Notes from Juilliard

Chapter 2

Ranko cracked open the door to Studio 3A, and looked around. She smiled in satisfaction; the room was large, and had a high ceiling. Perfect. She’d had one look at the fitness room in Willson Hall, and had turned back to the elevator; a mouse couldn’t do martial arts in there.

There were mirrors and a bar along one wall, and light from the just-risen sun peeked in through the tall, narrow windows. She had the studio to herself; in fact, other than the pedestrians she’d passed while walking across the plaza from the Rose building to Juilliard, she hadn’t encountered another human being yet this morning.

She put her purse on a chair and shucked her sweats, revealing her leotard; she no longer wore the silk clothes she’d favored for so long. Since Kasumi had finally started college at her sisters’ prodding, they had all been pitching in with the household chores, and Ranko had finally learned just how much of a burden her laundry needs had been for her eldest sister. The silk clothes had to be washed by hand, every single day. She couldn’t believe Kasumi had never said anything about it.

Once she’d learned the truth, her silk clothes had been retired except for dressy nights out, and she’d sought more practical workout clothes. She’d tried a gi again at first, like she’d worn on the road with her father, but found it a little constricting. The leotard was a good compromise between freedom of motion and practicality.

She padded out into the center of the studio and started warming up, eyeing the clock on the wall: 6:15 AM. There was no shrine to bow to, so she bowed to the rising sun, barely visible down the canyon of 65th Street. She moved on to her katas, and immediately lost herself in the Art.

Without a sparring partner, she’d really need to push herself, and so she launched into her most advanced and difficult katas, moving through each one with the precision and grace born of a lifetime of practice. When she was done, she moved on to free-form exercises. She conjured an imaginary opponent, and went all out. Kicks, punches, sweeps, flips; she pulled out every move in her arsenal, save her limited repertoire of ki moves—she didn’t want to cause any damage. Her opponent went on the offensive, and she launched a furious Chestnut Fist, repelling the attack and pressing her own.

She and her nonexistent rival moved to aerial combat; Ranko bounced off the walls, attacking in mid-air. A fine sheen of sweat developed on her brow and arms as she careened around the studio.

She drew forth a ki staff, a variation on Akane’s ki mallet that she had developed herself, and went through a couple of minutes of armed combat. It had the disadvantage that it took a constant drain on her ki reserves to maintain it—unlike the mallet, which came and went in a matter of moments—but it was very handy to be able to pull a weapon out of nowhere, even if it was just a staff. She could maintain it for two or three minutes before it started to tax her.

Finally, after using her staff to vault over her imaginary opponent’s head, she allowed it to dissipate, went into another furious series of punches and kicks, flipped head over heels back into a corner, and bowed, finished. She glanced at the clock and smiled: 7:16 AM. She’d timed herself perfectly.

She blew out her breath; that had been an intense workout, but it had been sorely lacking in one important respect: an imaginary opponent could never, ever surprise you. She badly needed to find a real person to spar with. She turned towards the chair where she’d left her sweats and purse…

…and found a group of three women and one man sitting on the chairs by the side of the room, watching intently. They were all wearing leotards, they were all about her age save for one woman in her thirties, and they were all staring at her, their mouths making little round o’s. She’d sensed them entering the room earlier, but her mind had been focused on the Art and she’d forgotten they were there.

Ranko blushed slightly. “Uhh… good morning?”

The others shook themselves out of their daze, and responded “Good morning.” They rose and started going through stretching exercises. Ranko realized they were probably dance students, here to practice just as she was. The older woman came over to speak to her.

Ranko spoke first. “I sorry, I in your way?”

The woman shook her head, smiling. “No, not at all. What was that you were doing just now?”

“Is martial art, called Kenpo, or Kung Fu.”

“Do you do this every morning?”

“Yes, I must practice every day. I can go some other place.”

“There’s no need for that. You’re not in the way at all. We were all just admiring your performance, is all.” She shook her head again. “You know, I had a boyfriend once who loved Hong Kong action movies. He always dragged me to see them, and I always used to rib him about how impossible all the stunts were. I guess I owe him an apology the next time I see him; what you did made those movies look like child’s play.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Sarah Edelman, by the way. I’m a professor in the Dance division.”

Ranko offered her own hand, and they shook briefly. “My name is Sao… Ranko Saotome. I student of Music Division, with Professor Vasilev.”

Sarah smiled, her eyes crinkling. “So you’re one of Peter’s students? Too bad; I was hoping I’d get a chance to work with you this year after watching you in action.”

Ranko blushed. “Thank you. I think when I young that I be martial arts teacher, but I decide like music better. I play violin.”

Sarah nodded. “Well, if you ever want to try some dance, just let me know.”

Ranko laughed. “All right.” She looked around at the students. “You teach class now?”

“No, the school year hasn’t started yet. But some of my students are here on campus already, and dancers need to practice every day, too.” She smiled. “Even the ones who teach.” They both laughed. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Saotome.” She waved goodbye, and went off to start warming up herself.

Ranko waved back, and went over to collect her things. She looked around, but there were no showers to be found; Professor Vasilev must have been mistaken. She put her sweats back on, grabbed her purse and went to the door. She paused a moment to observe the dance students as they moved through their own exercises, then smiled and left.

Ranko sighed a contented sigh as she rode the elevator back up from the cafeteria. After showering and blow-drying her hair, she’d changed into jean shorts and a tank top, and put her hair up, as it looked to be a rather warm day in the making. She’d headed down to the cafeteria, where she’d had a satisfying if unspectacular breakfast. The food was nothing special, but it still beat what she’d eaten on the road with her father… not to mention her twin sister’s cooking. The portions had been really small, though, and she’d had to go back for fourths before she was done.

She walked into her suite, and found that the door that had been closed last night was now cracked open. She peeked in, and found the room in about the same state of disorder as her own, and unoccupied. She hoped she’d get a chance to meet the occupant soon. She briefly imagined spending the whole school year this way, missing each other and never meeting, and laughed.

She headed back to her own room, and set about unpacking in earnest. The clothes went in drawers and in the closet; she was careful to take only half the available space. Her violin and music stand went next to her desk. She was getting a little old for dolls, but she’d brought one with her: Kasumi, the rag doll from her childhood. She would never, ever outgrow Kasumi. She was ensconced in a place of honor on Ranko’s bed.

Her music books and notebooks went in the desk drawers. She hadn’t brought any supplies, preferring to buy them here rather than haul them from Japan. No CD’s or novels, either: Nabiki-neechan had helped her transfer her favorite music to the notebook computer’s ample hard drive, and she planned to practice her English reading skills by buying books here. If she was going to be a professional violinist and travel around the world, she was going to have to be fluent in English, simply because it was the only language the world had in common.

In less time than she would have thought possible, the trunk was unpacked, everything was put away, and her room was looking… depressingly bare. She sighed. Art… knick-knacks… posters… something. She needed to go shopping, soon, to make it look a little less like a monk’s cell.

She wrestled the trunk out into the living room; it would be picked up and put into storage later in the day. She headed back to her room to finish her e-mail to Akane.

She spent a half hour chronicling her flight and the friend she’d made, her encounter with Jean-Pierre at the airport, her misadventures in Customs, and all the other things that had transpired yesterday and this morning. When she was done, she read it through again, corrected a few errors, then sent it off, hoping Akane would keep up her end of the correspondence. Perhaps if she wrote every day, her sister would, too. She continued to stare at the screen for a moment; while she’d been writing, she’d been talking to her sister. Now, Akane was 11,000 kilometers away once more.

She closed the lid on her computer, and sat back in her chair. The room was deathly quiet, save for the faint rumble of the building ventilation system and the traffic noises coming in the window. There were none of the sounds she was used to, of the life of a large family. Her gaze wandered around, and landed on the clock on her desk: 9:47 AM.

Now what?

She sighed; once school started, she’d have plenty to keep her busy: classes, practice, performances, school activities, a part-time job. At the moment, though, she had no idea what to do with herself. She needed to practice today, but planned to do that after lunch, as she preferred to work straight through when possible. The residence hall had two soundproof practice rooms on each floor; she had only to walk out her suite door when she wanted to use one of them.

