”

  “No wonder they’re so fat with those ‘all-you-can-eat’ restaurants,” said the man.

  Gilda peeked over the edge of her seat to catch a glimpse of the couple. She noticed with satisfaction that both the man and the woman were slightly plump.

  Wendy did her best to pay attention to Mrs. Mendelovich’s stories, despite the unusual sensation of pressure in her head and a roaring in her ears like the sound of ocean waves. Was that the sound of her own blood pulsing through her body? She was intensely and painfully aware of being alive—aware of the fact that her fragile body was suspended in a clunky man-made machine thousands of miles above the ground. Maybe this is how it feels when you know you’re going to die at any minute, Wendy thought. She watched Mrs. Mendelovich’s lips moving and her expressive hands gesturing excitedly, and felt an intense desire to flee her surroundings. The problem was, there was nowhere to go.

  Wendy gasped as the plane suddenly hit something with a loud BUMP! Everything shook violently, and the passengers around her collectively caught their breath.

  The plane dropped abruptly, as if its ability to fly had been a mere dream—as if gravity had just remembered to pull the ridiculously precarious metal container filled with people down, down toward the earth.

  7

  The Arrival

  8

  Wyntle House

  Rolling their suitcases along in weary silence, Gilda, Wendy, Gary, and Ming Fong followed Mrs. Mendelovich from the bus station at Gloucester Green, down Walton Street, and past the imposing stone walls of Worcester College toward Wyntle House—the guesthouse where they would be staying in Oxford. In the early-morning quiet of the city, their suitcases rumbled loudly against the sidewalk.

  Walking under a sky so low it seemed that she might reach up and touch the gray, hanging clouds, Gilda reflected that the morning felt lonely, but in a strangely good way. In her imagination, the bleak, dreary weather gave the day an appealing “murder mystery” atmosphere. After all, here she was in England—about to have an adventure—far, far away from the tedious lives of people like Craig Overcash and his disappointing girlfriend. Gilda decided that she pitied them. She imagined that she was an English detective who had been invited to visit Oxford to solve a difficult case. Her name was Penelope Stunn.

  Gilda glanced at Wendy and noticed the pinched expression on her face. “What’s the matter? You aren’t still thinking about that tarot card reading, are you?”

  “Not exactly. You know that weird feeling you get—like when you feel like you’re reexperiencing something that already happened?”

  “You have déjà vu?”

  “Everything here looks so weirdly familiar to me.”

  “Maybe you’re just remembering a picture you saw in a brochure.”

  Wendy shook her head. “It’s different than remembering a picture.” She had the overwhelming feeling that she had actually been in Oxford walking down this very street before.

  “Hey, maybe you’re having a memory of a past life.” Gilda wasn’t sure whether she actually believed in reincarnation, but she liked the idea that people might have more than one chance at life—an opportunity to try out different identities. “Maybe you were English in one of your former lives,” she suggested. “Maybe you were a scholar here at the university during the Dark Ages!”

  “Probably why I remember this paved road and the sidewalk and these little cars so clearly—from my life here during medieval times.”

  Gary and Ming Fong seemed deaf to this discussion of past lives. Their blank, exhausted expressions concealed vague terror at finding themselves in a foreign country where they would have to play the piano at the best of their abilities in a matter of hours.

  Mrs. Mendelovich, in contrast, was energized by her arrival in Oxford. When the plane landed, she had quickly powdered her nose, grabbed her purse, and practically danced through the airport toward customs. As she clipped along in her high-heeled, sling-back shoes, it seemed that the closer she got to the piano competition, the more energy she had.

  The group followed a long row of terraced Victorian houses with tall, pointy roofs, until they reached one with a mauve awning from which a basket of wilted pansies dangled next to a sign for WYNTLE HOUSE.

  Mrs. Mendelovich rapped on the door, and a small dog inside the house immediately responded with loud, yapping barks. A moment later, a bleary-eyed elderly woman opened the door and peered at the group. “I expect you’re the piano people, then?”

  “I am Mrs. Mendelovich, and these are my students,” Mrs. Mendelovich declared with exaggerated formality. “We are here from America for Young International Virtuosos Competition!”

  “Right. I’m Maggie Luard. Come in; we’ve been expecting you.” Mrs. Luard spoke with a hoarse, deep voice that was nearly as low as a man’s. She didn’t seem particularly impressed with the notion of a group of young American pianists coming to stay at Wyntle House.

  I bet musicians and scholars from all over the world turn up at her doorstep every week, Gilda thought. Maybe she lost interest in them years ago.

  As the group entered Wyntle House the tiny, yipping dog broke into more high-pitched, joyous barks. Mrs. Luard didn’t seem to notice as the dog released a tiny trickle of pee on the carpet.

