Notes from Juilliard

Chapter 4

“Hello?”

Tish clutched her cell phone a little tighter. “Daddy, it’s me.”

“What is it, honey? You sound a little anxious. Are you OK?”

“Yes, Daddy, I’m fine.”

“Can you make it quick, then? I have a class to teach in twenty minutes.”

Tish looked around; there was no one within fifty feet of the spot where she sat, a concrete planter in the plaza. “Daddy, my roommate, Ranko Saotome?”

“Yes, I remember her.”

“She… there’s… there’s something… weird about her.”

She heard a long sigh from the other end. “Tish… are you playing amateur psychologist again?”

“I’m serious, Daddy!”

“OK, Tish. What’s weird about her?”

“Well… she has these nightmares about cats sometimes. When I asked her about it, it was clear she’s terrified of them. She didn’t even want to go see ‘Cats’ with me!”

“Ailurophobia. It’s not uncommon. So?”

“She’s very nervous when she talks about her childhood. I think something happened to her and she doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Physician, heal thyself.”

Tish felt her cheeks grow warm. “Well, OK. There’s more. I happened to overhear the tail end of a phone conversation she was having with her fiancé…”

“Tish!”

“I didn’t mean to! I was about to open the door when I heard her talking, so I stopped; I wanted to let her finish her conversation in private. I went and sat on the sofa. I didn’t mean to listen, but I could hear what she was saying.”

“You really shouldn’t relate what you overheard, but if it has you worried…”

“Well… it was bizarre. She was discussing her wedding with him, and out of the blue she starts talking about his ‘girl form’ and how his mother saw him as the daughter she never had, and how he should be nice to his mom when… when he was a girl. It made no sense at all.” At least, she fervently hoped that it didn’t make sense.

There was a pause. “Well… that’s certainly odd. Maybe he’s a cross-dresser. That’s not unusual either, you know.”

“I… I don’t think that’s it.”

“Well, what else could it be? Is that all?”

Tish swallowed. “No. Her whole family are these superhuman martial artists, including her. I saw her jump twenty feet straight up in the air, with my own eyes!”

“Tish, that just means she’s a superb athlete. That’s not ‘weird.’”

“Daddy, she can make a bo staff out of nothing. She just pulls it out of nowhere, like the light sabers in ‘Star Wars.’ She says she makes it from ki.”

There was a short silence, then a long, low whistle. “Wow. My instructor used to talk about martial artists who could use ki back when I was taking classes in Japan. I wasn’t sure whether to believe him, but I guess it’s true. I’d sure like to see her do that some time—”

“Daddy!”

“OK, so she’s unusually talented. But that’s not weird, either.”

“She goes to the beach with a giant panda, which drinks lemonade and reads the newspaper.”

There was a moderate pause. “OK, score one. Anything else?”

Tish swallowed. “Daddy, I saw a picture in her photo wallet of a girl. This girl, she… she looks exactly like Ranko’s fiancé. What if… what if, when she was talking about his ‘girl form’…”

“She’s his sister.”

“Daddy, remember, she was talking about his mother seeing him as the ‘daughter she never had.’ He doesn’t have a sister.”

“So she’s his cousin. Tish, you are letting your imagination run away with you. Again.”

“But… what about the phone conversation?”

“Who knows? Maybe they were joking. Maybe he likes to wear a feather boa sometimes. Does it matter? It’s their private business.”

“But…”

“Tish, are you frightened of her? Does she seem unstable, or irrational, or unable to distinguish fantasy from reality, or prone to violence?”

Tish thought hard, and suddenly, a lot of her tension left her. “No. No, she’s a very nice, kind, down-to-earth person. She seems to have her head screwed on straight, and she doesn’t frighten me at all. She’s a good friend.”

“Tish, rule number one for any doctor, including psychiatrists: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. It sounds to me like she ain’t broke. What’s the fuss about?”

“But Daddy, it seems so strange…”

“Your imagination, Tish. Maybe you should be a playwright rather than an actress. And remember… no one is ‘normal.’ Everyone has their quirks. Maybe if you girls get to be close friends, you can tell each other about them.”

Tish laughed, and relaxed further. “I guess you’re right.” She was starting to feel rather silly. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” She smiled warmly. “Thanks, Daddy. It’s nice having a shrink for a father.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Anytime.” There was a pause. “Family is half price. You’ll get my bill in the mail.”

They both had a good laugh.

Ranko tilted her head and thought. “Maybe like this?” She raised her violin and tossed off a few phrases. She looked to her colleagues for their reactions.

Sandy Cadwell peeked out from behind her double bass. The willowy brunette put a fist to her chin. “I’m not quite sure I see what you’re getting at…”

Paul Edmund brightened. “Is this what you meant?” The heavy-set sophomore from Minnesota played two measures on his cello, then looked up, his eyes inquiring. He looked more like a linebacker than a cellist, but played like an angel.

Ranko sighed and shook her head. “No… no, not quite.” She leaned against the wall of the small practice studio, her back resting on the white corkboard sound insulation, and pondered how to communicate her intent.

Jean-Pierre snapped his fingers. “You mean like this, yes?” He played a couple of phrases of the violin part on the baby grand he was seated at.

“Yes, yes,” said Ranko. “That is it!”

“Ohh…” said Flora Ho, her roommate. “I get now, Ranko.” Paul and Sandy nodded as well.

Ranko resisted the urge to tear her hair out. This was their second afternoon working together on Schubert’s Piano Quintet in A, better known as “The Trout,” and she was getting increasingly frustrated. She was having lots of ideas, but the other players couldn’t hear what she was getting at… until Jean-Pierre translated for her. At least someone could tell what she was trying to say. All I need is to perform with an interpreter and I’m set.

“I like that, let’s give it a try,” said Sandy, and they readied their instruments, waited a beat, and began to play. A few measures later, they stopped.

“I like it, too,” said Paul. “That’s a nice interpretation, Ranko.” The others chimed in their agreement.