Maybe she should get started on her chores and errands? She got out a piece of paper and wrote in English:

To-do List

Not at home telephone machine

Posters, Art

Find ATM

Find ice cream store

Find book store, music store

Find job

Get bank account

Find martial arts practice partner

That last gave her an idea; she got out another sheet of paper:

Wanted: Practice partner for martial arts

Must know Kenpo, Kung Fu

Must be at least black belt, tenth dan

Contact Ranko Saotome, extension 5-7945

It was a long shot to find someone that advanced among the student body at Juilliard, but it was worth putting a sign up just in case.

She grabbed her purse, her to-do list, and her sign, and headed back downstairs. She emerged in the lobby to find Tom Jefferson, the security guard.

She smiled. “Hello, Mr. Jefferson. You are here today?”

He smiled back and nodded. “Yes, Ms.… Saotome, isn’t it?” She nodded. “I’m usually here in this building; yesterday I was filling in for someone.”

She held out her to-do list. “Mr. Jefferson, can you maybe help me find some of these things? I would be very happy.” She smiled.

Tom Jefferson was a nice guy to begin with, but a smile from a beautiful girl never hurt, either. “Sure thing, Ms. Saotome. Let me see…” He looked over her list. “There’s a big bookstore chain on the other side of Broadway; they have posters and CDs, too, so I think that will take care of those. There’s a CitiBank branch at Amsterdam Avenue and 67th street, a few blocks away. A lot of the international students like them, because they have lots of branches overseas.” He jotted that down on her list. “Ice Cream…” He scratched his chin. “How often do you eat ice cream?”

“Very often.”

He grinned. “Well, you won’t want to go to the fancy places downtown, then; you have to take the subway to get there. There’s an OK place across the street, next to the bookstore.” She nodded.

He frowned. “‘Not at home telephone machine’? Do you mean an answering machine?”

“Uhh… is machine that record message when not at home.”

“That’s called an answering machine. There are places on 47th street that are really cheap, but they only take cash, and they can be hard to deal with.”

Ranko shivered; she remembered the dickering Nabiki-neechan had engaged in when they’d gone to Akihabara to get her computer. No thanks. “Is there cheap place that is easier?”

“Sure, there’s a place down near Wall Street. Do you have a subway map?” She shook her head, and he reached into his desk and pulled one out. “Now, we’re here—” he pointed, “and this place is down here—” he pointed again. “You have to go to the 66th Street station, and take the number 1 train on the Seventh Avenue line down to Park Place. It would be faster to change trains but since this is your first time on the subway…” She nodded.

His eyes traveled downwards on her list. “Martial arts practice partner? I’m afraid I can’t help you there.” He smiled, and she smiled too. “And a job… the school can help you. Just go to the Student Life office, and they’ll help you find something.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Jefferson! You big, big help.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Saotome.”

She inclined her head to him, and headed off to the laundry room with a cheery wave. She found the bulletin board, and started collecting unused push pins.

A male student came over from his seat next to the dryers and read her ad as she tacked it up. “Must be at least a black belt, tenth dan? I thought that was as high as it went?”

Ranko just smiled, and left.

Ranko fumed as she sat on the number 1 train, waiting to get to 66th Street. Like the Tokyo subway, the New York subway went everywhere, was convenient, and had a train every few minutes. Unlike the Tokyo subway, it looked old, was not sparkling clean… and in some places, it smelled. She wrinkled her nose. No men in immaculate uniforms with white gloves dispatching trains here.

Also like the Tokyo subway, there was no shortage of guys eager to ogle you, or occasionally try to feel your butt. She was glad she was female, but there were some aspects that, to be blunt, sucked. This was number one, edging out her “monthly visitor,” as Kasumi-neechan liked to put it.

She noticed that while she was getting the usual number of lewd stares, she wasn’t getting anything in the way of fondling attempts. She’d thought that looking 16 years old would stop the creeps back home, but underage girls seemed to be a preferred target if anything. Maybe things were different here.

And so she sat, clutching the flimsy plastic bag holding her newly purchased answering machine (which, she’d noticed with some amazement, cost about half what the same Japanese brand did back home), and silently endured four separate guys undressing her with their eyes at the same time.

A young man in a business suit sat next to her, rather closer than he should have given the empty space on the train; she sighed. He grinned, and slid over closer. A moment later, he expelled his breath sharply, and slid away, grimacing. Ranko retracted her elbow.

The train slowed and pulled into 66th Street station, and with a sigh of relief she got up and got off. All in all, that hadn’t been too bad an errand. She had quite a bit of the cash she’d withdrawn left over, too, since the price had been so much lower than she’d expected.

She climbed the stairs from the subway into bright sunlight and humid heat; the weather reminded her of home. She strolled slowly down Broadway, enjoying the alien sights and sounds of New York City, feeling rather less disoriented than she had the previous afternoon. She looked in the shop windows, watched the pedestrians going about their business, listened to the noise of the cars and buses, caught glimpses at the intersections of Central Park a few blocks to the east.

She got to 65th Street and crossed over Broadway to the large chain bookstore Mr. Jefferson had mentioned. She pushed her way through the revolving door, and immediately hit a wall of frigid air. She spent a minute reading the store map hanging near the entrance, then headed for the art department.

Since it wasn’t a specialized art store, it didn’t have a huge collection, but she hoped it would suffice. She headed for the posters, looking for something to tack up on the cinder block wall over her bed. They were arranged in a rack, packed together so tightly that you had to wrestle with them a bit to get a good look.

She flipped through them, one after the other: nature photos, abstract art, a few Impressionists, Andy Warhol, old movie posters. She was just thinking that one of the nature photos she had passed earlier might be OK when she stopped short, her jaw slightly open. Slowly, a smile crept over her face.

She’d found a spectacular poster-size photo of Mount Fuji in Autumn. Just what the doctor ordered for a homesick Japanese girl. Spring and cherry blossoms would have been better, but she wasn’t about to complain.

She withdrew the poster from the rack, took some of the mounting supplies sitting on a shelf above the posters, and headed for the register. The room could use more than one piece of art, but this was a good start. As she stood in line, on impulse she snagged a copy of the New York Times, too. She wasn’t normally a newspaper person, but thought it would be a good way to learn more about her home for the next nine months.

She handed over a little bit more of her cash hoard, and headed out the door into the muggy heat with a strong sense of accomplishment. She’d just spent the morning navigating the New York City transit system, stretching her English skills, and shopping in a foreign currency, and she’d managed pretty well, all in all. She stepped forth lightly as she crossed Broadway with the other pedestrians, suddenly feeling like maybe she fit in, after all. Ranko Saotome, New Yorker?

She hurried her pace as she crossed the plaza, as it was getting close to one o’clock and she was starving. She had signed up for the 19 meal weekly plan because it was the most offered, but if they’d had a 28 meal plan she would have signed up for that. She decided to head straight for the cafeteria rather than drop her purchases in her room first; she didn’t want to wait to ride the elevator up to the seventeenth floor and then back down again.

She pushed through the cafeteria doors, and the aromas brought a smile to her face. As she got in line with her tray, she noticed that the same lady who had served her that morning was now doling out sandwiches; their gazes met, and the woman smiled. She wondered why, until she got to the head of the line and pointed at the tuna salad sandwich; the woman promptly handed her two of them. Ranko looked up at her, surprised; her gaze was met with a knowing, affectionate smile.

She smiled back. “Can I maybe have one more, please?”

Ranko frowned, and flipped the page back to the beginning of the Paganini Caprice number 24 in A minor. This piece was a perfect illustration of her problem. It was simple for her to play it perfectly… but it still didn’t come out the way she wanted, the way it should. It was too sterile, too dull. For her to add life to it was exhausting work, and only partly successful.

Thanks to nearly five years of study, she was exercising her knowledge of music theory rather than the brute force of her martial arts skills. It wasn’t just a sequence of notes any more, like the grains of rice she’d written her name with; she could see the structure of the music she played, the framework hidden beneath the surface. She’d played endless scales and exercises to train her body to play on that level, to the point where it was nearly automatic; her mind was freed up for interpretation and artistry.

But that was exactly the problem. Technically, she was superb, but she had difficulty infusing her music with emotional content. Her playing had the cold, hard brilliance of a polished gemstone. Paradoxically, when she’d been just starting out and making plenty of mistakes, she’d been far more successful at conveying feeling. Somehow, while perfecting her playing, she’d thrown the baby out with the bathwater. And she had no idea how to find it again.

Her problem was less noticeable with highly structured music such as the Baroque or early Classical repertoire, but the more emotional, passionate, or wild the music, the more she ran into trouble. Her renditions of anything from the Romantic period onward especially, while perfectly adequate, were just that: adequate. That was not the level she aspired to.

