The Ghost Sonata

by Allison, Jennifer

  “It happened one afternoon, when an elderly woman brought her thirteen-year-old grandson to my studio to inquire about private lessons. My first impression was that, with the exception of his ill-fitting black raincoat, he had the rather ordinary, adolescent look of a boy I would expect to be interested in football instead of piano. On the other hand, he didn’t have the nervous discomfort of a young person whose parents had forced him to attend piano lessons. He was very calm and in complete possession of his thirteen-year-old self. He actually looked as if he wanted to be there.

  “‘Sorry,’ I told the grandmother, ‘but I’m afraid I’m not taking new students at present.’

  “‘I’ve heard you would be the best person to work with a truly gifted student,’ she said.

  “I was skeptical about the probability that this boy was ‘truly gifted,’ but I couldn’t help feeling flattered. ‘May I ask who told you I’d be the best teacher for him?’

  “‘Charlie told me himself. He has an old recording of your Bach Preludes and Fugues, and he says it’s his favorite piano recording, don’t you, Charlie?’

  “I admit it: I was hungry for flattery, and hearing this made me feel suddenly generous. ‘Well, then,’ I said, ‘let’s hear him play.’

  “Moments later, I was offering to teach Charles at a minimal cost. I had assumed it would never happen, but by pure chance, I had actually discovered a genuine talent—a true ‘diamond in the rough’ that simply needed my help in order to shine.

  “Each week, Charles Drummond turned up for lessons at my house, and each week, I became more amazed by my extraordinary student. In many ways, Charles was a normal teenager: he loved fantasy novels and mysteries; he loved exploring the outdoors with his pet dog and rowing down the Thames. His grades were good, but he said he hated school. Tragically, both of his parents had died by the time he was seven, and he lived with his grandmother in the tiny village of Binsey.

  “But as we know, Charles was not at all ordinary. The most striking quality of his talent was an uncanny intuition—an almost psychic gift. Somehow, he seemed to know exactly how a composer would have wanted a piece to be played.

  “‘You should make this part lighter—more classical and less heavy,’ I advised him once during a lesson on Mozart’s Fantasy in D Minor.

  “‘No,’ said Charles. ‘It should be dark. He wants it dark in this section.’

  “‘What do you mean,’ “he wants it dark?”’ I demanded. ‘Who wants it dark?’

  “‘Mozart, of course.’

  “‘Charles, based on my extensive research into this era of music, I think I have a better idea than you of what Mozart would have wanted.’

  “‘He wants it the way I’m playing it,’ said Charles stubbornly. ‘He says that if there had been a grand piano like the one I’m playing under his fingers when he was alive, he would have used all of its abilities. He would make it sound heavier here.’

  “‘And how—may I ask—did a long-dead composer tell you these things?’

  “‘I can’t tell you how I know,’ said Charles. ‘I just know.’

  “And the thing was, I was convinced that he was absolutely right.

  “So when I learned that my colleague Professor Winterbottom was organizing an international competition for young people to be held at Oxford University, I decided it was time to introduce Charles Drummond to the public. On some level, I suspected that once I shared my prize student with the rest of the world, he would no longer belong to me alone, but for the moment, Charles was mine. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that he would win the competition.

  “‘Charles,’ I said one afternoon following a piano lesson, ‘we’ve never talked about your career plans. I think you could have a successful concert career.’

  “‘I know.’ The boy never pretended to be modest.

  “‘What I mean to say is that you’re good enough that you could actually become famous once people discover you. How do you feel about that?’

  “‘Okay,’ said Charles, ‘but I’m really a composer.’

  “This surprised me because I hadn’t seen any evidence that Charles was a composer. Charles had never shown me anything he had written. ‘Have you actually composed something, Charles?’ I asked.

  “‘I’ll show it to you when I’m finished,’ was his reply.

