Transcendence t-1

by C. J. Omololu

  It’s ridiculous how much I think about Griffon, considering we’d probably spent all of an hour together. Even though we’d only had one more day in London, I was tempted to try to get back to the Tower, visions of beheadings or not. We passed the Tower walls in a cab the next day and I pictured him sitting at a table in the café, probably talking to some other hapless tourist girl who needed his assistance.

  “Should I even ask what you’re doing after school?” Rayne asks as we’re finally released from language arts. “I think some people are going to hang out over at Café Roma.”

  “Can’t,” I say, leaning my cello case against the wall of lockers in the hallway. I fish around in my backpack for my phone, as much to find it as to avoid her eyes.

  “Cello practice again? When are you going to take a break and get a real life?”

  I sigh. I love Rayne, but she just doesn’t get it. “This is real life. My real life. There was the trip, and now the concert’s coming up, so I’m way behind.”

  I’ve tried to explain that you don’t choose to be a musician, it chooses you. The feeling of transcendence I get when a piece is going well, the combination of contentment and exhilaration that makes it seem like I’m completely outside myself, is impossible to explain without sounding like a crazy person. It’s something that pushes me from the inside, that makes me anxious if I don’t get in practice every day. I like to blame it on my parents just so that I won’t look like a complete music geek, but the truth is, I don’t just like to play—I have to play. I doubt that people who are training for the Olympics and spend hours every day at the ice rink or in the gym have to make excuses like I do.

  “Just don’t call me when you’re a fifty-year-old spinster with arthritic hands and thirty-two cats.” She grins at me. “So are you giving a lesson or getting one?”

  “Both,” I say, relieved we’re off the subject. “I have makeup lessons all week with Steinberg for an hour, and then I’m giving a cello lesson at five.”

  “Who’s the student?”

  “That fifth-grader from Yeshiva Day,” I say. “He hates the cello, but his parents think it’s good for his ‘enrichment.’” Students who are forced into lessons are the hardest to teach. Adults who are really into learning how to play are the best—a little overenthusiastic sometimes, but at least they practice and don’t mess around. Overindulged private-school kids with hovering parents are the worst. And the kind of students I have most often.

  “Sounds fun.” Rayne makes a face as we head toward the bus stop on the corner. “Talk later?”

  I sit in my usual seat on the city bus with the cello case propped up beside me like a silent guardian. Mom used to pick me up and drive me home every day, but she finally let me start taking the bus a couple of years ago, and I like the few minutes of quiet that bridge the two parts of my day. As we roll toward the studio I press my forehead to the window and stare at the people swarming the sidewalks. I always like watching people from the safety of the bus, catching a few seconds of their lives before we rattle on down the street, them never realizing I was there at all. In the middle of all of this chaos are things that are like signposts in each neighborhood as we ride down Geary: the guy sitting in the folding chair on the tiny strip of sidewalk between the Chinese restaurant and the Indian market, or the people clutching their cups and staring intently at their laptops inside Peet’s Coffee.

  As the bus idles at the light, a woman looks up from a window table and gazes out at the street. With a start, I recognize her as one of my cello students. I wave as the bus pulls into the intersection, but Veronique has already turned back to her work.

  I lift the cello out of its seat and pull the strap over my shoulder as I get off at my stop. I use the lighter carbon-fiber cello for travel and running around, but with the case it still weighs a ton, and I’m glad there aren’t any hills to climb as I head toward the studio. My good Derazey cello has to be content with practice at home and occasional orchestra visits, ever since my parents took a second mortgage on the duplex to buy it a couple of years ago. The graceful curves of a nearly two-hundred-year-old instrument don’t come cheap. Whenever I think about the money they’ve spent over the years on instruments, gear, the conservatory, and private lessons, my chest feels so heavy I can barely breathe. If the guilt starts to settle in too heavily, I just put in a few extra hours of practice.

  As I step into the studio, the familiar, safe feeling sits close around my shoulders, and I inhale the combination of rosin, antique instruments, and sweat that only exists here.

  Portraits of famous musicians line the walls, and I touch Guilhermina Suggia’s frame for good luck like I always do when I come through the door. She was one of the first female cellists, and whenever I feel discouraged, one look at the painting of her fiery red dress, her head tilted at an angle that’s full of attitude as she attacks the cello, always makes me feel better.

  In the back, I can hear the rich, mellow sounds of a cello echoing off the wood-paneled walls, and I feel my blood surge as I listen to Steinberg play. I creep down the short hallway, avoiding the squeaking boards next to the coatrack, until I can see him sitting bent over the glossy wood, both hands working in harmony to wring every ounce of feeling from the instrument, his eyes closed, everything abandoned to the music. In the years we’ve worked together I’ve learned to match him note for note. I’ve mastered the technical skill to play complicated pieces without a mistake, spent hours copying his fingering. My heart races as his bow glides over the strings, an unspoken communication that fills the room, replacing the air with sound and emotion.

  I set the cello down gently, watching as Steinberg finishes the piece, feeling every note as it fades into the woodwork. Even more than our house in the Haight, this is home to me, and I feel a physical tug inside from being away so long.