Even with Bach, her early success had left her unprepared for the difficulties she had in trying to convey a deeper interpretation of his music. In that enormous ocean, she felt like she was just an oblivious tourist wiggling her toes in the surf.

All her considerable skill would be worthless if she couldn’t move her audience with her playing. She knew that she would not reach her full potential if she didn’t solve this problem. She had been extraordinary as a beginner… but she wasn’t a beginner any more. Now, she had to prove herself as a performer in a much more critical arena. Many a prodigy had fallen by the wayside trying to move beyond mere technical mastery.

Having discovered her gift so late in life, she was determined to make the most of it, and she was convinced that she had a ways to go yet. She knew she could do better than this. She just didn’t know how.

That was a big part of the reason she was here in New York. Professor Murata had hoped that the finest music school in America could help her through the roadblocks that were frustrating her. New York was the center of the violin world, and to New York she had come, in search of inspiration.

She considered playing the Caprice one more time, but she was starting to feel tired. She glanced at the clock on the wall of the practice room, and gaped; it was already 6 PM! She needed to quit—practicing while fatigued was worse than futile. The jet lag wasn’t helping, either; she felt like she’d been up all night.

She packed her violin back in its case, and let herself out of the soundproof practice room. The door to her suite was open, and from inside came the noises of busy activity. Ranko smiled; at least she’d have some company now.

She stuck her head in the door and looked around. Mystery Suitemate appeared to be out at the moment, there was a steamer trunk not unlike her own sitting in the middle of the living room, and sounds were coming from two of the bedrooms. One of them was her own.

First things first. She went to the door of her room, and found it nearly filled up by two people and a number of boxes.

One was a tall young woman about her own age, wearing a purple t-shirt and blue jeans. Her skin was the color of chocolate; her black hair was back tight in a bun, and gold wireframe granny glasses rested on her elegant nose. She had a refined air about her, and her large brown eyes spoke of a deep, hungry intelligence.

The other was an even taller, wiry middle-aged man; his skin was the same color, and his close-cropped hair was shot with flecks of gray. He was wearing slacks and a white dress shirt, its sleeves rolled up. He shared the same penetrating, scrutinizing gaze, and wore glasses as well. They both turned when they noticed her standing in the doorway.

Ranko smiled nervously. “Hello, my name Ranko Saotome. I am with this bed,” she pointed. “I guess we are roommate. I very pleased to meet you.”

The young woman and the man exchanged a smile, and she came over to stand before Ranko. Loom over her was more like it; she was much taller even than Akane, and the older man was a veritable giant. Ranko reached out her hand in anticipation.

The young woman eyed Ranko’s proffered hand for a moment, and her face assumed an oddly familiar passive expression. She clasped her hands in front of her, and said in flawless, unaccented Japanese, “My name is Tish Williams.” She bowed at a precise forty-five degree angle, held it a moment, then straightened up. “I’m very pleased to meet you.” Ranko’s jaw dropped. She suddenly recognized the facial expression: it was standard procedure for a refined Japanese lady when meeting a stranger.

Ranko scrambled to recover and hurriedly bowed in response. “Your… your Japanese is excellent, Tish-san!”

Tish politely held a hand over her mouth and tittered, as any traditional young Japanese lady would. “Oh, no, please don’t say that. I’m so embarrassed!” Ranko’s eyes bulged.

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and both women turned to the man. “Stop showing off, honey.”

Tish switched smoothly to English, her manner shifting abruptly from Japanese lady to American woman. “Sorry about that.” She switched to a nasal voice: “Paging Dr. Williams, paging Dr. Williams. Please report for introduction.” The older man stepped forward, sparing an irritated glance for Tish. “Saotome-san, this is my father, Dr. Joseph Williams.”

Ranko eyed the man warily until he held a hand out; then she reached out her own and shook it. His handshake was firm but carefully gentle. “I very glad to meet you, Dr. Williams.”

“And I you, Ms. Saotome. When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday, I come from Tokyo.”

“I must say, you’re a dream come true for Tish. She’s always looking for victims to practice her Japanese with. Or should I say, on?”

“Daddy!” scolded Tish.

A wry grin split his face. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

Tish sighed. “I’ve only just met you, and I’ve already been found out.” She bowed again. “Sensei, please…” Her father cleared his throat again, and she switched back to English. “Sensei, please help me practice my Japanese.”

Ranko smiled. “OK, but two condition.”

Tish raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“One, you must help me practice English. My English much worse than your Japanese.” She bowed. “Please?”

Tish brightened. “I’ll do my best. And the other?”

Ranko grinned. “You no call me ‘Sensei.’ Not call ‘Saotome-san,’ either. Must say ‘Ranko.’”

Tish smiled warmly. “Sure thing. ‘Ranko’ it is.”

Ranko smiled a moment, then noticed the clutter. “I sorry, please go ahead and unpack. I go to cafeteria for dinner, get out of way.”

Dr. Williams shook his head. “You’re not in the way. I was going to take Tish out for dinner in a little while; would you like to come along?”

Ranko never, ever turned down a dinner invitation if she could help it. “I would be very happy, Dr. Williams. Thank you so much.” She put her violin case next to the desk, her books back in the desk drawer, and leapt up onto her bed, where she sat cross-legged to watch. “Now I not in way.” She smiled.

Dr. Williams blinked. “You’re quite an athlete, Ranko. That was some jump.” Ranko blushed and smiled, and watched as Dr. Williams and his daughter returned to unpacking.

Unlike herself, Tish had brought her belongings in cardboard boxes and one suitcase; she couldn’t have traveled by airplane. “You live in New York?”

Dr. Williams responded as they shuttled clothing into the closet. “No, Boston. Cambridge, to be exact. I drove Tish down today, and I’ll be driving back tomorrow.”

Tish added, “We used to live in Manhattan, but we moved to Boston at the beginning of my last year of high school.” Her voice sounded just as cheerful as it had earlier, but it seemed a bit… hollow.

“Why you move to Boston?”

Dr. Williams seemed to suddenly become embarrassed. “I, uhhh, took a new job.”

Tish sniffed. “How very modest of you, Fahhthah. Fahhthah was offered a proh-fessahhship at the Haahhvahd Medical School.” Ranko shivered slightly; Tish was somehow reminding her of Kunou Kodachi.

Ranko didn’t know much about American schools, but she had heard the name before. “Oh, that very famous, no?” Dr. Williams just continued to look embarrassed. “You are doctor?”

He recovered his aplomb somewhat. “A psychiatrist, actually.”

Ranko frowned. “What is a ‘psychiatrist’?”

“A doctor who treats illnesses of the mind.” Ranko nodded in understanding; she knew the concept, but hadn’t known the English word.

“But we’re all crazy in our family,” added Tish. “The cobbler’s children go barefoot, right?” and in a lower voice, “Right.” Normal voice: “Shhh! He’ll find out about you.” Lower voice: “He already knows.” Ranko laughed, though she had no idea what a cobbler was, and Dr. Williams rolled his eyes.

Ranko was still smiling. “Who else in your family?”

“My crazy family? Just me, Dad, and my little brother Thomas.” Both the Williams’ faces grew somber, even as they continued unpacking boxes.

Ranko bit her lip. “I am sorry…”

Dr. Williams shook his head. “No, it’s all right. I’ve been divorced for many years now.” Ranko noticed that the passive expression had returned to Tish’s face.

The conversation stalled, and Ranko watched as Dr. Williams unloaded dog-eared volumes of Shakespeare, Ibsen, Aeschylus, O’Neill, Chekov, Monzaemon, and the like onto Tish’s shelves. Tish was loading her drawers with the clothing and other items that didn’t go in a closet.

Dr. Williams cleared his throat. “How about you, Ranko? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Ranko smiled. “Kind of yes. My parents have no more children, but our family has other friend family, very close. Three daughter, all like sister to me. Youngest and I like twin sister; we grow up together.” She peeked over the edge of the bed and pointed down at her desk. “There are pictures.”

Tish and Dr. Williams paused a moment from their labors to peer at Ranko’s photo collage. They smiled at the photo of two little girls with their cheeks pressed together. “This must be you and her, right?”

“Yes, her name Akane Tendou. In family picture she next to me, tallest woman. Older sister Nabiki with short hair, oldest sister Kasumi with long hair. Their father is tall man with long hair and… uhhh… hair on mouth. Their mother dead many years ago, very sad.”