  “But I heard nothing more about this invisible composition, and I thought no more about it. After all, I was keeping Charles quite busy preparing for the First Annual Young International Virtuosos Competition.

  “Well, the day of the competition arrived, and after the first round, people were already talking about Charles, as I knew they would. Everyone wanted to know: Where had this boy come from and with whom had he studied?

  “It was just as some parents of considerably less-talented children approached me to ask whether I might be taking on new students—a moment when I felt particularly pleased with myself, I might add—that I glanced across the room and felt a sudden wave of nausea. In an instant, my perfect day was ruined.

  “There—sporting a flowing gown made of gauzy green material and an absurd hairdo with tiny braids—was Rhiannon Maddox. I had heard a rumor that one of her latest ventures was positioning herself as a star teacher, a champion of young talent. And now she was hovering over my Charles like a sinister weeping willow.

  “Why did Charles look interested in talking to her? I wondered. Why was he handing her a piece of paper?

  “When the two of them disappeared together, I had to follow. I found them in a practice room. Charles was playing something I hadn’t heard before—something haunting, dissonant, and genuinely beautiful. Rhiannon was listening with her eyes closed and a lit cigarette in one hand.

  “‘Have you heard this piece your student composed?’ she demanded when she saw me staring.

  “And here’s where I made my biggest mistake. ‘Of course I’ve heard it,’ I lied. ‘It needs a bit of work, in my opinion.’ And in an instant I saw something in Charles’s face change. He seemed to stare through me. We both knew I had lied. I knew I had lost his respect.

  “‘Come now, Charlie,’ I said, simply wanting to get away. ‘It’s late.’

  “‘Remember what we talked about, Charles,’ said Rhiannon. She handed Charles a small piece of paper as if passing him a secret note. He stuck the paper in his pocket, and this infuriated me. After all, I thought, who is she to communicate in secret with my student?

  “Charles followed me sullenly to the car park. ‘Charlie,’ I said as we drove down the dark country road leading to Charles’s house, ‘your composition sounded interesting, but you should have played it for me first before sharing it with Ms. Maddox. She has some rather unorthodox ideas.’

  “I remember how he stared out the window as if plotting some escape. ‘She asked me to play it,’ he said. ‘She said I perform as if I’m improvising, and she guessed I would make a good composer.’

  “‘We can work on your composition after the competition is over, if you like,’ I offered. ‘Right now you should stay focused on your next performance. You really have a great chance of winning this.’

  “‘I’m going to play my own composition in the next round.’

  “Well, I immediately suspected this must be the result of some sabotage on Rhiannon’s part—retaliation for all those scathing reviews of her performances I had published. ‘Charles, you know there are rules about what you can play in this competition,’ I reminded him. ‘Doing such a thing might disqualify you.’

  “‘Professor Maddox thinks I should perform it.’

  “‘Of course she does! If you get disqualified, one of her own talentless students will have a greater chance of winning. It’s sabotage, pure and simple.’

  “‘She thinks I could win if I performed it. Besides, she also invited me to take some lessons with her in London. She could introduce me to people who will work with me on my composing. I don’t need to win this competition; she could help me.’

&nb
sp; “And then I knew that the worst thing I could imagine was actually happening: the person I hated most was stealing my prize student. She would launch his performance career to the public and claim credit as his teacher. Without realizing it, I began to drive faster.

  “‘Charles,’ I said, probably staring at his sullen profile instead of the road in front of me, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. Professor Maddox actually knows very little about music. Her performances are wildly inaccurate and she has a chaotic approach to putting together concert programs. I think, at this very sensitive stage in your development—’

  “‘At least she has a concert career,’ he retorted.

  “And those were the very last words we spoke to each other, because when I looked back at the road in front of me, it was too late to avoid the oncoming van that had just veered into my path. The next thing I knew, I awoke in hospital with several broken bones. Charlie, I learned, had died instantly.

  “The death was ruled a terrible accident.

