Transcendence

With deft fingers, my mother reaches into the fire and flips a piece of flat bread, handing one to me. “For you, my son,” she says to me. I smile and reach into the bubbling green stew with a torn piece of bread as the fragrance of the spices make my mouth water in anticipation—

“You okay?” Rayne says, poking me in the side. “You look a little funny.”

I shake my head to clear it of the vivid images. The fragrant smell remains, and I realize that it’s the same spicy scent that’s coming from Gabi’s thermos.

“And since when do you speak Bengali?” Gabi asks.

“What are you talking about?” I say, feeling vague and distant. I wonder what they saw while I was out of it. Obviously I didn’t faint this time or they’d really be freaking out, but it was probably easy to see something happened.

“Bengali,” she says, looking at me sideways. “You were just staring off into space, and you said ‘ozasro dhanyabad.’ That means ‘thank you very much.’ The accent was a little weird, but that’s definitely what you said.”

The image lurks in the back of my mind, as clear as if it were a movie, except that I knew things about the scene that a person who’s simply watching wouldn’t. I felt things about it. The hunger, the anticipation, the happiness that came from being with my mother in our house. A pang of loneliness remains as I realize I miss that woman. The mother of a little boy who isn’t me.

“I, um … must have picked it up from the Indian restaurant we go to,” I say quickly, trying to cover up my confusion. I look at both of them and attempt a faint smile.

The happiness I’ve been feeling over Griffon evaporates, replaced by cold, hard dread. A familiar place, a strange smell—it doesn’t take much to sweep me into other lives in other times. My mind races, although I know there’s nowhere to go. The problem isn’t anywhere I can escape from—it’s all in my head.

Six

My shoulders relax and I can feel myself swaying to the rich, mellow sound that fills every open space. Flying over the strings, my fingers find the notes on their own as I fight to keep my conscious mind from interfering. My right hand holds the bow as it arcs back and forth, pulling the music from the deeply toned wooden body. As the last note resonates through the room, I hear clapping from the doorway and whirl around in alarm.

“That was amazing,” Veronique says, her eyes shining with delight. She walks all the way into the room. “I can’t imagine ever being able to play like that.”

I pause to catch my breath, feeling wrung out as I always do from the effort. “Thanks,” I say, immediately embarrassed. Mom must have let her in. I never play like that if I know anyone is standing there. I can handle playing in front of a few hundred people no problem, but one-on-one where I can see their reaction, where they almost participate in the music with me—no thanks.

“Who’s the composer? I didn’t recognize any of the score.”

I rest the cello’s neck against my collarbone and drop the bow back in the case. “It’s just something I did a couple of years ago,” I say. “Doesn’t even have a name.”

Veronique begins unpacking her cello, and I wonder if the name ‘Bono’ stuck. “Well, you can blow it off if you want,” she says, “but that was seriously, crazy good. You shouldn’t be wasting your time with students like me. You should be playing on stages around the world.”

I laugh. “You must be talking to my mother,” I say. “She says I was born to be a cellist.”

Veronique looks serious. “Mothers have a way of knowing what’s best. Maybe she knows what she’s talking about.” She glances toward the back of the house, where I can hear Mom watching TV. She leans in closer. “It was great to see you downtown last night,” she says. “Did you enjoy the restaurant?”

“Oh,” I stammer. “Um, yeah, it was great. Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Glad it worked out.” She pauses, but doesn’t reach for the bow. “You’re such a pretty girl. And so talented. You deserve a nice guy who treats you well.”

“Thanks.” I can feel my face getting hot. “I guess so. But really, we’re just friends.” I hope to God that Mom can’t hear our conversation. Anything that gets in the way of practice time is off limits in her world, and any kind of boyfriend is at the top of that list.

We begin working on the aria from the Goldberg Variations when Veronique stops in the middle of a bar.

“This part’s confusing,” she says, lifting her bow from the strings. “I can’t seem to get this phrase.”

I point to the sheet music. “This one here?”

She shifts the bow and points to another spot on the page. “No, this one.”

Our fingers touch just slightly, and I feel a shock, like the ones you get when you’ve been walking on carpet in your socks.

“Ow,” I say, flinching and pulling my hand back. Just as I speak, the smell of the ocean seems to fill the air.

The noise and movement are overwhelming as we step off of the ferry and onto the crowded dock. It seems as if there are hundreds of horses, carriages, men, and women crisscrossing the dusty street in front of us in all directions, and I look for someone familiar to slow my beating heart. Everyone around me babbles in a language I don’t understand, and the thought of being lost in an unfamiliar country is enough for panic to set in. I have always longed to see the world beyond our tiny village, but every time I’m thrust into this cacophony of sights and sounds it becomes almost too much for my eyes and heart.

“Welcome to San Francisco,” Alessandra says, appearing at my side. She smiles kindly at me and brushes some dust from her good skirts.

“It’s so busy,” I say, my eyes darting from one scene to the next. “Have you been here before?”

She shakes her head. “No, but trips to Paris, London, and New York helped me prepare.”

“Paris!” I say, not able to even imagine something so grand.

Alessandra leans toward me. “I played with Suggia there last spring.”

I take in a sharp breath. “Is she as good as they say?”

“Better,” Alessandra says with a grin.

She glances over the busy street before us. “You didn’t get much time to acclimate before we set off on this tour—you’ll get used to it. Still, San Francisco possesses its own rustic charms, I would say.”

“And two of this city’s most charming attractions look as if they’re in need of assistance,” Paolo says with a short bow, raising Alessandra’s hand to his lips. Turning to me, he makes the same gesture, his brown eyes glancing up with amusement as he grazes my skin. I shiver inwardly and cough in order to cover my reaction.

I fear that Alessandra will be jealous of Paolo’s attentions, but she is already turning to the matter of our trunks, which are starting to pile up beside us. As we walk toward the luggage, Signore Luisotti races up, the conductor’s usual frantic nature replaced by near hysteria, his customary cigar already chewed down to a nub.

“Idiots!” he shouts, his voice shrill with the rise in volume. “This country is populated by nothing but idiots and fools.”

“Relax, Antonio,” his wife soothes. Out of all of the adults in our group, Signora Luisotti is always the voice of reason. “We have plenty of time.”

Signore Luisotti pointedly takes his watch out of his small vest pocket to check the time. “Nonsense. Signore Sutter is expecting us in two hours, and we still have to make our way to the hotel first. We’ll never make it at this rate. Where are the rest of the trunks?”

As his shouts continue, Alessandra’s father appears with a flat cart loaded with the missing trunks and instruments.