Ranko blushed slightly at the smile Jean-Pierre was wearing; it was a little too… possessive, for want of a better word. Ranko wasn’t sure she wanted Jean-Pierre to be quite so proud of her; it implied too much.

Ranko flipped the pages on her music stand. “OK, if you like the way this part works now, maybe—” There was a muffled knock on the heavy, soundproof door, drawing everyone’s attention. Professor Vasilev peered in through the small, square window.

The Russian expatriate opened the door and ducked in. “Everyone, could you spare Ranko-chan here for a few minutes? It won’t take long.”

Four pairs of curious eyes bore into Ranko’s back as she followed her advisor out of the practice room, her violin still in hand. The door closed behind them. “What is it, Professor?”

Peter smiled. “There’s someone here to see you, in my office. Come, let’s hurry.” They set off for the music department offices, as Ranko brooded over the way the quintet was going.

A couple of minutes later, Ranko followed Professor Vasilev into his office, and stopped short. Waiting for her was a shortish, balding, middle-aged man in a police uniform: Captain Weiler, from the precinct where she’d spent that unpleasant evening a week or so ago.

Ranko’s irritation sank without a trace beneath the waves of a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Am I in trouble for what I did?”

Peter and Captain Weiler looked at each other and laughed. The captain shook his head. “No, Ms. Saotome, not at all. We’re very grateful for what you did.”

Ranko shook her head slowly as her anxiety eased. “Then… what is it?”

Peter cleared his throat. “Ranko-chan, didn’t you once tell me that you see your martial arts as an art? I’ve heard you call it ‘the Art’ on occasion.”

Ranko nodded earnestly. “Yes, I feel that way.”

Peter smiled and sat on the edge of his cluttered desk, his long legs stuck out. Ranko was sure he would dislodge one of the many teetering stacks of paper there, but whether through luck or practice nothing happened. “Well, Captain Weiler and I have a proposal for you: to add martial arts to the Juilliard curriculum.”

Ranko blinked. “I don’t understand…”

Both men looked like the cat who ate the canary. “It’s like this, Ms. Saotome. We really wanted you to help instruct our officers in martial arts, but your visa won’t allow it. You have to work for Juilliard this year. Professor Vasilev and I thought that maybe we could come up with an arrangement where you worked for the school and taught martial arts.”

Ranko raised an eyebrow. “Professor?…”

Peter reddened slightly. “Well, I know you need a part-time job, and Captain Weiler would very much like you to teach his people some of what you know. He looked into getting a visa exception for you, but the INS said that was not possible. However, they did say that if you worked for the school it would be OK.” He laughed. “We’re not really adding martial arts to the course catalog, but the business office was able to work out an arrangement where the police will pay Juilliard, and Juilliard will pay you. If you’re interested.”

Captain Weiler added, “I’d like you to teach one class a week, for an hour, and I’m willing to pay you $100 a class. It’ll be folks from my precinct and one other, about fifteen men and women altogether. I’d like it to be on a weekday morning, if possible.”

Ranko thought about that, and nodded slowly. “Would it be OK to have the class at 6 AM? If not, I’ll be late for my studies.”

Captain Weiler nodded. “Don’t worry about that. It’s volunteers only, and I had plenty of volunteers. I can have a car take you to the police gym and back, too, so you’re on time for school.” He shook his head. “Ms. Saotome, I know there’s no way you can bring my people anywhere near the level you’ve reached in sixteen years of training, but if you can teach them one percent of what you showed us the other night, I’ll count it as the best investment I ever made.”

Ranko thought some more. “Do you have any tenth dan black belts in the class?”

Captain Weiler blinked. “Uh, a couple, yeah. They were the first to volunteer.”

A smile slowly broke out on Ranko’s face, like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. “OK!”

“Uncle Saotome…” Akane stood next to the shogi table, holding a piece of paper. Her eyes might have been a little wet.

The giant panda, without taking its eyes off the board, held up a sign. “What is it?”

Akane smiled. “I think you’re going to want to read this. It’s an e-mail from Ranko.”

Another sign. “Not now, Child.” Flip. “I have your father on the run.” Souun snorted.

Akane knew what was on his mind. “I’ll watch the board for you. I really think you’ll enjoy this.”

The panda sat back in its chair, which creaked perilously. “All right. Keep a close watch.”

Akane nodded, and handed the printout to the panda, which held it delicately in the claws of one paw. She turned her scrutiny on her father. “Don’t try to pull a fast one, Daddy.” Her father smiled innocently.

The panda read quietly for a minute, then pulled out a sign. “She has made her father very proud.” Flip. “Truly, a worthy heir to the Saotome school.” Flip. “Excuse me a moment.” It got up and shuffled off towards the kitchen, while Akane idly wondered how one sign with two sides could have three different things written on it.

Genma returned a few moments later, human, and dabbing at his eyes. In response to Akane’s and Souun’s questioning gazes, he shrugged.

“What’s this about?” asked Souun.

Genma handed him the printout, and he started to read. Tears began to run down his cheeks. “I’m… I’m so moved! Instructing New York’s finest in the Art! You should be proud, Saotome!”

Genma nodded, his eyes closed. “Yes, yes, all those years of training—”

Suddenly, Akane’s hand snaked out at lightning speed, grabbing her father’s wrist just above one of Genma’s pieces. “Nice try, Daddy.”

Genma smiled. “Well, it seems both the schools have worthy heirs, eh Tendou?”

Souun smiled weakly. “Indeed.”

“But Ranko, it’s such a lovely tradition!”

Ranko rubbed her eyes, her elbows on her desk. “Mother… I’m sure you’re right, but… changing dresses, and maybe even going through two ceremonies… doesn’t that seem like a little too much? Can’t we just do one?”

There was a moderate silence on the line, then, “Dear… you’re a Japanese girl. Don’t you want to wear a wedding kimono, and have a Japanese ceremony? Years from now, you’ll look back at your wedding pictures and be glad you did.”