  As if he can sense me in the room, Herr Steinberg turns and gives me a welcoming smile. I take my place in the empty chair next to him, eager to get back to the one thing in my life I can always depend on.

  On our front porch, I shift the cello case to my other shoulder as I lean over to put my key in the lock. “Mom, I’m home!” I call out as the door swings open, taking my key with it and refusing to let go. I jiggle it in the rusty old lock until it finally surrenders, swearing at my parents for not wanting to change any of the original features of our drafty old Victorian house. Sure, the wavy glass windows are originals, but they leak like crazy, and sometimes we have to wear jackets indoors during the wintertime.

  “Ma?” I call again, dropping my things by the doorway and heading into the empty kitchen. She knows I have a lesson today. Mom and Dad don’t let me give lessons unless somebody’s home, and if she forgot again I don’t know what I’ll tell Oscar’s parents.

  I think about just grabbing the phone, but Dad hates it when I call him from downstairs. Swiping an apple from the bowl on the island, I trudge back through our front door, cross the porch, and let myself in his front door. “Dad?” I call up the stairs. After their divorce, Mom and Dad bought this duplex so that Kat and I wouldn’t have to shuttle between houses. He has the flat above ours, which means that right inside his front door are about a million stairs. Yelling is easier than climbing.

  “In my office,” he calls down.

  “Just wanted to tell you I’m home. I have a lesson in a few minutes.”

  “Come up and give your old dad a hug,” he says, his head appearing over the upstairs railing. “I downloaded the photos from our trip. There’s some great stuff in there.”

  “I really don’t have time,” I say. “How about I come up after dinner?”

  His eyes look a little sad, but he manages a smile. “Okay. I’ll save dessert for you, so don’t forget.”

  I shut his door behind me and walk back into our flat. I suppose that having him right upstairs from us is a lot better than having him in some faraway city, but I feel bad when he’s up there all by himself and we’re down here. Neither Mom or Dad has reall
y dated much since the divorce—or at least I haven’t seen it—and I sometimes think I wouldn’t feel so guilty if Dad would at least get a steady girlfriend.

  Kat isn’t home yet, but that’s not a surprise. She has an after-school job at a boutique on Union Street, and when she isn’t selling clothes, she’s out somewhere buying them. To her, our house in the Haight is slumming it, so she spends as much time as she can in the “better” neighborhoods. She’s going to fashion design school in September, which is just about killing Dad, who’s had visions of her going to Stanford since before she could talk.

  Just as I toss the rest of my apple into the compost bin, our doorbell rings. I can see the watery shadows of Oscar and his mom through the glass in the front door.

  “Hi, Mrs. Garcia,” I say, opening the door wide. “Hey, Oscar.”

  Oscar pushes by me with barely a grunt, half dragging, half carrying his cello. This is going to be a very long lesson.

  Oscar’s mom shakes her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with that boy,” she says. “He doesn’t appreciate all that we’re doing for him. Trying to broaden his horizons.” She perches on the wing chair that Mom has set up for parents, although it’s a lot easier for me when the chair is empty. If it’s just me and the student I can relax a little bit, maybe show them some things that might be more interesting than the classical fingerings and scales that their parents feel they’re paying for.

  Mrs. Garcia puts her handbag in her lap and watches Oscar unpack his cello in the living room. I glance at her bag, hoping that she’ll get my telepathic message that it’s the first lesson of the month. Payday. I don’t mind teaching—sometimes it’s even fun—but I hate chasing the money. And it’s the parents with the most money that forget to pay me most often.

  “Did you practice while I was gone?” I ask Oscar, getting my cello ready. These are things I have to ask while the parents are sitting within earshot. They like it that their kids are taught by an actual child prodigy, but they still expect me to act like a teacher.

  He shrugs, which means he probably hasn’t touched it since he was here last. His bow bounces across the strings, making a grating sound that sets my teeth on edge. Some kids, no matter how much their parents want them to, are just never going to be into playing an instrument.

  I set my cello against my shoulder and play a few bars of a song I’ve been trying to teach him for the past three lessons, and Oscar does his best to copy my motions. After twenty-eight excruciating minutes, I let him put the bow down and pack up the instrument. As he gathers up his things, his mom motions me over.

  “I think he’s sounding so much better,” she gushes, making me wonder if she’s actually been sitting in the same room. “That last song was crisp and clear. You really have a gift—we were so lucky to get a place with you.”

  I smile a tight smile and nod, because that’s what they want me to do. I hesitate before opening my mouth. “Um, Mrs. Garcia? It … um … it is the first of the month and all. So I was wondering…”

  She claps her hands together. “Oh, yes!” she says, and rummages through her bag. “I seem to have forgotten my checkbook.” She smiles up at me. “I’m sure you don’t mind if I bring a check next time.”

  “Of course not,” I say, managing a tight smile. “No problem.” I mentally cross off those two new books I’d wanted to order from Books Inc.

  Mom meets them at the door just as they’re leaving, causing a flurry of hellos and some grocery bag shuffling.

  “How was the lesson?” Mom asks over her shoulder as I follow her into the kitchen. She puts the bags down on the counter and I start poking through them.