  “Days later, I inquired about a lost manuscript of music near the site of the accident, but nothing could be found. Until I heard it again today, I assumed the only copy had been lost forever.”

  52

  The Aftermath

  Standing next to his father in the lobby of the Sheldonian Theater, Julian looked uncharacteristically stiff and uncomfortable. His father stood with his arm locked around his son possessively, offering a fierce, red-faced grin to the small crowd of people who approached to congratulate Julian on his performance.

  “He played just brilliantly!” an elderly lady declared, pushing through the crowd to gaze at Julian and his father with an appreciation close to reverence. “You must be so very proud of your son, Mr. Graham.”

  “I’m very proud, indeed!” Julian flinched as his father squeezed his arm a bit too tightly. “Back at home he’s known as our local Liberace!”

  Julian flinched. “I don’t play like Liberace.” He felt as if he were literally shrinking: in a split second, his father had managed to deflate him with a single condescending reference—annoyingly, the same reference Professor Waldgrave had used to criticize his performance in the first round of the competition.

  “Has your son been very gifted from a very young age, Mr. Graham?”

  “I must say, he took to the piano quickly. This surprised us, you see, because he wasn’t potty trained until age five.”

  Embarrassed, sympathetic chuckles rippled through the small gathering.

  “Complete twaddle,” spat Julian, wondering why he was never able to come up with a quick comeback around his father. He wished he could become invisible and slip from the room.

  “Now, Julian, you know it’s true,” Julian’s father insisted, warming to his audience. “I’m telling you; his mum couldn’t find nappies large enough. In the end, she had to cut up our best white sheets and use them to cover his bum.”

  He just can’t help trying to steal the show at my expense, Julian thought. He’s like some second-rate comedian. If it were anyone else, I’d come up with a scathing joke right now to put him in his place, but for some reason, I can’t think of a thing to say.

  “Yes, you’d never know it now, but Julian was a rather plump boy in those days,” Mr. Graham continued. “We thought his fingers would be too fat to tie his shoes, let alone play the piano. Of course, now he’s all skin and bones. . . .”

  Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking! For once, Julian felt relieved when he spied Mr. Goodwin, his piano teacher, elbowing his way through the congested hallway toward him.

  “Julian!” Mr. Goodwin embraced Julian briefly and slapped him on the back. “Just look at you—you already have a fan club! I thought I was trying to approach a rock star for a moment there. I don’t know how you did it, but you amazed me this time! Very fine playing indeed!” He turned to Julian’s father. “You must be immensely proud as well, Mr. Graham.”

  “Of course. It’s like I always told Julian, ‘If you spent half as much time practicing as you do goggling the young totties in town, you might come to something.’”

  Much to Mr. Graham’s satisfaction, this comment elicited more laughter, but for Julian, this was the last straw. “You never did tell me that, Dad,” he muttered.

  “Of course I did, son.”

  “What you told me was, ‘Don’t bother playing dead music on a dinosaur instrument.’”

  Mr. Graham’s face reddened. “I don’t remember saying that. If I ever did, it was because you kept tinkering away at the ivories when there were real jobs to be done around the place.”

  Feeling increasingly uncomfortable as they sensed the personal conflict erupting between father and son, the group of well-wishers hastily extended their hands, offered congratulations, and dispersed.

  “We know how boys his age can be, don’t we?” A pleading tone entered Mr. Graham’s voice. “Anything to prevent themselves from doing a decent day’s work, right?”

  “I know Julian worked very hard to perform the way he did tonight, Mr. Graham,” said Mr. Goodwin, eyeing Julian’s father with an expression of mild concern. “And regardless of the outcome of this competition, I believe he has a future as a musician—if he wants it.”

  I do want it. The new feeling of certainty surprised Julian. Admitting to himself that he actually wanted something—even something as uncertain as a music career—made him feel stronger for some reason.

  “We’d best be shoving off now,” said Mr. Graham, suddenly impatient. He turned to head for the coatroom.

