The Ghost Sonata (20 page)

The Sight-Reading Competition

 

Mrs. Mendelovich hurried toward Gilda and Wendy, clicking across the floor in high-heeled shoes. She wore green tights that called attention to a pair of surprisingly athletic legs. As always, Gilda observed that Mrs. Mendelovich had an uncanny way of looking at once ancient and youthful.

“Geeelda! Thank God you are here! They are calling the first performer in just a few minutes!”

“But Wendy and I have plenty of time, don't we?”

“You are official page-turner!”

“I'm
Wendy's
official page-turner.”

“Oh, no. Other performers need page-turning, too!”

“
Other
performers?” Gilda instantly felt her stomach tie itself in several knots.

Professor Heslop approached with her clipboard in hand. “Is this our page-turner?”

“Here she is!” Mrs. Mendelovich placed her hands firmly on Gilda's shoulders. “Geelda is best in the business,” she added, causing Wendy to have a sudden coughing fit.

“You've got a long job ahead of you today, my dear,” said Professor Heslop with a note of gallows humor. “I wouldn't want to be in your shoes.”

Neither would I.
Gilda's palms turned sweaty with the full realization that she would be expected to turn pages not just for Wendy, but for
every one of the performers in the competition.
Wendy always gave her a signal when it was time to turn a page, but other people would simply expect her to read the dense music and turn the page at precisely the right moment. How in the world was she going to pull this off?

Then Gilda had a happier thought: she would be onstage with Julian while he was performing! The idea filled her with giddy excitement and temporary amnesia about the appalling situation in which she found herself.

“Omigod,” Wendy whispered as soon as Mrs. Mendelovich and Professor Heslop had moved along to greet other students. “This is awful.”

“I know. On the positive side, I bet I can throw the other performers a few curveballs.”

“Cur veballs?”

“If other people screw up because of my page-turning, it'll make you look good.”

“Gilda, if you're
that
bad, they'll pull you off the stage before it's my turn.”

“But I'm not
that
bad at page-turning.”

“To be fair, you had improved the last time we practiced.”

Suddenly, Gilda's mind was a thousand miles away from the mundane subject of page-turning. If she had been a cat, she would have puffed herself up to three times her normal size and hissed, because she had just spied something that made her feel like clawing someone.

On a velvet bench in the reception area, Jenny Pickles and Julian sat next to each other. The two appeared to be deeply absorbed in conversation: Julian turned his body completely toward Jenny and gestured with broad enthusiasm. Jenny simply sat with her legs crossed, swinging a foot adorned with a delicately pointy shoe.

He's telling her a story
, Gilda thought. She felt something very unpleasant—a hot, liquid drop of jealousy that burned the lining of her stomach. She noticed with annoyance that Jenny looked cute. There was no denying it: her vibrant red hair looked fantastic after using hot rollers. What in the world were the two of them talking about?

“Looks like that Jenny Pickles chick is trying to steal your boyfriend,” Wendy observed.

“There's no law against people talking to each other, Wendy.” Gilda did her best to squelch the cauldron of envy that fumed and bubbled inside her.

“Gilda, you're totally jealous.”

“I'm
not
jealous.”

“I don't blame you. How does she get her hair to look like that?”

“Hot rollers.”

“I knew there was something about that girl I didn't like.”

“They're just
talking
, okay?”

“Looks like flirting to me.”

“It's not like Julian is officially my boyfriend, Wendy. We just had lunch one time.”

“You said you were in love.”

“Are you trying to help me or hurt me right now?”

“I'm just
saying
, it looks like something's going on over there. So why don't you just stroll over and break things up?”

“How?”

“I don't know. Maybe you could join in the conversation?”

“Maybe I'll do just that.”

“Go fight for your man! I really want to see what happens when you walk over there.”

“I bet you do.”

But Gilda discovered that she couldn't move. There was no denying the fact that Jenny and Julian looked
interested
in each other. A warm circle seemed to envelop them—a force field that made the idea of interrupting them with small talk akin to throwing cold water on sunbathers napping by a swimming pool. Gilda watched as Jenny and Julian laughed uproariously at
something.

I bet he's telling her that dumb story about Waldgrave and his cat
, Gilda thought.

“I suggest you go break up the lovefest over there,” said Wendy.

“Don't rush me. I'm thinking of something to say.”

“How about, ‘Hey! How's it going?'”

“Too mundane.”

“While you think of something brilliant to say, I'm going to find a practice room.”

“Okay.” Gilda sighed. “See you onstage.”

Gilda edged her way toward Julian and Jenny and found a spot where she could stand partly concealed by a plant. She watched Jenny take delicate sips from a water bottle as Julian talked. She watched with horror as Jenny offered Julian a sip of water and he accepted.
The two of them were swapping spit!

Gilda scanned the room to see if she could flirt with someone else in an attempt to make Julian jealous, but the only people in sight were Professor Heslop and a plump, bearded man who handed out brochures at the entrance to the performance hall.

A heavyset woman with leathery, freckled skin and red hair sidled up to Gilda to watch the flirting couple. With a wave of annoyance, Gilda knew right away that this had to be Jenny's mother.

“Leave it to my girl to find a beau in any country!” Ms. Pickles drawled. “That Jenny picks up boys like a dog picks up fleas.”

“Maybe you should take her to the vet,” Gilda blurted.

“Pardon?” Jenny's mother regarded Gilda through narrowed eyes.

