Fifty Words for Rain(19)

Nori could not help but smile. Akira only called her “little sister” when he was happy.

“The last one. I liked it the best.”

Akira paused for a moment, trying to remember. “Oh, that one.” The lack of interest in his tone was palpable. “That’s nothing. It’s just a simple piece. All the pieces I played and that’s the one you want to know about?”

Nori bit her lower lip. It was still raw from the gnawing she’d given it earlier, and it began to sting when her teeth came into contact with the open cut. “It was pretty,” she mumbled. “Simple can be pretty.”

At this, Akira snickered. She could see the corner of his lip curl upwards in a smirk. But when he spoke, his tone was soft. “You would say that, wouldn’t you? It’s actually no surprise you would like it. It’s rather like a child’s lullaby, isn’t it?”

Nori said nothing, partly because she was sure he was making fun of her and partly because she didn’t know what a lullaby was supposed to sound like and hated to look stupid in front of her worldly brother. Akira gestured for her to hand him the cup of tea he’d left sitting on the end table. She did so, waiting patiently for him to answer her question.

“It’s Schubert, Nori. Franz Schubert. It’s his ‘Ave Maria.’”

Nori struggled to repeat after him, finding that the sound of the words eluded her mouth. Akira laughed at her again. She jutted her bottom lip out in a pout.

“Oniichan, will you teach me to play it?”

She had been working up the nerve to ask this question for a while now. Every time she watched Akira play, it captivated her soul. It felt like her very spirit was floating above her body, which sat dull and limp on the earth like an empty fossil. She wanted to be able to do that. To make people feel like that.

Akira removed his hand from across his face and straightened up slightly, meeting her eyes. “You’re serious?”

“Hai.”

“Nori, the violin isn’t a toy. It’s an instrument. It takes years to learn.”

“I can learn.” She pouted, fully aware that her wheedling was not likely to get her anywhere with Akira’s limited level of patience. “You learned.”

“I have a natural facility for music, Nori. It’s not something that everyone has. You can practice until your fingers are raw, but if you don’t have talent, you’ll never rise beyond a certain level. It’s really just a giant waste of time. You find out, years after you’ve spent hours and hours training, that you’ll never be anything but ordinary.”

She felt her resolve weakening. It seemed unlikely that she possessed a natural talent of any kind. But she pressed on. “I would like to try.”

Akira pinned her down with a cold stare. She looked back at him, eyes wide and quivering. But she held her gaze steady. Little by little, she was learning to minimize signs of flinching. Akira blinked. She took this as a sign that he had resigned himself to her request.

“If you really want to learn, I’ll teach you. For a little while.”

Nori perked up instantly, unable to resist the urge to throw herself on top of him. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Oniichan!”

Gently but firmly, Akira carefully moved away from her. He looked only slightly irritated that she had touched him, which Nori counted as a personal victory.

“Fine, fine. Now, go on. Akiko-san should be expecting you.”

“But, Onii—”

“Nori.”

And she knew it was over then. When Akira said her name like that there was no point in arguing.

She rose from her seat and bowed slightly. “Oyasumi nasai, Oniichan.”

“Good night, Nori.”

Akiko was waiting just outside the door to the music room, as Nori had known she would be.

Nori answered the expected questions about her day with as much interest as she could feign. But her mind was already gone.

She ate her dinner quickly, anxious for Akiko to collect the dishes and retire for the night. She was struck with a sudden and intense desire to be alone. The thought of having another person around her made her skin itch. As much as she disliked solitude, she had grown so comfortable with it that prolonged exposure to other people made her uneasy.

Akira didn’t count, of course, but Akira was Akira.

After she finished her meal, she delved into the book of poetry that Akira had lent her. He was right when he’d said it would be difficult for her. It was clearly an old, well-worn book—the pages were yellowing and curled upwards. The script was tiny and tightly packed so that the words blurred together on the page. The characters were complex, and many of them were entirely foreign to her. Akira had explained that the poems inside were several centuries old and that, over time, languages evolved. Though it was tempting to get frustrated and give up, she pressed on.

She read until her eyes hurt. Then she turned off the lights, lit her candles, and said her prayers before the altar. She asked God to watch over Akira and her grandparents. She included her grandparents in her prayers by default. How genuine it was, she couldn’t be certain.

And lastly, she prayed for her mother. She had no doubt that her mother would return, someday soon. She had to be patient. More importantly, she had to be deserving of her mother’s renewed interest. Somehow, she had to make herself more appealing than whatever it was her mother had left her for.