  Julian observed his father, who now stood in line looking very short and ordinary as he waited to retrieve his coat. It’s not that Dad isn’t proud of me, Julian reflected, but I’ve finally realized something: he’s also jealous of me.

  Anger and sadness combined with pity as Julian watched his father search his pockets for the ticket to claim his checked belongings. There’s a tiny part of him that wants me to fail, Julian thought, but I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to please him in that way.

  Wendy wandered into the lobby looking for Gilda and was astonished when complete strangers approached her wearing expressions of bright, eager curiosity. “I loved that piece you played!” they said. “Who composed it?”

  Confused, fascinated stares met Wendy’s reply. A fourteen-year-old boy who had composed such music? Why had they never heard of him before?

  Within moments, Wendy found herself speaking to a young woman who wrote freelance articles for The Oxford Times, divulging the story of how she and her friend Gilda had discovered the Sonata in A Minor in the well near St. Margaret’s Church.

  Then, across the room, Wendy glimpsed Mrs. Mendelovich’s frozen smile. As her teacher approached, Wendy felt as if she were awakening from the dream of her performance and facing an uncomfortable reality: Mrs. Mendelovich and her parents, who had seemed so small and far away just hours before, once again loomed in the present, watching her and shaking their heads with disappointment. How could she possibly explain herself? “A ghost made me play the music,” sounded ridiculous, even if she was now convinced that it was true. But in the end, I also chose to play it because I wanted to, Wendy reflected. No matter what happens in the competition, that performance was totally my own.

  “Mrs. Mendelovich,” Wendy faltered. “I—I’m sorry . . .”

  “You look lovely, Windy,” said Mrs. Mendelovich, silencing her student with a perfunctory embrace and an air kiss.

  “Mrs. Mendelovich, I wanted to tell you—”

  Mrs. Mendelovich held up a hand and shook her head. She clearly did not want to hear Wendy’s explanation—at least not yet. “We weell talk later.” She patted Wendy’s hand in a manner that seemed to say, Don’t bother trying to explain; there’s no point. It’s over.

  Gone were her teacher’s exuberant accolades, perfumed hugs, and promises of greatness. Wendy had always found these demonstrations of affection suffocating, but without them, she now felt as if she were standing alone, exposed o
n a windy plain.

  Wendy watched her teacher breeze away from her and toward Ming Fong.

  Usually, when Wendy played well in a competition, her parents treated her as if it were her birthday for that day. Sometimes they took her to a restaurant for her favorite foods. Sometimes the reward was a shopping trip or a wrapped present. Then there were the inevitable phone calls to friends and relatives to relive the honor of the experience.

  Now, as Wendy left the Sheldonian Theater, she walked into a dark, silent street alone.

  It’s weird, she thought. I honestly feel like I just gave the best performance of my life, but I’ve never felt lonelier. It isn’t a completely bad feeling, but I have to admit—freedom is kind of lonely.

  Teacher’s pet. She had always hated this label in school. She had always felt embarrassment at being singled out; how surprising that she now felt a strange grief at losing her “teacher’s pet” role with Mrs. Mendelovich.

  “Wendy! Wait up!”

  With relief, Wendy turned to see Gilda running toward her in her sequined dress and tiara.

  “What are you doing out here? Where’s your coat?”

  “Left it . . . in the theater.” Gilda leaned forward and placed her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

  “Where were you? Did you even see my performance?”

  “Yes, and you sounded great! But where were you before the competition started? I looked everywhere!”

  “Oh. Sorry. I just needed some time to myself away from everyone’s nerves and everything, and I found this room backstage that nobody else knew about.”

  “Anyway, that doesn’t matter now because I have so much to tell you.” Gilda clutched her bare arms. Her teeth chattered, but she hardly noticed; she was so excited to tell Wendy about the final breakthrough in the investigation.

  “Gilda, you’re freezing. Let’s get your coat.”