The Ghost Sonata (7 page)

Gilda immediately opened her suitcase, placed her manual typewriter on the desk, and rolled in a piece of paper to begin the next installment of her travel diary.

 

Sitting on her bed in room number nine, Wendy could not match Gilda's enthusiasm for Wyntle House. She knew that, above all, she should be grateful that she had some privacy; she easily could have been stuck sharing a room with Ming Fong. But something about the room felt unlucky—possibly even dangerous. At home, Wendy often challenged her mother's penchant for strategically positioning furniture and placing “good-luck objects” in various corners of the house. “Seriously, Mom,” she would say, “how can putting an object in a particular spot actually affect your life?”

“Energy flow,” her mother always replied. “Flow of good or bad energy. For example: sharp object pointing at you—very bad, like knives.”

It was easier to be skeptical at home. Alone in England, she found the feng shui nightmare of her room in Wyntle House genuinely disturbing. She was painfully aware of the sharp rectangular shapes of virtually every object in the room pointing at her like daggers, the unfavorable placement of the bed, the sickly light blue and white colors that surrounded her on the curtains, bedspread, and wallpaper. The room seemed to be extending an invitation to bad luck.

Wendy opened her suitcase and unfolded the red silk dress her mother had given her. It clashed vibrantly with the demure, drab room. Suddenly overwhelmed by homesickness, Wendy found silent tears welling up as she thought of her mother innocently offering a red dress as a good-luck charm. Her mother had no clue that her daughter might literally be traveling into a nightmare.

I want to go home
, Wendy thought. The idea surprised her in its simplicity. For a brief moment, it seemed almost possible. After all, there might still be time to avoid the doom that might be awaiting her here in England. She could simply call her parents, ask them to change her return ticket, and her mother would pick her up at the airport. At home, she would be safer from the nightmares—from the unknown force that seemed to be hovering near her, drawing closer with each day.

Wendy imagined the phone conversation that would ensue if she actually did call her mother.

No, there was no way around it. Wendy decided she would simply have to be brave and face her nightmares on her own.

9

The Drawing of Numbers

 

Gilda and Wendy walked down St. Aldate's Street, past the soaring spires of Christ Church College and finally to the modern stone building that housed Oxford University's music faculty and practice rooms.

A white-haired man greeted them at the door and pointed to the Dennis Arnold Hall, where the drawing of numbers would take place.

The room buzzed with anxiety and excitement. Students, teachers, and parents glanced at one another, subtly attempting to discern who might pose the most serious competition. Gilda observed some bespectacled, rumpled-looking boys and a group of girls who dressed in neat skirts, Mary Jane shoes, and little cashmere gloves—girls who wore their long hair slicked back in ponytails and who clutched their music books to their chests.
Probably English boys and girls
, she told herself. There were also a few girls who slouched at the back of the room wearing low-slung jeans tucked into knee-high boots, as if they had just strolled into the Music Faculty Building from a day of shopping on High Street. A small group of exuberant boys speaking in boisterous Italian wore tracksuits, as if ready to warm up for an athletic event. Gilda spied Mrs. Mendelovich at the front of the room, enthusiastically embracing a plump balding man who kissed her on both cheeks.

Several people eyed Gilda with unconcealed curiosity because her netted “travel hat” was impossible to ignore.
They probably think I'm an eccentric English pianist
, she thought. A lanky teenage boy whose dark, shaggy hair framed his strikingly pale face slouched against a wall and watched her with particular interest.

Gilda smiled brightly and cracked her knuckles. “Can't wait to get up there and play me Rach Three!” she declared loudly in what she hoped was a Yorkshire accent. She knew Rachmaninoff 's Third Piano Concerto was supposed to be among the most difficult works for the piano.

“What do you think you're doing?” Wendy whispered.

“I'm psyching out our competition.”

“You're acting
weird.
Everyone's staring at you.”

“They're just freaking out because I mentioned the Rach Three.”

Wendy didn't have a chance to reply because a frumpy woman who stood at the front of the room, suddenly commanded everyone's attention.

“I want to welcome everyone to the fifth annual Young International Virtuosos Piano Competition!” she announced. “My name is Frieda Heslop; I'm a fellow of New College, and one of the organizers of this year's competition. I must say, we're very pleased indeed to have the competition return to Oxford University this year, and I trust you will have an inspiring experience in this very musical city. We are very pleased to have two eminent musicians as our jurors: Professors Nigel Waldgrave and Rhiannon Maddox. They may offer some brief verbal suggestions and comments following your first performance in the tradition of a master class—something that I think you'll all find beneficial. Finally, the famous Professor Eugene Winterbottom will also be one of our judges in the final round. As you well know, the standards to qualify for the competition are rigorous, so if you've made it here, you should already give yourself a nice pat on the back.”

Gilda gave Wendy an ironic little pat on the back, and Wendy rolled her eyes.