Dr. Williams nodded. “That’s called a mustache, by the way.” He pointed. “This woman wearing the kimono looks a lot like you. Your mother?”

“Yes. My father man with glasses, wearing gi.” Dr. Williams noted that Ranko’s parents were not standing next to each other. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Tish grinned. “And who’s this cute guy here, wearing a bandanna? He seems to have an arm around a certain redhead.” She and her father turned away and went back to their unpacking; they were nearly done.

Ranko blushed. “He is Ryouga Hibiki, my… uhh… man I will marry. I don’t know English word.”

Dr. Williams smiled. “Your fiancé? When are you two getting married?”

“June, soon after I go home to Japan.” She smiled a very happy smile that said far more about her fiancé than any words could.

“Wow, this is a big year for you. Have you known him a long time?”

Ranko nodded. “Since… ahh… school before high school.”

“That’s called junior high school.” Dr. Williams smiled. “Childhood sweethearts, eh? That’s nice, you’ve been together a long time already. That’s a good start for a happy marriage.”

An image flashed unbidden through Ranko’s mind: bandanna-clad boy in junior high uniform, wielding umbrella and screaming “Ranma! Prepare to die!” “We not in love at beginning. We fight first, for a few years.” She smiled, bemused, at the memories.

Tish snorted. “Usually it’s the other way around.” Dr. Williams looked embarrassed again, and Ranko shifted uncomfortably on her bed.

After a few moments, Tish’s father remarked, “I take it from the instrument that you’re a violinist?” Ranko nodded. “What does your fiancé do?”

“He is martial artist. When graduate from university, he teach at dojo. I also martial artist, think I be teacher when young, but like violin better.” She smiled.

Dr. Williams and Tish had put the last of her items away, and were collapsing the cardboard boxes and stacking them against the wall. “A martial artist? Really?” He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I did some of that to stay in shape, when I was in the Air Force.” He smiled sheepishly. “I never got very far, and I’ve forgotten most of it. I play tennis these days. How about you?”

Ranko had her own sheepish smile. “I also stop doing martial arts as much. I still practice every morning one hour, but not as good like before. Then I practiced every day many hour.”

While her father folded the last of the boxes, Tish took a cardboard tube from her desk and waved it at Ranko. “Wait until you see what I’ve got here.” She withdrew a poster from inside and unfurled it with a flourish, holding it up for Ranko’s inspection. “Ta-daa! Mt. Fuji in Spring—with cherry blossoms!” She grinned. “Well?”

She scratched her head as Ranko burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?”

12:37 AM.

Ranko wished she hadn’t looked down at the clock on her desk. She sighed and rolled over on her back again, resuming her contemplation of the ceiling. Last night she’d been exhausted, and sleep had come quickly and easily. Tonight she was merely tired, and a part of her was loudly insisting that it was the middle of the day—time to get up and do things, lazybones! She wished she could use her ki mallet on it and get it to shut up.

She glanced over at the other loft bed; Tish was sound asleep. No jet lag between Boston and New York. Behind Tish was her poster of Mt. Fuji in Spring, serenely regarding its equally serene twin across the way, Mt. Fuji in Autumn. Neither of them saw fit to share any of their serenity with Ranko.

Her mind drifted back over her evening; she’d had fun. She and the Williamses had left the room, on their way out for dinner, and had been waylaid by three of their suitemates. The other women had insisted that a pizza party was just the thing for them all to get to know one another, and Tish and her father had readily agreed.

They’d chatted while waiting for the pizza delivery, and Ranko had finally met Mystery Suitemate: Harya Prakash, an oboist from Bangalore, India who’d been struggling with severe jet lag for the last couple of days. Ranko reflected sadly that she’d be able to commiserate much more readily tomorrow. Harya was about Ranko’s height and had long black hair; Ranko was delighted to find someone she could look in the eye without craning her neck.

Then there was Megan Johnson, a pretty, blonde soprano from Houston who spoke with a thick accent Ranko had some difficulty understanding. Ranko thought she would make a perfect Brunhilde, but wondered what Wagner would sound like with a Texas twang.

The third woman was Megan’s roommate, Susan Burnes, also a soprano, from Edinburgh, Scotland who spoke in a soft burr and was equally incomprehensible to Ranko, and to Megan as well. Tish was amused at having to serve as interpreter on occasion. Susan was a redhead as well, although of a much darker, smokier shade than Ranko, and with freckles to boot.

The three other women were freshman and a bit younger. One double and one single room still stood empty; the remaining three women were returning students and wouldn’t be here for another week or so, towards the end of orientation. Tish was a senior like Ranko, but Dr. Williams had a conference he had to attend the following week and so had driven her down early. She could have taken the train but didn’t mind spending an extra week in New York in return for door-to-door transportation.

Ranko had had the presence of mind to order a pie all for herself. She’d tried to order one with corn, with no success; the other women had been sure she was joking, until Tish and her father had backed her up, having developed a taste for corn pizza themselves. It turned out that Dr. Williams’ stint in the Air Force had been entirely at Yokota AFB, the large U.S. base northwest of Tokyo, and the family had lived in Japan for several years; it was no wonder that Tish was so familiar with things Japanese. Ranko had been curious to find out more, but the conversation had turned to other topics.

They’d each chatted about their art, and how they’d come to attend Juilliard. The others had listened, fascinated, as Ranko recounted the roundabout way she had become a violinist. Susan had always wanted to be an opera singer since she was a child; Megan had had thoughts of being a country and western singer, but had slowly been drawn into opera through her own interest and the guidance of a music teacher. Harya had found the oboe when she was twelve, and had fallen in love with it. Tish had merely smiled and said she’d always liked make-believe; the look in Dr. Williams’ eyes left Ranko feeling there was more to it than that.

The pizza deliveryman had arrived to find an impromptu jam session in progress: Megan and Susan singing a duet from Mozart’s “Cosi Fan Tutte,” with Ranko and Harya playing a (rather thin) accompaniment. Fortunately, the two roommates sang Italian rather more clearly than they spoke English. Tish and her father had been happy to sit back and enjoy the music.

Ranko had been nonplussed by the pizza; it was nothing like what she was used to in Japan. Still, it was pretty good, and the others had watched, incredulous, as she slowly devoured an entire pie. They’d asked how she could possibly be so small and eat so much, and Ranko had replied casually that when she’d been doing martial arts for real, she’d eaten much more. Megan had joked that she was like a little red hummingbird, eating her own weight in food every day, and they’d all laughed.

Ranko was surprised to find that she was the only one with a steady boyfriend, much less a fiancé; the others found it was hard to spend so much time practicing and still have time to date. Harya fretted that even though she came from an educated, well-off family, she might get stuck in an arranged marriage that would effectively terminate her career. Megan spoke of how she and her high school boyfriend had drifted apart as she’d made the decision to be an opera singer; he’d been uncomfortable with the idea of her having a career other than as his wife. Ranko had been shocked; she had thought that things like that were no longer an issue in America. Susan and Tish had been conspicuously quiet during the discussion, other than to say they were currently unattached, and no one prodded them for details.

When Dr. Williams had excused himself to head for his hotel room, they’d noticed it was quite late, and they’d all gone to bed. Sadly, Ranko had not gone to sleep.

Against her better judgment, she peeked over the edge of the bed again; it was now 1:14 AM. How was she ever going to manage to get up at 6 for her training session? She turned over and stared at Mt. Fuji in Autumn, and started counting the leaves on the trees in the foreground.

Her thoughts slowly became incoherent, and she found herself in junior high school again, thirteen years old. She seemed to be walking down the hall in slow motion; on the way to PE, perhaps? Yes, that was it.

Though it was an all-boys school, it seemed natural to her that she was wearing a girl’s uniform, and was a girl: Ranko, not Ranma. She became aware that she was holding someone’s hand, and looked over to her side; it was Ryouga, the junior high version, and he was smiling at her. Childhood sweethearts? she thought, and smiled herself. She gripped his hand a little tighter.

