Light From Uncommon Stars(109)

And then the competition began.

Unlike whatever was happening out front, the area in the back remained subdued. In fact, the only indications the competition was underway were the muffled noises from the crowd and the two large-screen, closed-circuit monitors in the corner that no one was watching.

Other than that, people fidgeted, texted, paced back and forth, went to the viewing or practice area, or complained, to anyone who would listen, how no real competition would be run this way.

Katrina shrugged, then glanced at Mr. Tso’s envelope.

What was real, anyway?

One by one, a musician’s name was called to get ready. One by one, someone came in to take them away. One by one, they disappeared.

And then it was her turn.

Katrina was led to an area just offstage. She picked up Aubergine and kissed her. “In all of this, you’ve been innocent. I’m sorry.”

Katrina reached for the dogwood bow. She wasn’t afraid of it. She didn’t hate it. In a way, it was just as helpless as she was. And besides, it was with this bow that she would set Miss Satomi free.

The announcer began her introduction.

“You may have seen our next musician’s videos—if you are into that sort of thing. Performing a medley of gaming music, please welcome transgender activist and violinist, Katrina Nguyen.”

With Aubergine and the dogwood bow, Katrina Nguyen walked onto the stage.

Crass. Tasteless.

This had been like no competition Shizuka had been part of. Why even mention her being transgender? The girl was here to be a musician—why couldn’t they have just said her name and let her perform? The audience was already beginning to snicker.

And then, Shizuka Satomi noticed that Katrina held a dogwood bow.

WHAT?

She’s made her choice, Shizuka. There’s nothing you can do, except enjoy the performance, the voice of Tremon said in her head.

As if to underscore Shizuka’s helplessness, the announcer kept going.

“Before you start,” the announcer said, “you look great. I mean there’s no way that I would ever have the guts to come onstage in a dress like that.”

The audience laughed as if this were the funniest thing in the world.

Katrina shrugged and smiled innocently. “It’s really not so different from sex work.”

The laughter stopped. There was muttering and uncomfortable shifting as Katrina turned to the crowd.

What had Miss Satomi said?

There are a lot of different ways to fuck on camera. Or onstage.

The stage lights were far brighter than they were in the park. There was no way her eyes would adjust; she’d be facing a wall of darkness the entire time.

Whatever. She didn’t need to see their faces to know what they wanted. The crowd wanted to be entertained. Mr. Tso wanted her body. And Tremon Philippe wanted her soul. And what did she want?

A glass of tangerine juice from Miss Astrid.

And with that, Katrina looked into the darkness and began.



* * *



Wait—this wasn’t from a video game. What was this? A few started to laugh. Many scratched their heads. But a few of the judges sat upright. Yes, it was a deviation from the program. But it was no joke.

It was Bartók. Sonata for Solo Violin.





First Movement: Tempo di Ciaccona


Ciaccona, chacona, chaconne—a swirling, shifting dance, usually composed in triple meter. If this were Vivaldi, it would drip with sentiment and romance. If this were Handel, it would sing and sparkle with Heaven’s joy.

But this was Bartók.

There seemed no clear way to classify this. The violin spoke in such contradictory voices—with, without, against each other. Even the key seemed to morph between major, minor, and irrelevant.

Miss Satomi had warned her that listeners would find this confusing, alien, even incorrect. But for someone who had played her life in multiple parts, to similar reactions, this was music that Katrina knew was hers.

Might they think she was trans, queer, an abomination? Might they whisper she was ugly? Might they find her entrancing, exotic, grotesque, horrifying?

Might she not care? Because she played, Katrina began to realize that yes, she was staring into a wall of darkness. But didn’t that also mean the lights were on her? Didn’t that mean that the stage was hers?

And how was this different from doing webcams, when any these faceless viewers might log on one night and pay to see her cum?

The audience wanted transgender? They would get transgender. Or queer, or whatever else they wanted. But they would also get her.

And she was beautiful.

Listen to me. Listen to me now. For if this dogwood bow can force beauty upon you, then I shall shove every part of myself into that beauty. I shall make you feel all the joy, the terror in loving who you are.

The audience might have wanted to turn away, but the cursed bow rendered them helpless. Katrina played a love song smashed against a wall, a dream for a child left beaten in their bed.

As Aubergine wailed in Katrina’s hands, there was more shifting, more confusion, as the ciaccona held them, aroused them, touched their secrets, made them ache for the happy ending to come.

But instead, silence.

Because too many stories end unfinished.

Because that’s all that freaks like us get.

As the first movement ended, a few people faithfully applauded where they shouldn’t.