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 al
l 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.
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.”
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“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.”
The Ghost Sonata Page 8