Ranko knew she was going to lose this argument, and wondered why she was even bothering. Nodoka was pretty easygoing for the most part, but whenever there was a question of ceremony her traditional side came out of hiding. Planning her wedding was making Ranko realize that that other version of her mother she’d met in Ranma’s universe wasn’t as different as she’d thought. “I… I know Mother, it’s just… I don’t want the guests to feel like they’re attending a musical revue.”

Nodoka hesitated. “Well… I suppose we could skip the Western ceremony…”

A fierce determination gripped Ranko; she was going to wear that wedding gown she had picked out and walk up that aisle if it was the last thing she did. “No, Mother. I am not skipping the Western ceremony.”

There was an akward silence. Finally, Ranko sighed. “I guess a lot of couples do both ceremonies. I suppose… it wouldn’t be so bad…” So much for “Saotome Ranko doesn’t lose.”

Bubbly enthusiasm gushed from the earpiece. “It will be wonderful, Dear, you’ll see. Weddings are like giving birth; it can be hard to endure sometimes, but you’ll treasure the memories. You’ll be such a lovely bride! Oh, I can hardly wait!”

Ranko couldn’t help but smile. I survived training with Father for twelve years, I guess I can survive this. I think. “Can we afford a wedding kimono on our budget? I don’t want to compromise on the gown I like.”

“Do you remember my old classmate Ito-san, whom we got your everyday kimono from?”

It had been nearly five years, but Ranko had no trouble remembering the chatty middle-aged woman. She hadn’t stopped talking the entire time she’d been measuring Ranko for her first kimono. “Yes, she did a wonderful job on it.”

“She’s offered to give us a deep discount on both yours and Ryouga’s. It will bend the budget a little, but not break it. I’ve already arranged to take you to be fitted when you’re here for New Year’s.”

Ranko snorted. “I see you planned ahead, Mother.”

“Of course!” They shared a laugh.

Ranko blinked. “Why doesn’t Ryouga just rent a kimono? That’s what he’s doing with the tux.”

“He doesn’t need a tux after the wedding, Dear, but he does need a formal kimono, for other people’s weddings and the like.”

“Oh. I guess so.”

“Now, about the menu. Did you have a preference between the Japanese banquet, or the French cuisine, or the Chinese?”

Ranko’s head was starting to hurt; she rubbed her eyes again. “Umm… I don’t know?”

“What do you think your friends would like?”

Ranko considered that. “I think Chinese is probably a bad idea with Cologne and Shampoo coming. I know they’ll be closing the restaurant by then, but still… It would be like serving okonomiyaki to Ucchan. It’s a matter of pride.” Ranko’s stomach suddenly made a long, drawn-out noise. Why did I have to think about okonomiyaki?

“Well, all right. How about the other two?”

“I don’t know… they both seem kind of… fancy.”

“Weddings are supposed to be fancy, Dear.”

Ranko tilted her head. “Mmm.” She thought about her friends, their likes and dislikes. “What’s the French?”

“Originally, it was medallions of pork in an orange sauce.” Ranko shuddered. “I explained that that wasn’t an option, and they proposed Coq au Vin as an alternative.”

Ranko was glad she didn’t have any other family members or friends who currently or formerly turned into farm animals, or her wedding might have wound up a vegetarian affair. She briefly wondered if there were any springs of drowned produce at Jusenkyou, then tried to focus. “Given all the people who are coming and how different they are… maybe the Japanese would be best.” She was definitely getting hungry. Her stomach chimed in its agreement, again.

“I think so too, Dear, but I’ll check with Ryouga’s mother first, just to make sure.”

Ranko nodded slowly. “Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment. New Year’s is soon enough to pick out the kimono fabric. Akane-chan and I have been scouting bridesmaid’s dresses for you, and we have some pictures for you to look at when you’re here. You can pick out the ones you like best, and then we’ll go shopping in person with her and her sisters.” Just then, Tish reentered the room and closed the door quietly, having just returned from brushing her teeth. She smiled at Ranko.

Ranko smiled back and yawned; it was late. “Mother, thank you for doing all the hard work for the wedding while I’m here in New York.” Her stomach growled again, and she sighed inaudibly.

“‘Work’? Dear… ever since I became pregnant with you, I’ve dreamt about your future, about watching you grow up. When I found out you were a girl, I dreamt about sharing your girlhood, helping you through all the things I went through myself. I wondered what kind of woman you would grow up to be. I dreamt about your wedding, helping you learn to be a mother, playing with your children.”

Nodoka paused. “Then you and your father vanished, and all I had left were my dreams. For twelve years I had nothing but them to comfort me. When I finally found you again and you were a boy, I… I thought I’d be forced to give up those dreams.” Ranko’s stomach gave a guilty little lurch. She still felt bad about the way she had treated her mother when they were reunited.

“But one morning I opened my front door, and there was my daughter standing there… and my dreams, too. Ranko… believe me, this is not ‘work.’” There was a pause. “I’m so grateful to have my daughter back.”

Ranko felt a quiet, warm contentment; at the same time she was glad Tish couldn’t hear any of this. “You and me both, Mother.” She yawned again. Thank God for the Nyanniichuan, she thought, and smiled at the irony. She certainly hadn’t felt that way at first.

“You should go to bed, Dear. You have school tomorrow.”

Ranko tried hard not to laugh; her mother was still making up for lost time. “All right, Mother. Good night… I love you.”

“I love you too, Dear. Good night.” Ranko hung up.

“Well?” asked Tish, in Japanese.

“I never stood a chance,” said Ranko. “She’s been picturing me in that wedding kimono since I was a baby.” She smiled as she went to get her running shoes out of the closet.

Tish shook her head, smiling, then blinked. “Why are you putting on your shoes?”