“And as the teachers in the room should be aware, the judges are not given the names or nationalities of performers until the conclusion of the competition. You will now draw a number, which you will keep for the preliminary and sight-reading rounds of the competition. Ten finalists will redraw prior to the final round, which will be held in the Sheldonian Theater. The number you draw will determine the order of performers and, of course, your performance times. So—fingers crossed, and hope for your lucky number!”

Polite murmurs rippled through the room as Professor Heslop picked up a straw hat that was resting upside down on one of the grand pianos. “When I call your name, please come to the front of the room and draw your performance number from the hat.”

Gilda and Wendy watched as a series of piano students walked to the front of the room, drew a piece of paper from the hat, and then walked back to their seats with inscrutable expressions.

“Try to draw a high number,” Gilda whispered. “That way, they'll remember you at the end of the competition. But not
too
high, otherwise, the judges will be bored and might not be listening anymore. Oh, and whatever you do, don't draw number one. Whoever draws number one can forget it.”

“Thanks,” said Wendy drily. “You're a huge help.”

“If you concentrate on the number you want, you might actually get it.”

“Ming Fong Chen!” Professor Heslop announced.

Ming Fong skipped to the front of the room and squeezed her eyes shut tightly as she reached into the hat, reminding Gilda of a child playing a silly game at a birthday party. She opened the piece of paper with extreme seriousness and walked slowly back to her seat.

“Maybe she drew number one,” Gilda whispered.

“Wendy Choy!”

Wendy sauntered to the front of the room and drew her number. She didn't look at the folded piece of paper until she returned to the back of the room and stood next to Gilda. When she opened it, her face wore the same pale, pinched expression Gilda had observed earlier that day.

“What's the matter?”

Again, Wendy had a very disturbing feeling of recognition, as if she were being pulled toward something she couldn't resist.

Gilda elbowed Wendy. “Let's see it!”

Wendy handed Gilda the piece of paper. The number 9 was clearly written in black ink.

Gilda stared at Wendy. “You've got that feeling again.”

Wendy nodded. “But I have no idea why.”

Gilda squinted at the number and noticed a distinct tickle in her left ear.
Something about the number nine is significant
, she thought.
But what is it?

Closing her eyes, Gilda concentrated on the number nine. An image entered her mind—a door with a number on it. Gilda visualized herself walking toward the door and opening it. Her eyes flew open when she realized she was picturing Wendy's room in Wyntle House.

“Hey!” Gilda declared, a bit too loudly, causing several teachers and students to shush her. “It's your room number, Wendy!” she whispered excitedly. “Your room in Wyntle House is also number nine!”

Wendy pulled her room key from her pocket and realized that Gilda was absolutely right; her room was number nine.

“Are you impressed? My psychic skills are really improving.”

“Maybe it's just your memory that's improving. Anyway, that's not such a huge coincidence, is it?”

Gilda suddenly remembered something else:
Wendy drew the Nine of Swords during her tarot card reading.
Gilda was about to share this revelation but then decided to keep this piece of information to herself; the tarot card reading was still a sore subject. “It's probably just a coincidence,” said Gilda. “Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“What if there's something weird about your room in Wyntle House?”

“Like what?”

“I have no idea. Just let me know if you notice anything odd, okay? And make sure you lock your door at night.”

“Thanks for being so reassuring.”

“Jenny Pickles!” Professor Heslop called from the front of the room.

For a brief moment, bad omens were forgotten. Gilda and Wendy gaped at each other with bug-eyed glee at one of the most hilarious names they had ever encountered in real life.

“Jenny Pickles!” Gilda whispered. “Can you believe it?”

Gilda and Wendy craned their necks to catch a glimpse of Jenny Pickles, and were both disappointed when a perfectly normal-looking red-haired girl walked briskly to the front of the room, her long curls bouncing. She was actually quite pretty. She also looked distinctly familiar.

“Hey, she was on the plane with us,” said Wendy. “And I think that's her mom over there.” Wendy pointed to a plump woman whose carrot-colored hair exactly matched her daughter's. With a flash of annoyance, Wendy remembered how the two of them had stared at her as they waited for their flight.

“There's no way that girl can win the competition,” Gilda whispered. “Can you imagine how the concert announcements would look? ‘Come see the London Symphony Orchestra—featuring Jenny Pickles!'”

“Thank you very much indeed,” said Professor Heslop, after the last numbers had been drawn. “Please don't forget to check the performance time for your number, which is posted in the lobby here in the Music Faculty Building. Remember—please arrive
early
at the Holywell Music Room for your performance tomorrow. Finally, very best of luck to all of you in the first round of the competition!”

As the musicians mingled and gathered their belongings, Ming Fong bounded toward Gilda and Wendy.

“What number did you get, Wendy?”

Wendy showed her the number nine.

“Hey, I have number
eight
!”

Gilda and Wendy both wondered the same thing: was the close proximity of Ming Fong's and Wendy's numbers an eerie omen, or was this simply a meaningless coincidence?

“Gary drew seven, and I told him I want to follow him. So funny I get the number I want! We get to wait backstage together!”