“Oh—I meant the
boy
she's chatting with looks like he might have fleas.” Gilda hoped Ms. Pickles was the type who would prefer to see her daughter receive the attentions of one of the damp-haired, bespectacled boys in the competition.

“Julian is a little different, I guess. But my lord, how he plays the pianah! I don't know when I've heard someone so talented—except my Jenny, of course.” Ms. Pickles squinted fiercely at Julian, as if she might be able to actually
see
the substance of his talent if she focused intensely enough. “His piano teacher thinks that if he just buckled down a little, he could actually win this whole competition.”

“He's very talented,” said Gilda, wanting to squelch Ms. Pickles's enthusiasm. “But you should hear him
talk
.”

“Don't you love hearing that English accent?”

“I mean, he's got a real potty mouth. I bet the two of them are cursing up a storm over there as we speak.” Gilda glanced at Julian, who still appeared to be telling an anecdote that required exuberant gestures.

“Now that can't be true! Last night he was such a gentleman. Oh, how he kept us laughing!”

Gilda felt as if she had been socked in the stomach.
Last night?!

“Jenny and I went to the Eagle and Child Pub to get a bite to eat and soak up the atmosphere after she finished her practice session. We were just sitting there chewing the fat when, who do we see but Julian and his piano teacher, Mr. Goodwin, who is such a
lovely
man, bless his heart. And Julian recognized Jenny right away from the competition, so the next thing we knew, we were all sitting together, and Julian is telling us stories about the quaint little town he's from called Creeping—such an interesting name. . . .”

“Crawling,”
said Gilda grimly.

“Oh, yes. Crawling. And he told us such impressive stories about his father's chain of hotels all across the country—”

“He said his father owns
hotels
?”

“Oh my goodness, yes. And Julian, bless his heart, he entertains the family's guests—sometimes even royalty—by giving recitals. He said he keeps everyone up all night singing.”

Gilda felt outraged and confused. Hadn't Julian said that his father installed toilets for a living? Which of these stories was made-up—and why?

“He told
me
his father installs toilets.” Gilda decided, a bit cattily, that Jenny's mother might as well know this fact.

“Oh no, sugar. People like him
pay others
to do that. Anyway, he offered to show Jenny around the city today after the competition. He knows about the interesting places the American tourists always miss.”

Gilda felt her face growing hot. “Ms. Pickles,” she said, doing her best to emphasize the ridiculousness of the word
Pickles.

“Please call me Martha.”

“Martha
Pickles
, I think you should know that Julian has a rather unsavory reputation. You might think twice about letting your daughter go wandering around town with him.” Gilda realized she knew nothing whatsoever about Julian's reputation, but at the moment, she felt too jealous to care.

“I think English boys are such gentlemen compared with American boys,” Ms. Pickles insisted. “They speak so politely, and Julian comes from such an accomplished family. I would love for Jenny to marry into a really upscale English family like that someday.”

Gilda stifled an urge to gag openly at Ms. Pickles's reference to marriage. By now, she felt nearly as irritated with herself as she felt toward Julian and Jenny. More than anything, she hated the fact that she
cared
that Julian was talking to Jenny. She felt as if she had left some part of herself across the room where they were sitting, and that she would do almost anything to get it back.

Ms. Pickles frowned as Julian leaned toward Jenny to examine a pendant that hung around the neck of her daughter's rather low-cut dress. “I suppose I
could
tag along to chaperone their little date. . . .” Ms. Pickles mused. “But Jenny won't like it.”

“It's for the best.”

“Geelda! What are you doing?” Gilda was startled to turn around and find Mrs. Mendelovich's kohl-rimmed, flashing eyes gazing into her own. “You are supposed to be on stage!” Mrs. Mendelovich grabbed her arm and yanked her toward the performance hall with surprising strength.

Gilda had no choice but to meekly follow Wendy's teacher into the performance hall.

26

The Page-Turner

 

Alone on the stage floor of the Holywell Music Room, Gilda felt slightly ridiculous sitting next to the grand piano in her “tainted royalty” outfit. She was aware of the many eyes gazing down upon her from the upper rows of the performance hall.

I am an experienced page-turner
, Gilda told herself, hoping that asserting this untruth might somehow make it a true fact.
I've done this a million times, and I'm the best in the business.

Professors Maddox and Waldgrave were greeted with a smattering of applause as they entered the performance hall. Carrying his cat under his arm, Professor Waldgrave strode across the room wearing a shapeless, oversize sweater that hung well past his hips—a sweater that resembled a bizarre minidress or a shortened version of a monk's hooded cloak. His face looked weary. Professor Maddox also looked tired: her eyes were noticeably puffy despite evidence of an attempt to brighten her dark undereye circles with concealer and blue eyeliner.

Maybe the two of them got into a big lover's quarrel last night
, Gilda mused. She gave them a little hello wave just to be friendly. Professor Maddox waved back politely, but Professor Waldgrave looked momentarily alarmed, as if Gilda had suddenly given him the finger.

“Good morning!” Professor Heslop strode into the room, projecting her voice into the upper rows. “I want to welcome everyone to the sight-reading portion of the Young International Virtuosos Competition. In a moment, I will unseal the sight-reading music for the first performer. None of the competitors has seen this music before. How do I know this? Because this rather difficult piece was only very recently composed by a graduate composition student here at Oxford University.”