Ranko glanced at the clock on her desk as she tied her shoelaces. “Alfie’s Pizza doesn’t close for another fifteen minutes; I can just make it. I hope they have some slices left.” She smiled sheepishly. “We talked about the menu for the reception.” Her stomach gurgled again, and she blushed slightly.

Tish grinned.

“Is this thing on?”

The PA system squealed in a horrible feedback loop, and ninety-eight musicians clutched at their ears in agony. One of the faculty dashed over to the A/V cabinet and turned the volume down.

Professor Vincent gingerly removed her hands from her ears, her wince fading. “I’ll take that as a yes. Sorry about that, everyone.” The students and faculty slowly relaxed back into their seats. “If I haven’t made you all deaf, we’re going to talk about our first big orchestra trip this fall. We give lots of concerts at venues around the greater New York area, but we only go on two big trips a year, and this is one of them. We’ll be giving three performances over two days at Davies Symphony Hall in San Francisco, on Friday night, November 19, and the afternoon and evening of Saturday, November 20. The audience will be paying to hear you, ladies and gentlemen, so we want to give them a nice show. We have five weeks in between all your other studies to get ready.

“Everyone in the orchestra will be going, but only a couple of the soloists. We only have three nights, so we don’t really have an opportunity for all the soloists to perform. The expenses will be covered partly by the proceeds of the concerts, but we still need to keep them to a minimum. Two soloists will be going, and they will be selected by the faculty committee based on their performances and work this term. The committee is meeting tonight, and the soloists will be informed of the decision tomorrow.” Ranko felt a little rush of anxiety. Professor Vasilev had been optimistic, but it wasn’t a sure thing that she’d be selected.

“To save on expenses, we’ll be staying in South San Francisco, near the airport.” There was a groan from the students, and Professor Vincent shrugged. “If you want to sightsee in San Francisco you’ll have the chance, but you’ll have to pay for it yourself. We were able to get a much better hotel rate outside the city limits. Even so, you’ll have to double up.” There was another groan.

Professor Vincent sighed. “I know it’s no fun, but these trips cost a lot of money and we have to pinch pennies where we can.” She grinned. “Think of it as practice for life with a professional symphony orchestra.” A wave of laughter ran through the room.

Professor Vincent grew serious again. “And you are a professional symphony orchestra. This is your opportunity to wow the people of San Francisco. I’m sure you’ll do a great job.” She ran her eyes over her notes. “We’ll be playing a symphony and two concerti. The concerti will be decided on by the soloists together with the concertmaster and conductor. We’ll start work on those in a day or two. The symphony will be Brahms’ fourth. It’s a very large, challenging work, but I know you’ll all do a great job.” She looked over her notes one more time. “That’s all I have. Are there any questions?” A hand went up. “Yes, Jean-Pierre?”

The young Frenchman offered an evil leer. “Can we pick who we double up with?”

“Ghirardelli Square. I have to take you to Ghirardelli Square.” Allison slipped the reed out of her clarinet as she continued to disassemble it. She waved it around a bit to dry it off.

Ranko blinked. “What is Ghirardelli Square?” She was busy putting her violin away as well. She had just finished several hours worth of work on the Mozart Clarinet Quintet in A Major, together with Allison Yamamoto, the clarinetist she’d met at the first department party, her roommate Flora Ho on viola, and a couple of other students. Flora had had to break early to go to a dentist’s appointment, so it was still mid-afternoon.

Ranko had thoroughly enjoyed it. Though she planned to be a soloist, she loved chamber music as well. Still, she’d had the same problems she always did, and Jean-Pierre had not been around to interpret.

Allison smiled a happy smile. “There’s a famous chocolate place there, with an ice cream parlor. They make great hot fudge sundaes.” Ranko’s eyes lit up, and Allison laughed. She lowered her voice. “I shouldn’t say this, being a native San Franciscan and all, but… it’s not the best chocolate I’ve ever had. Swiss is way better. Still, the sundaes are great. You’ll love it.”

“Allison, it is not decided yet that I will be going to San Francisco.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “A formality. Everyone knows you can play rings around anyone else here.”

Ranko blushed. “I hope you are right. What else should I see in San Francisco?” She sat down in one of the metal folding chairs, her violin case and backpack sitting next to it, and crossed her legs, her hands on her knee.

“Well, Ghirardelli Square is really a tourist trap, but there’s lots of other places to go. Lots of museums, the Golden Gate, the Presidio, Angel Island, Santa Cruz, Monterey. Some of those are a bit of a drive, and I don’t know if we’ll have time. Big Sur is beautiful, but it’s probably too far for this trip. You’ll have to come visit me some time when school is out.” She waved a piece of clarinet for emphasis.

Ranko nodded cheerfully, then grew thoughtful. “Have you ever been to Japan, Allison? When did your family come to America?”

“Oh, gosh. Mom and Dad were both born in California, in Santa Clara, when it was all orchards instead of computer companies. My grandparents were all born in Japan, though. I have some second cousins and great aunts and uncles and so on who live in Nara. That’s where my family’s from.” She shrugged. “I’ve never been there, though. Some day.”

Ranko nodded. “I have a close friend who is from Kyoto; her name is Ukyou Kuonji. I went to visit her home there a few times. That is a very pretty area. There are many temples, much history.” She smiled. “If you ever want to visit your family I would like very much if you come visit me, too.”

“Thank you! I will. Where is your family from?”

“We live in Nerima Ward of Tokyo. It is the most northwest ward of the city. I live in a small town in Nerima called Fuurinkan.”

Allison closed her clarinet case, and sat down facing Ranko. The others had already left the practice room. “What’s it like?”

Ranko laughed. “It’s very much like every other part of Tokyo. Tall buildings near the train station, lots of small houses everywhere else. I live in a big house with a dojo attached, with another family. It’s very old, from before land in Tokyo was so expensive. I think Uncle Souun could make lots of money if he sold it, but the dojo is a very important tradition, so he will not sell it.”

“Sounds nice and quiet.”

