Light From Uncommon Stars(12)

What the girl held was no Stainer—it was a mere beginner’s instrument—but echoes of hatred, of insanities, of melodies one sings only when one has survived emanated from her just the same.

And then, in the space where words might have been, Shizuka heard the unexpected.

Most people would have heard a tone. A trained musician might hear A440.

And a very special musician would hear the violin waking up, saying good morning, once again coming to life.

“A tuning fork?”

The girl exhaled and seemed to blush.

“My violin likes it better when I tune her this way.”

Shizuka was now fully focused on the player before her.

Where had this girl come from? South San Gabriel? Rosemead?

Shizuka thought of all the students she had seen in Arcadia with brand-new digital tuners and oh-so-precious instruments. How does one such as this simply wander into a park? Shizuka wondered what she would play. Bach? Mozart? Maybe Kreisler? She had a presence that would go with Kreisler.

Or Bartók?

Shhh …

Shizuka stilled herself. Reality was reality. That instrument. That student bow. That awful rosin in the sliding plastic box. This was no cultivated prodigy.

Bartók? Don’t be silly, Satomi. More likely, she’ll play “Perpetual Motion” from Suzuki Book One.

Of all the music she might have imagined, Shizuka did not expect the girl to pull out Schradieck.

Schradieck? As in The School of Violin Technics. These were not musical compositions, but musical exercises. They were basic and beneficial, but basic and beneficial in the way that cod liver oil once was, or a measles vaccine, or a regular trip to the dentist.

How many countless students had given up violin because of Schradieck?

Shizuka smiled politely, the turned toward pond and ducks. There was no sense in making the girl nervous. The Queen of Hell opened the bag of hot dog buns, tore off a big chunk, and steeled herself for whatever horrible sound she was about to hear.

Shizuka was a child, on her way to school. During the winter mornings, especially around February, there was ice everywhere … on rain puddles, on windshields.

Today, the grass crunched underfoot. Even the air seemed frozen.

Julie Kiyama was holding her fingers to her mouth, exhaling into the frost and shouting, “Look at me, I’m smoking!”

“Smoking is bad for you,” Julie’s sister Sally yelled.

“Smoke rings! Smoke rings!”

“If you don’t stop smoking, I’m te—lling!”

And then they ran off. She tried to keep up with them. She ran as fast as she could.

But they had their hands free, and she had her violin.

Shizuka found herself breaking each bun into ever smaller pieces, so she could listen just a little more.

And as the girl finished Schradieck, Shizuka watched Julie and Sally Kiyama, her last childhood friends, disappear into the icy February mist.



* * *



In a Faded Box Marked “FREE”

School was over. As usual, Katrina was walking home alone. And, as usual, she wandered, meandered, trying to prolong each moment before she had to face her parents.

There was a store that sold used refrigerators and washing machines. There was what was left of a public phone nobody used.

And there was a used bookstore, and in front was a faded box marked “FREE.”

Katrina browsed through the box, full of the usual torn periodicals, self-help books, fad diets, computer manuals for long-dead machines.

And then she stopped.

School of Violin Technics, by Henry Schradieck. First published in 1901.

The book was probably there because all the markings, annotations, scribbles, and teacher’s notes made the book unsellable.

But for Katrina, each suggested fingering, each message penciled over notes or inked into a margin offered an encouragement and direction that she had never before seen.

Katrina had always loved music, especially the violin. Long ago, she had even taken lessons.

But she was queer, and living in a small town east of Oakland.

The afternoon that he found her makeup, Katrina’s father had punched her so hard that the entire side of her face turned black and blue. As word got around, her family, her church, the people at school hurled insults, shame.

You should act like a boy.

You should repent.

You should apologize.

You should die.

But here, all around the music, someone’s teacher wrote: Relax. Keep your fingers open and light.

Someone’s teacher wrote:

Think of sunshine. You don’t need to rush.

Just follow the notes.

Trust yourself.

Good job!!

And there, someone’s teacher had drawn happy faces.

And there, someone’s teacher had pasted stars.



* * *



“Who’s your teacher?” Shizuka finally said.

“Um, no one.” The girl was munching on a hot dog bun.

This made no sense. How does someone with no teacher encounter Schradieck?

“I took violin in school once, when I was seven. But my father stopped the lessons.”

“Why?” Shizuka was even more confused. Anyone could hear this was a gifted musician.

“He said it was making me a faggot,” the girl said.