They came to the locker rooms; there were two doors, marked “Boys” and “New York.” Ryouga let go of her hand and said sadly, “You have to go now.” She nodded. They shared a kiss, and she pushed her way through the door marked “New York.” It slammed shut behind her, and she heard a click, as of a latch. It was pitch black, and she turned and alternately pounded and yanked on the door, but it wouldn’t budge, and suddenly it wasn’t even there. Then a sound came, a sound she often heard in her dreams—or rather, her nightmares. First one. Then another. Then many… so many…

“Meowwwwww…”

Tish’s eyes popped halfway open as she gave a little gasp and started. She groggily turned her head towards the other bed, the source of the noise that had awakened her. Ranko was shaking her head back and forth, and moaning in Japanese: “No… No… the cats… Daddy, the cats… make them go away! Please, Daddy… Please… No… make them go away, oh please Daddy!!” She grew more and more agitated.

Tish climbed sleepily out of her loft bed, nearly falling to the floor in the process. She glanced at the clock and groaned; it was quarter to three. She was tall enough to see over the edge of Ranko’s bed, and lightly shook the redhead’s arm. She murmured in informal Japanese, “Wake up… it’s all right, it’s only a dream… you’re safe, the cats are gone.”

Ranko stirred, though she was still mostly asleep. “S-sis? ’zat you?”

Tish raised an eyebrow; Ranko had used the English word “Sis,” pronounced in a Japanese way, rather than the Japanese “big sister” or “little sister.” Her thoughts went to the two little girls in the photo on Ranko’s desk, and she smiled in understanding. “I’m here, Sis. You’re safe.” She stroked Ranko’s hair.

Ranko smiled, her eyes still closed, and rolled back over on her side. Her breathing became regular and quiet.

Tish regarded her sleeping roommate for a long minute, her expression sober, then climbed back into bed herself.

Ranko shivered as she pushed her way through the doors and was greeted by a chilly breeze. She was glad Tish had told her to bring a sweater, and she slipped it on right away. Then she noticed the view. “Wow…” she breathed.

Tish grinned. “You can see everything from up here. All the way out to Long Island, New Jersey, out to sea, up the Hudson. Pretty cool, huh?”

Ranko rushed to the protective cage which kept people from falling to the pavement of 34th Street far below. She pressed her nose to the wires and peered through, her eyes wide. The tallest building in Tokyo was a mere fifty stories or so. There had been talk of building higher ones, but the Japanese were still too terrified of earthquakes, even though the top of a modern skyscraper was far safer in a big earthquake than was the first floor of a traditionally constructed Japanese home.

“We’re only eighty-six stories up now. The observation tower is a hundred and two.” Tish’s eyes lost focus, and a cloud passed over her face for a moment before her smile returned.

Ranko was silent; her attention was focused entirely on the vista before her. It was late August, so the view was attenuated somewhat by haze, but she could still see a long, long way in every direction. The Empire State Building’s lesser brethren stood guard around it, and beyond them, far below, lay all of New York City and a good part of what lay beyond. To the South she could see the Verazzano Narrows bridge, the entrance to New York Harbor. She couldn’t make out the Statue of Liberty; it was too short, too close to lower Manhattan, and hidden behind the tall buildings. It was like being in an airplane, but she was outside, feeling the breeze, with nothing between her and all that vast expanse but a wire security cage. She grinned.

Orientation started on Sunday, tomorrow, and this was her one free day remaining. (Tish, a returning student, didn’t need to attend.) Of course, Ranko still had to practice both her martial arts and her violin, so it wasn’t a completely open day, but she had several hours free and they’d decided to spend it together. Tish had offered to serve as tour guide, and it was a chance to explore that Ranko didn’t want to pass up.

She spent a half hour making her way around the perimeter of the observation deck, taking everything in. Tish trailed her, a broad smile on her face. “Well?”

“It like flying,” breathed Ranko.

“‘It’s’, or ‘it is.’” corrected Tish. “You can’t leave ‘is’ out, even informally. You always have to put in all those pesky articles and verbs and things in English; you can’t leave stuff out like you do in Japanese. It’s a very verbose language.” She grinned. “Try not leaving anything out, and I’ll tell you if you can drop something.”

Ranko nodded; they’d agreed to switch off English and Japanese to practice and teach each other. “It’s like flying,” she repeated, still in awe. She looked down at the tiny people far below, and grinned. Finally, I get to look down at someone. She looked around at the dozens and dozens of skyscrapers; the sheer scale of Manhattan was simply amazing. “Which way B… is Boston?”

Tish pointed off to the Northeast. “That way. Daddy is probably halfway there by now, somewhere in Connecticut. It’s about four hours by car.” They’d said goodbye to Dr. Williams that morning; he’d wanted to start back early since his son was by himself. Thomas was high school age, which depending on your point of view might make leaving him by himself even worse…

Ranko pondered Tish’s words. She’d never taken an extended trip in an automobile; neither her family nor the Tendous owned a car.

Tish offered, “Boston’s kind of nice, too. There’s a lot of American history there.”

Like Kyoto, thought Ranko. And the states are like prefectures. She was starting to get a feel for the way America was laid out—or at least, this corner of it. “Maybe I will go to Boston while I here.”

“‘While I am here,’ or ‘While I’m here,’” corrected Tish. “Sure, I can play tour guide there, too.” Ranko turned to smile at Tish, who promptly burst out laughing.

“What?” asked Ranko, blushing.

Tish pointed, giggling. “You have fence face. There are wire marks on your nose.” Ranko started giggling herself.

When they’d finished, Tish asked, “Have you seen enough yet?”

“Yes, I think so. Should we go to ob… the observation tower?”

Tish tilted her head. “Well, the view is a little better, but it’s behind windows, and there’s a line, especially since it’s a Saturday.”

Ranko thought about that. “Maybe I will come back another time.” She smiled. “Where shall we go now?”

Tish grinned. “Japan.”

Ranko shook her head, confused.

“A Japanese bookstore?! In New York?”

Tish nodded as they pushed their way through the doors of the Kinokuniya bookstore in Rockefeller Center. “Of course. Lots of Japanese people live in New York, just like lots of Americans live in Tokyo.” Ranko nodded thoughtfully; she’d known that, of course, but hadn’t realized that there were enough Japanese here to support businesses that catered to them.

They made a beeline for the manga section; Ranko had thought she’d have to forego keeping up with her favorite series while she was here, and was overjoyed to see all her favorite shoujo titles lined up in neat stacks…

Until she noticed they were all a month old. She sagged slightly; she’d have to wait a few weeks for the latest volumes to catch up with her.

Tish was browsing the shoujo titles as well. She suddenly reached out and snatched one. “Oh, I haven’t seen this series in ages! Neat!” she exclaimed in Japanese.

Ranko followed the abrupt switch in language; it seemed appropriate for a Japanese bookstore.“You can read Japanese, too?!” she asked.

Tish looked up and grinned. “Sure. Well, at about a junior high first year level. That’s enough for most girls’ and boys’ manga. I have to use a dictionary when I read stuff for adults.” Ranko’s curiosity bump was definitely being tickled. She watched as Tish gathered an armful; a volume here, a volume there.

Ranko spotted a volume or two herself, ones she must have missed on her last trip to a bookstore before leaving. She’d been in a hurry that day due to all the preparations. After a time, they headed for the magazines, and Ranko’s eyes widened further as Tish picked up a copy of a Japanese magazine. “I haven’t read this in a while, either.”

They headed for the registers. The clerk, a slender, Japanese-looking teenage girl, asked Ranko, “Will that be all, Miss?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Your total is $15.48. Thank you for your business.”

It was Tish’s turn next; the clerk looked her over. “Will that be all, Miss?” she asked in English.

Tish hesitated a moment, and her eyes tightened slightly. “Yes, thanks.”

“Your total is $53.87. Thank you, and please come again.” Tish paid, and they left.

Ranko didn’t quite know which language to use. “Where shall we go to next?”

“‘Where to next?’ is more colloquial” said Tish. “There’s a Japanese restaurant right over there. How about lunch?” Ranko nodded, and they walked over, toting their plastic bags from the bookstore. Suddenly, she stopped short, staring in the window of the restaurant.

Tish frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” smiled Ranko. “This restaurant has okonomiyaki.”

Tish grinned. “You like okonomiyaki?”

Ranko was practically swooning; she’d never expected to find okonomiyaki in America. “Yes!” Tish laughed and led her inside. The restaurant was full of wooden tables and Japanese art and had a quiet, peaceful air.

They were seated quickly, as it was not quite noon yet. The waitress was going to give them time to think, but Ranko didn’t let her go. She knew exactly what she wanted: two shrimp and squid okonomiyaki. Tish smiled and ordered one for herself. The waitress jotted everything down and moved off.

