Light From Uncommon Stars(110)

And with that mistaken applause, Katrina knew that her soul was forfeit.

Who would have thought one’s destiny could be sealed not by a parting of the sky, nor the horror of an infernal flame, but with awkward titters and shhh …

Well, at least no one was asking her to leave the stage. And if she were to be damned for all eternity, they could listen for another seventeen minutes.





Second Movement: Fuga (Risoluto, non troppo vivo)


Mention “fugue,” and one thinks immediately of Bach’s perfect universe of divine watchmakers and transcendent harpsichords.

But the universe is not perfect, is it?

Fuga, fugue—a theme, introduced by one part and successively taken up by others. But counterpoint is not always harmonious. Not always consensual. There are threats and arguments, empty apologies, messy excuses, blame.

Fuga, derived from fugere, to flee.

Girl clothes. Boy clothes. Money. Birth certificate. Social security card. Toothbrush. Spare glasses. Backup battery. Makeup. Estradiol. Spironolactone.

And fugare, to chase.

Risoluto, non troppo vivo. Resolutely, not too alive. As how you smile when a stranger spits at you. As how you keep breathing while a friend rapes you. As how you think calmly as a parent is kicking down your door.

Yehudi Menuhin himself claimed Bartók’s fugue was perhaps the most aggressive and brutal music he had ever performed.

But, Katrina realized, such brutality made her neither nervous nor afraid.

She was not intimidated. Instead, she was angry. How long had she lived in this fuga, with a fake smile, a fake nod? How often had she buried her voice to placate others? How often did she say her voice was too ugly, anyway?

Harmonize, complement, counterpoint … apologize. Apologize again.

But why? Why did it have to be that way? To live a lie? To save her soul? At least with the cursed bow in her hand, her damnation made sense.

Dash around the corner, lock the door.

Into the dark, she hurled arpeggios of catcalls and Internet trolls. There was a customer clawing at her hair. And here was another one biting her and drawing blood. These were people liking a post saying that she should be set on fire. This was a penis forcing itself bluntly into her mouth.

This is the song of a queer kid who escapes from a window to a sidewalk in the middle of the night. This is the song of a trans girl just wanting a fucking bathroom in the middle of the day.

So what if you don’t understand? So what if you think I’m a half-woman freak.

This is my song. My voice. My voice leads.

Katrina glared up from Aubergine at an audience she could not see.

But then, she sensed something completely unexpected. Some of them seemed to be singing too.

Fuga—a theme, introduced by one part and successively taken up by others. Somehow other voices, other musics, began to interweave with her own. The notes, the harmonies wrapped her gently, like a blanket of night in a field of stars. She wanted to reach out, tell them she didn’t know, she had no idea they were with her, tell them now they would never again be alone.

But then she remembered that their reactions were merely due to the dogwood bow.





Third Movement: Melodia (Adagio)


Adagio.

Even people who didn’t know music knew the sweeping, inescapable sadness of Barber or Albinoni. A song of mourning. A song of loss.

Yet, unlike Barber or Albinoni, Bartók did not title his movement Adagio.

Instead, he named it Melodia.

Katrina thought of her mother arranging pork buns and tamales in the big family steamer. She remembered her father’s steady voice as he taught her how to tie shoelaces. She could taste the turkey legs and funnel cakes she shared with her cousins that afternoon at the Los Angeles County Fair.

She saw her teacher smiling when she told her parents that their son had a natural gift for violin—and the Thanksgiving both her father and uncle declared to the family they would stop drinking, and everyone toasted with sparkling cider.

It is not enough to blindly flee pain or danger. It is not enough to escape from an irredeemable enemy.

Heartache comes from glimpsing over one’s shoulder, the yearning for Thanksgiving, the persistent memory of the sweetness.

Breaking comes from knowing exactly how it could have been.

Sadness, regret … these come from more than being just a victim, an innocent survivor. They come from seeing wasted chance after wonderful, wonderful wasted chance.

They come from knowing the good that has slipped through your fingers, as well.

How had Katrina underestimated Miss Astrid? How had she turned a blind eye to Miss Satomi losing her music? How had she hung up on her mother last night?

And just this morning, how had she wished that Miss Satomi might save her from Hell?

You’re a selfish little thing, aren’t you?

How do we mourn when we know that we, too, have been cruel to both the living and the dead?

For all the lifetimes of being mistreated, mistrusted, broken, lost. For all the lifetimes of bullying, betraying, cowardice, and shame.

Yes, there is music as this. And yes, this music is you.





Fourth Movement: Presto


Presto—very fast. Presto—as if by magic.

At the fourth movement, some people thought, “The Flight of the Bumblebee!” Finally, a passage they could recognize! But this was no overplayed Rimsky-Korsakov insect—this was the frantic chaos of refugees escaping a war.