“Yes, it is.” After I stopped being a walking chaos bomb and weirdness magnet, anyway. “I will be going home for the New Year’s holiday.”

Allison nodded thoughtfully. “My grandparents always celebrate that, but Mom and Dad don’t really follow the traditions very much. And me, well…” She shrugged, and Ranko laughed.

Ranko’s gaze passed over the utilitarian wall clock hung in the practice room. “Oh, I need to go see Professor Vasilev. He wanted to talk to me before I go to work with Jean-Pierre.” They were still working their way through the violin sonata repertoire; today was a late Mozart work.

Allison winked as they stood up. “I bet it’s to tell you about the trip. That hot fudge sundae is in the bag. Ghirardelli Square, here we come!”

Ranko laughed. “OK!”

Jean-Pierre looked up from his sheet music as he heard the door to practice room 3K open. He twisted around in time to see Ranko quietly pull the door closed behind her. She had her violin case in her hand, her backpack on her back, and a somber expression on her face.

He watched as she went over to the metal folding chairs lined up against the wall, and just stood there. She made no motion to either take off her backpack or put down her violin case. “Hey babe… are we going to get started?” He grinned. “Or are you going to fall asleep standing up?”

“Huh?” said Ranko. “Oh… oh, yes.” She put down her violin case, then paused. Slowly, she took off her backpack, put it on another chair, then paused again. She just stood there, her back to him and her head hung down, like a toy whose battery had run down.

Jean-Pierre was just wondering what was going on when he heard a sniffle. His eyes widened, and he stood up and went over to put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, babe…”

She flinched from his touch. “No… don’t… I… I am OK.” She slowly turned around; her eyes were wet, and she was clearly agitated.

“I think not,” said Jean-Pierre. “What happened?” He sat down on one of the chairs, and patted the one next to him; Ranko sat down as well.

Ranko’s eyebrows knit in pain, and she seemed to deflate, her posture drooping. “I…” A tear rolled down one cheek, “I did not make the cut for the trip… I am not going with the orchestra to San Francisco…”

Jean-Pierre sucked his breath in through his teeth. “Why?”

She leaned forward, her hands clutched tightly in her lap and her head hung down. “My rank… my rank was number f-five of the soloists. I was fifth! Only the top two are going.” She looked up at him, her face a little wetter. “You are going, yes? Professor Vasilev said so.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

She turned her gaze back to her lap, and continued in a small voice. “I was ready to not be picked, I was ready to not go on the trip, but f-fifth place! Fifth! I tried so hard… but… but the faculty committee… my playing is too c-cold, they say… It still needs much work… Professor Vasilev tried, but he could not convince them…” Tears were running freely down her cheeks now. “I have tried so many different things, but I am wondering what ideas to try next…” Her face was all scrunched up from trying to hold the tears back, and she wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

Jean-Pierre put an arm around her; this time, she didn’t object. “You’ll figure it out,” he said softly, “I know you will.” He felt her relax a little into his one-armed embrace.

She shook her head slowly. “I… I don’t know… I…” She turned to look up at him. “You… you really think so?” she sniffled.

“Yes, I’m sure.” He gave her a squeeze, and she relaxed a little more, her head leaning slightly into his arm.

She smiled through her tears. “Thank you, Jean-Pierre. Thank you for believing of me.” Suddenly, she seemed to notice what they were doing. She stiffened, and stood up out of his embrace. “I… I’m sorry… th-thank you, but I’m engaged… I should not…” She was blushing furiously. Jean-Pierre sighed inaudibly.

Ranko turned towards her violin case. “We… we should get to work…” She was still sniffling.

Jean-Pierre looked her over. “Are you ready to work?”

Ranko stopped what she was doing, and just stood there for a moment, her head hanging down and her hair obscuring her face. Jean-Pierre couldn’t see her face, but her head shook from side to side.

Jean-Pierre went over and closed the cover on the piano keyboard. “Come, then. Let’s go for a walk.”

“But… my violin…”

“Will be safe here. You need to stop being Ranko the violinist for a little while, and be just plain Ranko.”

The sun was quite low in the sky, but even though the days were rapidly growing shorter there were a good couple of hours of daylight left. With her sweater, Ranko was quite comfortable despite the crispness in the air—the climate here was not too different from home. The trees of Central Park were just starting to turn, green giving way to a riot of gold, orange, crimson, and brown. The foliage was stunning.

She took a deep, exhilarating breath, let it out, and kicked at the gravel of the small path they were walking on. She managed a small smile. “Thank you, Jean-Pierre. This was a good idea.”

He grinned. “I only have good ideas. It saves a lot of time.”

She looked askance at him. “And you are so modest.”

“That as well, yes.” They shared a laugh.

The path emerged from the woods to parallel a roadway, and Ranko smiled at the horse-drawn carriage that ambled past, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves tapping out a staccato rhythm on the asphalt pavement, the animal’s breath making small clouds in counterpoint. A young couple sat in the carriage; they seemed oblivious to their surroundings.

For a moment, Ranko imagined that it was herself and Ryouga in the carriage. He’d have an arm around her, and she’d be snuggled close to him… She sighed a wistful sigh as the fantasy dissipated. The man she loved was still on the other side of the planet.

She and Jean-Pierre didn’t speak for a minute or two, as they enjoyed the ambiance of the leafy oasis, surrounded on all sides by the concrete gray of Manhattan. A mounted policeman rode by, and Ranko reflected that she’d never, ever seen a single horse out on the street in Tokyo. New York City seemed to be full of surprises.

Her mind tried to drift back to her violin work, and she firmly pushed it aside. Jean-Pierre was right; she had needed a break.

Jean-Pierre broke the silence. “What led you to study martial arts?”

Ranko felt a familiar pang. “It was my father. He is very… obsessed about martial arts, and since he was raising me by himself, he wanted me to learn.”

“Did you want to learn?”

Ranko thought about that as they continued to drift down the side of the road, pedestrians and joggers passing them by. “No… not really. Not at first. It did not interest me. I did not like to fight.” Jean-Pierre was nodding slowly.