Ranko watched Tish quietly for a while; the other woman was running her eyes over the wall decorations. “Tish?”

Tish blinked and turned back to Ranko. “Yes?”

“Why you know Japanese so much?”

“‘Why do you know so much Japanese?’” She paused a moment, her eyes wandering again. “Well, you heard Daddy last night. We could have lived in base family housing, but Daddy wanted to experience Japan firsthand, so we lived in an apartment off base. We were there eight years.” She picked up the teapot and poured tea for both of them. “It was from the time I was four until I was about twelve.”

“Still, lots of Americans live in Tokyo ten years but cannot even ask direction.”

Tish stared into her teacup, her expression indecipherable. “I didn’t just live in Japan. I went to Japanese schools. I could have gone to the American school on the base, but just like with our apartment, Daddy thought it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to broaden my cultural horizons.” She picked up her teacup, but quickly put it down and shook her fingers in pain. “I went to Japanese schools from Youchien—Kindergarten—through my first year of junior high.” She looked up and smiled. “Daddy was right. It was… an experience. You should see the photos; I was the cutest little black Japanese girl.” She grinned. “I still have my little yellow hat and blue smock from Youchien.” Her smile faded as she saw Ranko’s face fall slightly.

Ranko nodded slowly. “I understand now. Is not surprise your Japanese is very good.” She smiled a wan smile. “You probably goed to school more than I did when I that… was that age.” The weak smile faded.

“‘Went to school.’” Tish raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

Ranko looked into her own teacup. She picked it up and moved it in a circle, watching the green tea leaves swirl about. “My father and I go on martial arts training trip, twelve years long, started when I was four and a half years old.” She took a sip of tea. “I go… went to school some, but not always.” She looked up and smiled, but Tish thought she saw pain in those blue eyes. “I never had a little yellow hat.”

“That’s kind of… uncommon, isn’t it?” asked Tish softly.

Ranko nodded slowly. “Yes.” Her lips were pursed.

“Why did your father take you on that trip?”

Tish watched as Ranko’s eyes darted to and fro. They landed on the bottle of soy sauce at one end of the table and studied it intently. “There was a… problem with my family. My father taked me with him.”

Tish’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to…”

Ranko shook her head and smiled briefly. “It is OK, Tish, truly. It was long time ago.” She leaned back in her chair and sighed.

At that moment, their okonomiyaki arrived. Ranko regarded hers, but didn’t start to eat yet.

Tish examined her soberly for a moment. “Did something happen with cats on that trip?”

Ranko’s head jerked up as if she’d received an electric shock, her gaze flying to meet Tish’s. “How… why… why you ask?”

Tish was startled herself; she hadn’t been expecting such a violent reaction. “It’s just that you had a nightmare last night. You were saying something about cats, begging your father to make them go away. You seemed really upset. I shook you a little and that was enough to get you out of it.” She shrugged. “Talking about your father and that trip made me think about what you were saying in your sleep, and I wondered if they were connected.”

Ranko laughed nervously. “I did that? It happen sometimes. I… I am just scared of c-cats, a little. That is all.” She took a bite of okonomiyaki. She stopped a moment, as if she were pondering the taste, then shrugged slightly and resumed eating. As she ate, she seemed to relax.

After a moment, Tish followed suit, and paused herself. Urgh… not the best I’ve ever had. She regarded her lunch companion, who seemed to have recovered her spirits and was steadily attacking her meal. ‘That is all’, huh? Girl, you are one rotten liar.

Ranko shifted positions again, but it simply was not possible to find a comfortable way to sit on the hard metal folding chair. She cast her eyes around the room once more, wondering when the Music department meeting would actually begin. After over a week of orientation activities, the school year was finally getting underway.

Not that orientation hadn’t been… interesting. In addition to information about the school, its facilities, and the academic year ahead of them, there had been outings to various places in New York: Central Park, the Brooklyn Museum, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art (complete with Egyptian temple).

There had been safety lectures about living in New York, to which Ranko had listened carefully. Though her martial arts skills gave her protection, she knew that as fast as she was, she couldn’t evade a bullet. Unlike Tokyo, guns were commonplace here. She thought she still had a chance if she faced an adversary with a gun—they tended to get overconfident and careless—but didn’t particularly care to find out.

There had also been sessions on the School’s health services, including a rather eye-opening (for her, anyway) women-only one on safe sex and birth control. She had blushed a deep, deep shade of red—to the amusement of some of the other women—even as she’d listened attentively. She didn’t think she had to worry about the disease part, but the part about birth control had hit her like a thunderbolt. This kind of thing had never been discussed at Fuurinkan.

She and Ryouga both wanted children; on that they agreed. Likewise for delaying their family by a few years: having a baby right away would make it hard to get her career off the ground and establish Ryouga’s dojo. However, despite the fact that she was going to be married in nine months, she hadn’t given any thought whatsoever to how to avoid having a baby right away. They were both so shy about this topic, and had so little privacy within their respective families, that birth control had been a non-issue anyway. She thought she had better go to the school clinic soon to find out more.

No matter how useful this information was, though, she’d come to New York to study the violin, not family planning. And so she leaned forward in eager anticipation when the faculty of the Music department finally started to file into the studio that had been turned into a makeshift auditorium.

When they were all settled in their seats, Professor Vincent, the department head, moved to the front of the room and cleared her throat. She was an imposing woman in her fifties who reminded Ranko slightly of Cologne. “Sorry to keep you waiting, ladies and gentlemen. Good morning, and welcome to Juilliard—or welcome back, as the case may be. I trust you’ve all kept up your practicing this summer?” She grinned, and there was a smattering of good-natured laughter. If they weren’t diligent about practicing, they wouldn’t be here.

“You should all already know who your individual instructor is; if you don’t, please see me after the meeting. Undergraduates need to sign up for courses; that will take place this afternoon. What we’re going to discuss this morning is some vital information on the way the department functions, the organization of the chamber music ensembles, and the school’s orchestra, which is made up of all of you.”

Ranko listened patiently through the introductions of the full-time faculty. Professor Vincent introduced Andrea Martin, the department secretary, whom Ranko had heard on the phone but hadn’t met in person. Sheets of paper were handed out with phone numbers and e-mail addresses for the department staff and faculty, and a list of all the students for this year. Ranko noticed that her name was listed in English order: Ranko Saotome. Her name looked so odd in Roman letters; you couldn’t see the meaning at all. It was just a collection of sounds.

Ranko returned her attention to Professor Vincent. “Now that we’re done with the boring part…” Laughter ran through the room. “As I said, now that we’re done with that, let’s move on to the fun stuff: performing. All the undergraduates will be participating in the chamber music ensembles. As much as possible, we want you to learn to play the way a professional chamber music group would. That means developing a rapport with the other members, so we will be assigning you to standing ensembles. As always, since we don’t have all the string instruments in exactly the right proportions, we’ll have some string quartets, some trios, and one larger string ensemble. Don’t worry if you wind up in a trio and want to work on quartets; next year we’ll rotate you all around again.”

Ranko frowned; there wasn’t going to be a “next year” for her. She’d already done a fair amount of chamber music work under Professor Murata; how were they going to handle her?

Professor Vincent continued,“Brass and woodwind players will be in the corresponding ensembles, and will work with the string quartets or trios as well. Pianists will also work with the other ensembles.

“Positions in the orchestra are based on the auditions you gave for admission. Those positions may be adjusted throughout the school year. We’ll discuss the initial chairs at the first orchestra meeting, which is next Tuesday. There will be two orchestra trips this year, one in the fall, to Davies Symphony Hall in San Francisco, and one in the spring to the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C.” An excited murmur passed through the students. “We’ll be giving two performances at each location; the program has not yet been determined. There will also be multiple performances here in Lincoln Center at Alice Tully Hall.”

She looked around and smiled at all the young faces in the room. “Are there any questions, before we read off the group assignments?” There weren’t any, and so she proceeded to read through a long list of groups, reading off the names of the students in each one. Ranko waited patiently for her own name to be announced.

It wasn’t. “That is all of the groups. Graduate students will discuss their chamber music studies with their primary instructor.” Ranko closed her eyes in exasperation; was this another bureaucratic mixup like her name? Her eyes went to Professor Vasilev, who as it happened was looking at her. He must have read the worry in her gaze, because he smiled and shook his head: Don’t worry about it, it’s OK. She nodded uncertainly.