  “If you need anything, just ask me or my son, Danny, who works here with me. I wish there was a piano here in the house, but I imagine they’ll have you set up with practice rooms in the colleges. Now, I hope you lot are feeling energetic, because most of your rooms are at the very top of the stairs on the fourth floor, and there is no lift. Miss Piano Teacher, your room is a bit lower—on the third floor.” Mrs. Luard handed everyone their room keys. “The front door is most often open during the day, and breakfast is served from seven o’clock in the morning. You can have a full English breakfast or just help yourselves to milk, juice, and cereal downstairs.”

  Heaving their luggage up a few steps at a time, the group climbed a seemingly endless series of narrow staircases. Gilda marveled that each time she was certain that they must have reached the top floor of the house, she discovered yet another, more narrow flight of stairs cloaked in worn, mauve carpeting.

  When they reached the third floor, Mrs. Mendelovich hurried to unlock her room. “I must leave now to attend a meeting of piano teachers,” she said. “Remember, don’t be late for drawing of numbers at the Music Faculty Building! Please, walk together and look at maps!”

  Gilda realized with happy surprise that they might be very much on their own in Oxford. They had only just arrived, and Mrs. Mendelovich was already trusting them to find their way through the city independently. Not only that; Gilda would have her own room in the guesthouse with her very own key! This trip might be even more exciting than I imagined, she thought.

  Mrs. Mendelovich disappeared into her room, and the four young people continued trudging up the last flights of stairs.

  “I guess you girls won’t need to do your butt crunches this week,” Gary joked, huffing as he heaved his suitcase up the remaining steps.

  “Some of you boys still need to do some, though,” Wendy mumbled.

  “What did you say, Wendy?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

 
“Butt crunches!” Ming Fong blurted a bit hysterically, apparently feeling liberated in the absence of Mrs. Mendelovich. “Crunchy butts!”

  Gilda turned to look down at Ming Fong, who was several feet behind on the staircase. “Ming Fong, don’t forget we’re here representing the United States, so we need to help our country’s bad reputation by behaving with some decorum. Oh, and remember to curtsy when you meet English people next time.”

  “What does ‘curtsy’ mean?” Ming Fong asked.

  “People don’t curtsy unless they’re meeting royalty, do they?” Gary asked.

  “Gary, it’s most important that you curtsy whenever you meet new people here in England as well. Every English boy must have a proper curtsy.”

  “What is ‘curtsy’?” Ming Fong repeated.

  “It’s like a special kind of bowing,” Gilda explained, “only much cuter.”

  “Oh,” said Ming Fong thoughtfully. “We curtsy before we play piano in England?”

  “No,” said Wendy sharply. “Taking a bow is plenty.”

  “Oh, I get it. Gilda is silly again,” said Ming Fong. “Crazy Gilda!”

  On the fourth floor, Gilda opened the creaking door to room number twelve. She found a single bed; a tiny sink and mirror; a small, drafty window with old curtains that resembled dish towels; a tiny television; a kettle for making tea; a writing desk; and a wooden dresser. There was also a bookshelf crammed with novels left by previous guests, along with a handful of Oxford guidebooks and some textbooks with titles like Linear Geometry that looked very dry. The mauve carpeting was stained and both the attic ceiling and the floor were slanted. Gilda felt chilled, as if thin, ghostly fingers of air had just crept through a crack in the old window and slipped under her clothes. All in all, it was a tiny, depressing room in a decaying old house, but Gilda didn’t mind because it was exactly the kind of sparse, lonely room that Penelope Stunn would choose to stay in while she worked to solve her murder case.

  Gilda immediately opened her suitcase, placed her manual typewriter on the desk, and rolled in a piece of paper to begin the next installment of her travel diary.

  Sitting on her bed in room number nine, Wendy could not match Gilda’s enthusiasm for Wyntle House. She knew that, above all, she should be grateful that she had some privacy; she easily could have been stuck sharing a room with Ming Fong. But something about the room felt unlucky—possibly even dangerous. At home, Wendy often challenged her mother’s penchant for strategically positioning furniture and placing “good-luck objects” in various corners of the house. “Seriously, Mom,” she would say, “how can putting an object in a particular spot actually affect your life?”

  “Energy flow,” her mother always replied. “Flow of good or bad energy. For example: sharp object pointing at you—very bad, like knives.”

  It was easier to be skeptical at home. Alone in England, she found the feng shui nightmare of her room in Wyntle House genuinely disturbing. She was painfully aware of the sharp rectangular shapes of virtually every object in the room pointing at her like daggers, the unfavorable placement of the bed, the sickly light blue and white colors that surrounded her on the curtains, bedspread, and wallpaper. The room seemed to be extending an invitation to bad luck.

  Wendy opened her suitcase and unfolded the red silk dress her mother had given her. It clashed vibrantly with the demure, drab room. Suddenly overwhelmed by homesickness, Wendy found silent tears welling up as she thought of her mother innocently offering a red dress as a good-luck charm. Her mother had no clue that her daughter might literally be traveling into a nightmare.

  I want to go home, Wendy thought. The idea surprised her in its simplicity. For a brief moment, it seemed almost possible. After all, there might still be time to avoid the doom that might be awaiting her here in England. She could simply call her parents, ask them to change her return ticket, and her mother would pick her up at the airport. At home, she would be safer from the nightmares—from the unknown force that seemed to be hovering near her, drawing closer with each day.