“But once I started, I did enjoy it, and so I wanted to learn after that. And it distracted me away from the problems in my life. Living on the road, being away from my mother.” Having to use the men’s room…

“And so you focused on it single-mindedly… to the exclusion of everything else.” His eyes had a faraway look.

Ranko stopped short. “Yes… How did you know this?”

Jean-Pierre stopped as well, a smile on his face. “I am just exquisitely tuned to your heart, babe.”

Ranko sighed and resumed walking, Jean-Pierre trailing her. Every time I think he just might be a nice guy…

They walked in silence for a while, Ranko keeping a few paces ahead of her companion. She began to notice that people were looking at them, and wondered why. This continued for a minute or so, until the answer came to her: They think he’s my boyfriend, and we’ve had a fight. She sighed. I guess I am being rude. She stopped and waited while he caught up.

“Have you decided to forgive me?”

Ranko tilted her head. “I am not sure. Are you going to behave yourself?”

Jean-Pierre flashed his smile. “If it means your company then it may be worth the price.”

Ranko closed her eyes; when she opened them they were a little wet. “Jean-Pierre?”

His jocular demeanor faded. “Yes?” he asked softly.

“If you are trying to cheer me up, you are doing a poor job.” He winced. “Ever since I have met you, you flirt with me. I do not want it. Why do you do this? Why can you not just be my friend?”

Jean-Pierre was silent for a while, a very serious look on his face. For the first time since she had known him, she thought he looked uncomfortable, troubled, even… vulnerable. For the first time, he seemed to be at a loss for words. Ranko was taken aback.

Finally, he answered in a quiet, earnest voice. “I am your friend. I will always be your friend.” He looked her in the eyes, and for a moment Ranko saw a different Jean-Pierre. For a moment, the eyes matched the music that came out of the piano.

Their gazes held, until she blushed and looked away. She saw smiles on the passersby and thought, Great. Now they think he’s my boyfriend and we’ve made up. She sighed and turned back, to find the smile back in place on Jean-Pierre’s face. She nodded slowly. “All right.”

She shivered slightly; the sun had disappeared behind the buildings, and in their shadow the chill was starting to get to her, sweater or no. “I am cold. Can we go back?”

Jean-Pierre nodded. “Of course.” They turned and retraced their steps, and Ranko thought that he seemed uncharacteristically taciturn.

She kept a discreet eye on him as they walked, a little more briskly than before. At first, she’d taken him for a simple lout like Kunou-senpai, but how wrong she had been. She shook her head slightly. Jean-Pierre… I just don’t understand you at all.

Eimi came to an abrupt halt, Tish and Ranko nearly bumping into her from behind. “I could have sworn it was around here somewhere…” She craned her neck as she surveyed their surroundings. Ranko had a strong sense of deja vu; this happened every time her fiancé tried to find his way without his GPS receiver.

All around them were century-old buildings with tired but proud façades, a mix of tenement apartments and little shops with dusty plate glass windows covered by strong steel bars. The rat’s nest of overhead telephone and power cables was long gone, and the automobiles and window bars were new, but other than that the lower East side looked much as it had a hundred years earlier.

Ranko looked around while Eimi tried to find her bearings. The passersby were a veritable rainbow of different ethnic groups and nationalities. No matter what country on Earth, no matter what shape of face or color of skin, you could find a representative in New York City, and, Ranko thought, probably right here on this street.

Ranko cleared her throat. “Eimi-san, we really don’t have to…”

Eimi smiled and shook her head. “Yes, we do. I promised I’d replace the shoes you ruined getting my purse back, and I meant it.” On her very next layover in New York, Eimi had called to arrange a shopping expedition for the “TLM-gumi,” as she’d dubbed the three of them: the Three Little Maids. Ranko had protested that the errand could wait, and maybe they could go see a movie or something, but had been overruled. And so she and Tish found themselves on the streets of the lower East side, following their flight attendant friend through the maze.

Eimi’s gaze narrowed, and she pointed, nodding. “That way! I was turned around.” She set off.

“Have you been here before?” asked Tish.

Eimi grinned. She paused and waggled her right foot so the others could see the slingback pump she was wearing. “Yup. Always something off. Sometimes half off. Occasionally two thirds off. This place is definitely worth knowing.” She set off again.

Ranko and Tish blinked and exchanged glances, and scrambled to follow. Eimi turned at corners, heeding no particular landmarks or directions that Ranko could discern. Finally she stopped at the top of a short flight of stairs that led to a basement storefront. The dusty plate glass window was indistinguishable from all the others they had passed, save for the old-fashioned stenciled letters that spelled “Ladies’ Shoes. All Sizes.” Ranko thought that no bloodhound could possibly sniff out bargains the way Eimi could. How had she ever found this place to begin with?

They descended the stairs and pushed through the door; a little bell rang as they did so. Inside was a tiny shop, filled with shelves that were piled high with shoe boxes. Ranko blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. There were only two chairs, both piled up with shoe boxes. “Yeah, yeah, just a minute,” yelled a voice from the back.

It had been more like five minutes when a very elderly, thin, frail-looking man tottered out of the back, his posture bent and stooped. Wire-rimmed glasses sat on a beak-like nose, with bushy white eyebrows above as if they were a planting. His eyes looked over Eimi, and narrowed. “Oh, you again. You brought friends?”

Eimi nodded. “My friend here—” and here she gestured at Ranko, “ruined a pair of penny loafers helping me out, and I promised to replace them.” She winked. “I didn’t promise to pay retail, though.”

The old man laughed, a short bark. “Hah! OK, let’s have a look.” He ran his eyes over Ranko, fiddling with his glasses. “Got in himmel, she’s a small one. We’ll have to throw her back, she’s under the limit.” He slowly shuffled over to the chairs, and unceremoniously shoved the pile of boxes off of one of them; they cascaded to the floor with a clatter. “Siddown.”