  “Fine,” I say. “Are there more in the car?”

  “No,” she says. “This is it.”

  I find one of my favorite protein bars at the bottom of a bag and unwrap it.

  “Don’t eat too much,” Mom says. “I’m making dinner early because I have an online meeting.” She closes the fridge and pulls a note off the front. “Did you get this?”

  “No,” I say, reaching for the scrap of paper. Veronique would like to come today and Thursday because you both missed last week. I told her it’s fine. Love, Mom.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” she says. “I put it where I thought you would see it.”

  “That’s so weird,” I say, glancing at the paper again. “I just saw her. In Peet’s.”

  “When were you at Peet’s?”

  “I wasn’t,” I say. “I was on the bus. Never mind. It’s not important.”

  “Well, she’s coming around six.”

  I look at the clock—she’s due here any minute. “You should have called me.”

  “Sorry,” Mom says. “You know I’m not crazy about you spending all this time on lessons in any case. Especially if it’s going to cut into your schoolwork and your own practice time.”

  “You guys won’t give me extra money, so what else am I supposed to do? It’s better than working at McDonalds,” I say. “Or at the O’Farrell Theater.” Kat actually knows someone who works as a topless dancer, and she really does make good money. We both know I’d rather die than take my clothes off in front of strangers, but still, point made.

  “Don’t try to be funny,” she says. “We get you everything you need, and there’s nothing funny about you wasting your gift teaching untalented beginners how to mutilate a cello instead of taking extra classes at the conservatory like we’d planned.”

  “Nothing funny about increasing my allowance,” I mutter, making sure I’m out of earshot first. Ever since I picked up a bow for the first time when I was four, the cello has been my destiny, and Mom hates anything that might interfere with that in the tiniest way. I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if we hadn’t gone to Aunt Karen’s house that day. Not really my aunt, but my mom’s best friend from college, Karen had an old cello sitting in her living room, and according to family legend, I climbed up on the chair, grabbed the bow, and started playing perfect notes right from the start. I’m not sure how much of that is actually true, but what is true is that the cello comes ridiculously easy for me. It’s like learning how to talk—not something I have to really concentrate on, it just happens, like I’ve known it forever. Within a year, I’d outgrown my first cello teacher, and my parents had me on the fast track to world cello domination.

  “I’m sorry, dear?” Mom says, staring at her laptop. “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” I say, and finish putting the groceries away just as the doorbell rings.

  “How was London?” Veronique asks before she’s even through the door. “I hope you don’t mind me coming twice this week, but I can’t stand missing a lesson.” She’s holding her cello with one arm and gives me a quick hug with the other.

  “London was great,” I say, backing up and letting her into the hallway. “And it’s totally fine to come today.”

  Veronique is slim and super-fashionable, with her straight black hair cut in a severe bob—a style that my long wavy hair can only dream about. There’s a tiny brown birthmark that looks like a comma over her right eye, which is good, because otherwise she’d be a little too perfect and I’d have to hate her. She’s in her early twenties and is some sort of scientist over at UCSF. Whatever she does, it makes enough money for the best instrument, the latest clothes, and the freedom to be at a cello lesson on a weekday evening.

  She hands me a sealed envelope and I smile, knowing it’s cash. Veronique has only been my student for about six months, but I can always count on her not to forget. “Thanks,” I say, shoving it in the back pocket of my jeans. “Come on in, I’m already set up.”

  It is actually enjoyable to teach Veronique—she isn’t a natural, but what she lacks in skill she makes up for in determination. From week to week, I can tell she’s been practicing, although she gets really embarrassed when I compliment her on her improving technique.

  “I think I’ve finally decided on a name for my cello,” Veronique says, lifting the inst
rument from its case.

  “I already told you, it’s not like naming is mandatory or anything. Not everybody does it.” Not everybody includes pretty much only me, because everyone else I know in the orchestra has a cute or meaningful name for their instrument. I tried naming my first cello after the main character in my favorite book, but every time I called it “Harry” I felt like an idiot.

  “I know, but it makes it so much more personal. Are you ready?” She gives a dramatic pause. “Bono.”

  “‘Bono’ as in U2 Bono?” I roll the name around in my head for a second. It could work.

  “Yep.” Veronique smiles. “If something is going to be between my knees for so many hours every week, I figure it might as well be the sexiest singer alive.”

  “Veronique!” I whisper, giggling. I look toward the doorway to make sure Mom isn’t listening. “Won’t your boyfriend get mad?”

  She shrugs. “No. Giacomo thinks he’s sexy too. He’ll probably like it.”

  I hold up my hand. “Totally TMI,” I say, getting so embarrassed I can barely look at her.

  “Come on, Bono,” she says, pulling the cello into position. “Let’s get down to business.”

  We work on Bach’s Variations for a few minutes before I suggest something new. “I just got this, and the arrangement doesn’t look too hard,” I say, placing the music on the stand. “It’s one of the first real classical pieces I ever tried.” I’ve barely gotten through the first bars of Chopin’s Sonata in G before Veronique puts her hand on the page and pulls it down, the expression on her face full of pain.