  Wendy imagined the phone conversation that would ensue if she actually did call her mother.

  “Mom? It’s me.”

  “Wendy? You okay?”

  “I’m . . .” She wouldn’t be able to talk. She would burst into fresh tears.

  “Wendy! You in trouble?”

  “I—I want to come home.”

  A long silence would follow.

  “Mom? Are you there?”

  “Wendy! What is problem?”

  “I want to come home.”

  “Win competition first; then come home.”

  “I’m just so homesick, or something. Nothing feels right.”

  “I raise a crybaby? Be strong! Wish to win! Fong not call her mother and say, ‘Waa! Want to go home.’ Ming Fong is brave. I raise a crybaby.”

  “You don’t understand. I feel like I might actually be in danger.”

  “Stay in practice room where you belong, and be safe. Wear good-luck charms.”

  No, there was no way around it. Wendy decided she would simply have to be brave and face her nightmares on her own.

  9

  The Drawing of Numbers

  Gilda and Wendy walked down St. Aldate’s Street, past the soaring spires of Christ Church College and finally to the modern stone building that housed Oxford University’s music faculty and practice rooms.

  A white-haired man greeted them at the door and pointed to the Dennis Arnold Hall, where the drawing of numbers would take place.

  The room buzzed with anxiety and excitement. Students, teachers, and parents glanced at one another, subtly attempting to discern who might pose the most serious competition. Gilda observed some bespectacled, rumpled-looking boys and a group of girls who dressed in neat skirts, Mary Jane shoes, and little cashmere gloves—girls who wore their long hair slicked back in ponytails and who clutched their music books to their chests. Probably English boys and girls, she told herself. There were also a few girls who slouched at the back of the room wearing low-slung jeans tucked into knee-high boots, as if they had just strolled into the Music Faculty Building from a day of shopping on High Street. A small group of exuberant boys speaking in boisterous Italian wore tracksuits, as if ready to warm up for an athletic event. Gilda spied Mrs. Mendelovich at the front of the room, enthusiastically embracing a plump balding man who kissed her on both cheeks.

  Several people eyed Gilda with unconcealed curiosity because her netted “travel hat” was impossible to ignore. They probably think I’m an eccentric English pianist, she thought. A lanky teenage boy whose dark, shaggy hair framed his strikingly pale face slouched against a wall and watched her with particular interest.

  Gilda smiled brightly and cracked her knuckles. “Can’t wait to get up there and play me Rach Three!” she declared loudly in what she hoped was a Yorkshire accent. She knew Rachmaninoff ’s Third Piano Concerto was supposed to be among the most difficult works for the piano.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Wendy whispered.

  “I’m psyching out our competition.”

  “You’re acting weird. Everyone’s staring at you.”

  “They’re just freaking out because I mentioned the Rach Three.”

  Wendy didn’t have a chance to reply because a frumpy woman who stood at the front of the room, suddenly commanded everyone’s attention.

  “I want to welcome everyone to the fifth annual Young International Virtuosos Piano Competition!” she announced. “My name is Frieda Heslop; I’m a fellow of New College, and one of the organizers of this year’s competition. I must say, we’re very pleased indeed to have the competition return to Oxford University this year, and I trust you will have an inspiring experience in this very musical city. We are very pleased to have two eminent musicians as our jurors: Professors Nigel Waldgrave and Rhiannon Maddox. They may offer some brief verbal suggestions and comments following your first performance in the tradition of a master class—something that I think
you’ll all find beneficial. Finally, the famous Professor Eugene Winterbottom will also be one of our judges in the final round. As you well know, the standards to qualify for the competition are rigorous, so if you’ve made it here, you should already give yourself a nice pat on the back.”

  Gilda gave Wendy an ironic little pat on the back, and Wendy rolled her eyes.

  “And as the teachers in the room should be aware, the judges are not given the names or nationalities of performers until the conclusion of the competition. You will now draw a number, which you will keep for the preliminary and sight-reading rounds of the competition. Ten finalists will redraw prior to the final round, which will be held in the Sheldonian Theater. The number you draw will determine the order of performers and, of course, your performance times. So—fingers crossed, and hope for your lucky number!”

  Polite murmurs rippled through the room as Professor Heslop picked up a straw hat that was resting upside down on one of the grand pianos. “When I call your name, please come to the front of the room and draw your performance number from the hat.”

  Gilda and Wendy watched as a series of piano students walked to the front of the room, drew a piece of paper from the hat, and then walked back to their seats with inscrutable expressions.

  “Try to draw a high number,” Gilda whispered. “That way, they’ll remember you at the end of the competition. But not too high, otherwise, the judges will be bored and might not be listening anymore. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t draw number one. Whoever draws number one can forget it.”

  “Thanks,” said Wendy drily. “You’re a huge help.”

  “If you concentrate on the number you want, you might actually get it.”