Ranko, who was feeling more than a little intimidated, made her way over and did as she was told. “Stick out your foot.” She did that as well. “Nu shoyn, take off your sneakers and socks.” She meekly obeyed.

The old man slowly, slowly squatted down, and with surprising gentleness examined her foot. “Size 4, medium, and a small one at that. I haven’t seen a foot this tiny in a while. Hey Gertie!” he bellowed.

“You don’t have to yell! I can hear you just fine!” answered a female voice from the back.

“Where are the size 4’s?”

“How should I know, Herman? Wherever you put them!”

Herman rolled his eyes. “‘How should I know, Herman? Wherever you put them!’” he mimicked. “Nothing but tsures.” He turned his attention back to Ranko. He pulled a pair of frayed nylon knee-highs from a pocket and tossed them to her. “Put these on.” She nodded. As slowly as he had lowered himself, he stood up again. Ranko wanted to help, but the look in his eyes told her to mind her own business. Once he was standing again, Herman slowly, slowly shuffled into the back.

“Doesn’t he need to measure my foot?” asked Ranko as she put on the knee-highs. Eimi grinned and shook her head no.

It took fifteen minutes, but Herman finally returned, carrying a huge stack of boxes. Ranko’s jaw dropped; how could this frail little old man carry so much? He looked around, pushed some boxes out of the way with his foot, and put the stack down in their place. He turned back to Ranko. “You’re in luck, Maideleh. I got a whole pile of these, half price or better. Not too many size 4’s come here.”

He slowly, slowly knelt down in front of her. He pulled a box from the stack, and opened it. He pulled out a pair of penny loafers, and Ranko gasped; they were from a very famous, very expensive brand, and were very pretty. Tish’s eyes bulged, and she started to look around the store more actively.

Again with surprising gentleness, he slipped one of the loafers on her foot; it fit perfectly and felt like a dream. “Stand up and tell me how it feels.”

Ranko did as she was told. “It feels fine.”

“Siddown.” She did so, and he put the other one on. “Now walk around.”

She stood up and gingerly made her way around the tiny shop, trying to avoid the piles of boxes. “They feel very nice.” She turned back to him and smiled. “I like them. How much are they?”

“None of your damn business,” gruffed Herman. “Your friend is buying them.” Eimi grinned, while Tish held her hand over her mouth.

Ranko, chastened, sat down again. Herman gently removed the shoes and placed them back in the box. “OK, there any other shoes you want? I got a lot here.” He frowned. “You got shoes for your wedding yet?”

Ranko blinked. “How did you know?…”

“Engagement ring, no wedding ring. You got shoes?” She shook her head. “I got a few pairs here. White gown?” She nodded. “Here.” He pulled a box out of the stack, and from it withdrew a shoe, which he handed to Ranko.

It was a white pump with a low heel, covered with elaborate embroidery. “No… this is more fancy than I like.”

He nodded, taking them back. “Yeah, you don’t need too much extra decoration.” He rummaged through the stack as Ranko blushed furiously. “Try this.” He produced another shoe.

Ranko turned it over in her hands. It was a small, dainty white slipper, almost like the kind a ballerina would wear, with a little bow. It was simple but exquisitely crafted, and her breath caught in her throat. “It’s beautiful…” she murmured. She’d been looking for shoes to go with her gown for a while, and these were perfect. “How much are they?”

“Normally $69, but since I like you and it’s your wedding, $59.”

Ranko’s eyes bulged; this pair would cost 16,000 yen or more in Tokyo. “Th-thank you.”

He gave a non-committal grunt, took the shoe from her unresisting hand, and put it and its mate on her feet. He pushed his thumb down around her toes, probing. “I was worried about this pair, but you got room. Try ’em out.” He grinned. “Not that they gotta fit too well. You’re only gonna wear ’em once.” She slowly walked around again, all the time looking at her feet. Her pulse beat a little faster as she thought about the next time she’d be wearing them. She blushed as her friends grinned at her.

She returned to her seat, smiling. “I will buy these.”

Herman smiled. “Anything else you ladies wanna look at?”

An hour later, he stood at the cash register, ringing up a large pile of boxes. Each of the young women had bought two or three pairs of shoes. Tish had found a pair of dress sandals she loved, and Eimi had needed new shoes for work. Ranko had picked out some cute ankle boots that were very comfortable and a pair of sandals for next summer (“Very smart, Maideleh, off season”), in addition to her wedding slippers and the penny loafers Eimi was paying for. She felt very extravagant.

She glanced over at Eimi, who was happily paying for her purchases, and smiled. It’s a good thing I finally found a job. This could be an expensive friendship.

Jaroslav Hajek lowered his violin. “Do you see? More like that.” He raised his bow hand and rubbed his nose, somehow managing to avoid poking himself in the eye. “Why don’t you try it again?”

Ranko nodded, raised her violin and bow, and tried the vibrato passage one more time. She smiled; she knew she’d nailed it.

“Excellent!” exclaimed the stocky Czech violinist. He waved his bow for emphasis. “You certainly pick things up fast, Ranko. I can see why your technique is so outstanding.” He laughed. “You learned that trick in an hour; it took me two days.”

Ranko blushed; a compliment like that from him really meant something. Hajek was one of the very few at the top of the profession; he had countless recordings, appeared with orchestras all over the world—and he had just spent the entire day working with her one on one. If she had ever questioned why she had come to Juilliard, she didn’t need to look any further for a reason. The chance to work with the best students in the world was a rare opportunity; the chance to work with the best violinists in the world was a priceless one, and only available here. If only they could help her to play like an artist instead of like the robots at Disneyland…

“Thank you, Mr. Hajek. You are very kind.”

Hajek grinned. “Please, Ranko, enough with the Mr. Hajek. Call me Jari. Everyone does.”