“I only have a couple more announcements, and then you can all go and get some lunch. First, let me remind the undergraduates once again that course registration is this afternoon. Second, we’ll be having a department party this evening, in Studio 5B at 7:30 PM, with non-alcoholic drinks and hors d’oeuvres. It’s a great chance for all of us to get acquainted, and I hope to see you there. It’s come as you are, so no need to dress up unless you want to.”

She looked around the room one more time, “That’s all for this morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all.” The students got up and started to file out of the room amid a buzz of conversation. Ranko noticed that several were stealing furtive glances at her, and wondered why. Maybe they’d never seen a redheaded Japanese before.

She made her way over to Professor Vasilev. “Professor, why I… was I not on the list?”

Peter smiled. “Well, technically speaking, you’re a graduate student, Ranko-chan. Professor Murata and I think you need to spend only one year here, and the school rules say you can’t do that as an undergraduate.”

Ranko blinked in confusion. “But I did not graduate yet from Tokyo University of Fine Arts and Music. How I can be graduate student?”

Peter offered a conspiratorial grin. “Actually, Professor Murata sent Juilliard a letter saying you had already satisfied all of the requirements for graduation, and that you were qualified to enter Juilliard’s Graduate Diploma program. He said that your University would confer your undergraduate degree simultaneous with your completion of the program here. That was enough to sway the faculty committee.”

Ranko felt both pleased and somewhat disoriented; what else had these two been up to behind her back? “So what I will be studying this year?”

Peter shook his head, his expression turning serious. “Ranko-chan, let’s not waste time on false modesty. From a technical perspective, you are already an extraordinarily accomplished violinist.” Ranko blushed slightly. “You don’t need any more coursework, or theory, or technique; you’ve mastered those. What you need is to develop your artistry, to put that technical mastery in the service of expressive beauty.” Ranko nodded, still embarrassed. “Professor Murata and I hoped that by coming here, you would get a chance to work with the most talented musicians in the world, people who spend a lot of time here but do not visit Tokyo nearly as often. We wanted you to be exposed to the very best students and performers in the world, partly so that you could overcome some of the problems you’ve been having, but most of all so you could develop your talent to the fullest.”

He waved her over to some chairs by the side of the room so they could both sit down. “I’m going to be working intensively with you, but you are not going to get most of your education from me. Professor Murata is a great educator, and I can only hope to help you slightly beyond what he’s already done. The ones who are really going to teach you are the other students, and the world-class performers who come here to visit and teach. If you work with people like that, you can’t help but learn from them.”

Ranko’s remaining doubts about leaving home to come here vanished; she knew she had made the right choice. For this kind of opportunity, she could put up with a lot. “It will be a great honor for me. I look forward very much to it.”

Peter smiled. “Many of them are looking forward to it as well.”

Ranko blushed again at the thought. “What about chamber music? How will I work?”

“I’m going to have you work with several of the groups, the most advanced ones. You’re only here for one year, so I’m going to put you through trios, quartets, quintets, you name it. I also plan for you to work through a large part of the violin sonata repertoire with one of our most talented piano students; I’ll set up a meeting in the next few days to start that going. I think you two will learn a great deal from each other.” He smiled. “Why don’t you go get some lunch, and come by my office this afternoon, OK? We’ll talk some more.”

She nodded and smiled. “OK. See you later.” She rose, and headed for the door.

Professor Vincent came over to stand next to Peter; they both watched the young Japanese woman practically bounce out of the room, which couldn’t help but bring a smile to both their faces. “So that’s her? Our unpolished gem?” Peter nodded. “I just couldn’t believe that audition tape. She’s only studied for five years, and she plays like a master. I’m looking forward to this year.”

Peter pondered that for a while. “Thank you for bending the rules so much to get her admitted, Irene.”

She smiled. “Peter, when all is said and done, it would have been a great disservice to music not to bring her here. No matter how things turn out.” Her smiled faded. “Are you sure about her problem? The emotional depth may just not be there yet. She’s still young, after all. I’ve seen lots of young artists who are technically proficient but don’t have a lot to say yet.” She sighed. “Some of them never do. I hope that’s not the case here.”

Peter shook his head. “I can’t say I’m sure, but I have a very strong feeling about her. I wouldn’t have pulled so many strings to get her over here if all she had were technical mastery. You haven’t watched her play yet. You can see something in her face, her eyes. She has the most amazingly expressive eyes… No, I think she has what it takes.” He put a hand to his chin. “I just have to figure out how to coax it out through the damn violin.”

“How’d your first day go?”

Ranko looked up at Tish, who was lying on her bed on her stomach, feet in the air, reading one of the manga she’d bought last week. Japanese seemed to be the language of the moment. Ranko smiled as she shucked off her backpack. “OK, I guess. My professor told me I was going to learn mostly by working with other students and performers who visit. I did work with him some this afternoon, on my problem.”

Tish stopped reading and put down her manga. “‘Problem?’”

Ranko paused. “I have trouble with making my music expressive, emotional. I can feel what I want to express, but somehow I just can’t work it into my playing.”

“Did he have any ideas?”

Ranko sighed. “Not really. He saw me play in Tokyo already, and he didn’t have any new insights. He says he can see it in my face, but he doesn’t hear it coming out of the violin.”

“Maybe you’re not relaxed enough?”

“No, you have to be relaxed to play an instrument well, any instrument. If you get all tense you can’t play at all. It’s just like martial arts; you have to be relaxed, flexible, ready to move.”

Tish put her chin on her hand. “Acting is different. You have to be in the character’s frame of mind. Sometimes I give my best performances when I’m really wound up.” She grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, I don’t have any bright ideas.”

Ranko laughed. “That’s OK, that’s why I’m here. I’ll do as he says, and watch other people perform. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.” A nagging little voice in the back of her mind said, You haven’t figured it out in three years. She pushed that thought away; it wasn’t going to help.

She sat down in her desk chair. “How about you, how was your first day?” She started to unpack her backpack; out came her notebooks, sheet music, and so on.

Tish sat up, cross-legged. “There were no surprises, really. The class years don’t mix in the drama division; each class is an ensemble which sticks together all four years. So we basically just said ‘Hi’ to each other, caught up on news, and picked up from where we left off last spring. We discussed the workshops we were going to have this semester, and started picking out which plays we’re going to do.”

Ranko smiled and nodded, then frowned; there was a small piece of paper stuck in one of her notebooks. Where had that come from? Inside the backpack? As she examined it, she paled. “Oh, my! This is Taneoka’s phone number! I completely forgot about calling her.” She looked glum. “She probably thinks I’m a space case.”

Tish blinked. “Who’s Taneoka?”

Ranko was dialing the phone. “A flight attendant I met on the flight from Tokyo. We hit it off, and decided to get together since she has a layover here every couple of weeks.” She waited as the phone rang.

Tish watched as Ranko’s face formed a slight pout. “Not home?”

“It’s her cell phone, and I got her voice mail. Probably she’s working.” She waited. “Hello, Taneoka-san? This is Saotome Ranko; we met on a JAL flight a couple of weeks ago. I was the violinist doing calisthenics in the aisle, remember?” Tish snickered, and Ranko stuck a tongue out at her and pulled down an eyelid, which only made Tish snicker more. “I’m sorry to take so long to get back to you—I was distracted getting settled in at school. If you want to get in touch, my phone number is (212) 555-7945, and I have an answering machine. I have an e-mail address, too, it’s rsaotome@juilliard.edu. I would love to get together again if that’s OK with you.” She hung up.

She glanced over at Tish; her roommate looked pensive, and she made a guess as to why. “You can probably tag along if you like. I’ll bet she wouldn’t mind.” A mischievous smile crossed her face. “I’m sure she’d like to make another Japanese girlfriend.” Tish didn’t say anything, but smiled.

There was the sound of a throat being cleared from the doorway; they turned to find Megan standing there, her arms folded. “If y’all’re done speakin’ in code, would you like to go get some dinner?”

A week with Megan had improved Ranko’s ability to understand “Texan,” as she called it. She and Tish grinned at each other. “Sure!”

Ranko hurried down the hall to Studio 5B. She didn’t want to be late to the department’s first social function, and, perhaps more importantly, she wanted to get there while there was still a good selection of hors d’oeuvres.

Despite Professor Vincent’s admonition to “come as you are,” she didn’t want to go to her department’s first evening affair wearing the running shoes, blue jeans, and cotton print top she’d been sporting all day. Five years of hanging out with Akane had helped her to develop a halfway decent fashion sense: her twin sister, while she still couldn’t cook to save her life, had always had a good eye for casual but cute clothing. She’d kept the cotton top but switched to a knee-length denim skirt, and replaced the running shoes with sandals. She’d changed from scrunchie to hair ornament, and switched earrings. A little dressier, but still casual.

She made her way inside and ran her eyes around the room. It was well lit, though not brightly: friendly and intimate, but not romantic. The decor was “Early Academic”: worn-looking, utilitarian pressboard tables and metal folding chairs. Students and faculty were milling around and chatting; people were still arriving.

Her eyes locked on to the table piled high with munchies of all different kinds. There they lingered for a moment, until she forced herself to survey the room once more. The men were dressed about the same as they had been that morning, with some exceptions, but many of the women seemed to have subtly enhanced their outfits, as she had. She smiled.

Her dress code anxieties quelled, she returned to her original objective, and made a beeline for the hors d’oeuvres. It had been a whole hour since dinner, so she was feeling ready to eat again. Not wanting to spend the entire evening hanging around the food table and grazing, she took a plate, piled it high with little quiches, egg rolls, mini-pizzas, vegetables, and chicken fingers, and set out to mingle a bit while munching.

As she meandered she locked eyes with another Japanese woman. She was on the tall side—taller even than Akane—and had her hair cut in a short bob. They exchanged smiles, and Ranko headed over to introduce herself.

When she’d become herself again five years ago, she had been very shy and quiet; being a girl had been too new, too overwhelming. She’d been horribly self-conscious, and not a little afraid that complete strangers would recognize instantly that she’d been a boy for twelve years. Since then, enough time had passed and she had gained enough self-confidence that she’d become more outgoing. She wasn’t the life of the party, but she enjoyed meeting people.

“Hi, I’m Saotome Ranko. It’s nice to meet you.”

The other woman blushed. “I’m really sorry, I don’t understand Japanese at all. I’m Japanese-American, third generation.” She smiled and held out a hand. “I’m Allison Yamamoto.”

Ranko boggled, and blushed herself. “I am sorry… I never meeted a Japanese-American before.” She realized she’d better repeat her self-introduction. “My name is Ranko Saotome. It is nice to meet you, Ms. Yamamoto.” She took the proffered hand and shook it.

Allison laughed. “Please, just Allison.” She blinked. “Wait a minute… you’re Ranko Saotome? Really?” Her eyes lit up. “Wow! I was hoping I would meet you tonight! Cool!”

Ranko blinked, and considered briefly whether there might not be another Ranko Saotome for whom Allison was mistaking her. No, probably not. She struggled to come up with a response, and settled for, “You wanted to meet me?”

Allison blinked herself. “Sure! I was hoping we’d get a chance to work together this year. I was so excited when I heard you were coming to Juilliard!”

Ranko felt like pinching herself, and wondered if this was going to turn into another cat nightmare. It was certainly surreal enough. “You already know who I am?”

Allison shook her head slightly. “Of course. There’s been a lot of buzz about you, especially since Professor Vasilev mentioned you’d be coming here. Even before that we’d heard about you. Girl, don’t you read your own reviews?”

Ranko winced ever so slightly. Junior year, she’d started performing as a soloist at the public concerts given by the University. Sada-san of the Asahi newspapers, whom she’d first met while still a high school student, had caught wind of that and come expressly to hear her. After she’d performed the Bach A minor violin concerto, he’d actually written a review for the newspaper, her very first: something she had not expected to see so early in her career. It had been full of praise—to an unreasonable extent, she thought, especially considering some of the problems she had. He’d called her a truly great violinist in the making. Her mother, to her intense embarrassment, had framed a copy.

Sada-san had followed that a few weeks later with a flattering profile of her, and then, thankfully, had limited himself to an occasional mention. He’d never written about a student like that before, and when she’d asked him why, he’d smiled and replied that he’d waited four years, and that was long enough. Still, she was uncomfortable with the attention; she didn’t feel ready for that kind of scrutiny.

“But my reviews are back of Arts section of Japanese newspaper. You read it?”

Allison laughed. “As if I could. But word gets around, you know.”

Ranko nodded slowly; Professor Vasilev had said as much. “Allison, I hope I fit to your expectations. I think maybe they are too large. What you study?”

“I play clarinet. I’m a senior, and this year I’m hoping for first clarinet in the orchestra. Last year I lost it by a hair, but he was a senior and he graduated.” She held up crossed fingers and grinned.

Ranko laughed; it was hard not to like Allison. “I too hope we can work together.”

She and Allison continued to chat for a while. Allison was from the San Francisco Bay area, and was looking forward to the fall orchestra trip as a chance to see her family. Ranko talked about her two families and her martial arts history, as usual leaving out all the magical elements. She’d had enough practice telling her censored life story that omitting the embarrassing parts was easy. As long as people didn’t start asking questions about the loose ends.

After a few minutes watching Ranko munch her snacks, Allison decided she needed to go get some herself. They parted with a wave, and Ranko started to circulate again.

She met a few more students in the same way as she made her way around the room, making sure to swing by the food table periodically to stock up again. Not everyone knew who she was, but enough did to leave her slightly dazed. Not for the first time, she worried that Sada-san’s extravagant praise had left people with unreasonable expectations of her. She knew she was good technically, and she was determined to be the best she could be, but more than a few people seemed to think she was already a star, and she was well aware that she wasn’t. The problem with being held up so high was that there was a long way to fall.

At the moment she was chatting with Bill Anderson, a junior from Minnesota who was studying composition. Bill seemed to be awfully enthusiastic about things, and Ranko was just starting to develop the suspicion that he was hitting on her—in a polite way—when a familiar voice came from one side.

“Hey babe, where have you been hiding? I have not talked to you for a whole week.”

She wilted slightly, but tried not to show it. She turned and put on a smile. “Hello, Jean-Pierre.”

She found a pair of startling blue eyes regarding her pleasantly. “Ah, I have missed that beautiful smile.” The smile in question grew a little more forced.

Bill looked back and forth between the two of them. “Maybe I should go? Three’s a crowd.” He turned to leave.

Ranko’s smile vanished.“No!” she said, a little too loudly. She didn’t notice as the rest of the room grew quieter and eyes turned in their direction. More quietly, “No… you do not need go.”

Bill stopped in his tracks. “Oooookayyy…” He turned back, his eyes flicking uneasily between Ranko and Jean-Pierre.

Ranko flushed slightly, and rushed to explain. “Jean-Pierre is just someone I know. We are not a couple.”

Jean-Pierre nodded agreeably. “No, we are not.” He flashed a rakish grin. “Not yet.”

Ranko closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Jean-Pierre. I have a… a fiancé. I get married next June. To him.” She folded her arms in defiance. Bill sagged slightly, as did many of the men who were eavesdropping, and a couple of the women.

“But he is in Tokyo, and we are here,” observed Jean-Pierre, still smiling as pleasantly as if he were discussing the weather, or perhaps his garden.

Ranko’s jaw dropped slightly; she couldn’t quite believe this. She didn’t know whether to cry, yell, or laugh, and in the end settled for speechless consternation.

Bill piped up, “You know, those mini-pizzas look great! Think I’ll go get some.” He declared victory and withdrew.

Ranko felt her temper grow hot. She was casting about for her voice and had nearly located it when the smile dropped from Jean-Pierre’s face, to be replaced by concern. “I’m sorry, babe. Don’t take life so seriously, no?”

The flames of anger were washed away by a hot wave of embarrassment; he’d been teasing her, and she’d let it get her goat. She averted her eyes.

“Ranko…” There was none of the usual flippancy in his tone, only gentle warmth. She looked back to find him regarding her with a serious, empathetic expression. She found herself thinking it suited him much better than the one he usually wore.

She sighed. Maybe he’s not such a jerk after all. “Jean-Pierre, I am sorry I became upset. But, please do not make such jokes. They are not funny to me.”

A shade of the rakish grin reappeared. “Who said I am joking?” He winked. “En garde, babe.” He turned and walked away. Ranko watched him go, then tore her eyes away to study her feet for a few moments.

I was right the first time. He’s a jerk.

End Chapter 2

Thursday, December 22, 2005

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