Ranko nodded uncertainly. “All right, J-jari.” She blushed slightly; she wasn’t used to calling someone like him by a nickname, especially since his meant “gravel” in Japanese. Not that he needed to know that.

Jari lay his violin and bow down and rubbed his hands together. “It’s getting late and I’m getting hungry, but I’d like to watch you try those finger extensions in that Paganini caprice again.”

Ranko’s face fell. “I’m still having trouble with that.”

The older man clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Ranko, I think it’s a miracle you can play it at all. Those extensions are hell for everyone, and I didn’t think someone with hands as small as yours could do them, period. So feel good; if they never get any better than they are now, you’ll be just fine. Plus, if you can do these at all you won’t have any trouble doing normal extensions. No one else but Paganini wrote extensions like that.” He winked. “I’m sure he was a sadist.” They both laughed.

Without further prompting, Ranko raised her violin and launched into the Paganini Caprice in A minor. Jari watched carefully, his gaze never wavering from her fingers.

When she was done, she started to lower her instrument, but he shook his head. “Just a minute. Could you do one of those in slow motion? Just move your fingers.”

She nodded and slowly went through the motions. Midway through he said “Stop! Hold it right there.” He peered at her fingers. “Well, I can see how you can reach, but you’re way overextended that way. How can you keep enough pressure on the string?”

“My fingers are small, but they are pretty strong and flexible.”

He nodded slowly as he scratched his chin. “Hmmm. I don’t know if I have any bright ideas. I think you’ve found about the only way you can do this, so just keep practicing. This is one of those things you’ll get if you keep working at it.” She nodded.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Both of them turned to find Professor Vasilev peering through the small window of their practice room.

“Peter, come in!” called Jari. He waved.

The professor did, and looked around. “Am I interrupting? I thought you two would be finished by now.”

Jari waved his hands energetically. “No, no, we were just finishing up. Ranko here was just showing me how she copes with those hellish extensions in the Paganini caprices.” He shook his head. “She has got an amazing reach with those tiny little fingers.” Ranko smiled as she blushed.

She bowed to him. “Thank you for today, Mr. Hajek—” He waggled a finger at her. “Uh, Jari. I am… I’m honored that you took a whole day to work with me and teach me. I learned a lot from you.”

He beamed. “It’s my pleasure, Ranko. I enjoyed it a great deal.”

Peter smiled, then turned to the other man. “When is your plane again?”

“Sunday evening, after the matinee performance.” He was playing the Sibelius violin concerto this weekend with Louis Maastricht and the New York Philharmonic.

“How about dinner?”

Jari smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I’m already seeing Louis. We’re going to talk over some last minute things.”

Peter pondered that. “Do you have time to talk now? I imagine you’ll be pretty busy with practicing and your performances this weekend.”

Jari nodded. “Sure, let me pack up my violin and we can go to your office.”

Ranko, who had been packing up her own violin, added “I’ll be gone in a moment, so you can talk here if you like.” She hefted her violin case and backpack, and turned to bow to Jari one more time. “Thank you again, Jari. I very much hope we can work together again soon.” The Czech nodded and waved.

Ranko turned to her professor. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor.” He gave her a smile and a casual wave, and with that, she left.

When the door was closed, Peter turned back to Jari. “Well?”

Jari sighed and went to sit down on one of the chairs against the wall. “I tried working with her on her expressiveness for a couple of hours. We were getting nowhere and she was getting depressed, so I switched to technique.” He shook his head. “She’s amazing. She just soaked up everything I had to teach her. Vibrato, extensions, double stops, you name it. And she was already superb at all of it before we started. She could already teach if she wanted to…” He trailed off.

Peter sighed himself. “But…”

Jari sagged. “But none of it means anything unless she can express herself. This young lady is the best student of technique I’ve ever seen, but her playing doesn’t move you the way it ought to.” His face turned grim. “I won’t say it’s outright mechanical, but it’s certainly a pale shade of what it ought to be.”

Peter nodded. “Some of my colleagues say she’s just one more technically brilliant but artistically shallow kid. They say I’m wasting my time.” He bit his lip. “What do you think?”

Jari steepled his hands over his nose and leaned forward in his chair, his brow furrowed. He didn’t reply for a long time. Finally, he said “No… no, I don’t think so.”

Peter relaxed a little, and sagged into an adjoining chair. “I’m glad to hear that; I feel the same way. Why do you disagree?”

Jari leaned back in his chair, his limbs akimbo and his chin on his fist. “I’m not sure. There’s something… I can’t put my finger on it. All I can say is I’ve been playing for thirty years, and I hear something. I think there is something inside, trying to get out. I think she has that potential, but I can’t tell you why.” He paused, his brow furrowed in concentration. “But you know… I’ll bet you anything Ira will have an idea. Is he coming this semester?”

Peter smiled. “Of course. He comes every semester. He’d live here if he could.” They both laughed.

Jari nodded his head, with more confidence. “I bet Ira will have an idea.”

“Ranko!”

At the sound of her name Ranko stopped, and looked around the plaza, trying to discover who’d called to her. She spotted Allison Yamamoto, waving at her and smiling uncertainly.

She waved back. “Hi Allison!”

Allison made her way through the crowd. She stopped, and seemed to be gathering the courage to speak. “I… I heard about the trip…”

Ranko cut her off. “Allison, it is… it’s OK. Yes, it was a disappointment, but I’ll go next time for sure.” She flashed a confident smile, a confidence that was a bit more than what she actually felt.

Allison nodded. “I’m sure you will. I’m… I’m just sorry I went on and on about San Francisco and all.”

Ranko grinned. “I’ll go there some day. And you will show me around.”

Allison smiled back, her spirits restored. “OK!” She gestured towards the Rose building. “Wanna get some lunch?”

Ranko nodded. “Sure!” They turned towards the cafeteria, walking together.

“So are you going to wear a costume for Halloween?”

Ranko blinked. “Halloween? I think I heard that name before, but I don’t remember what it is.”

Allison frowned as she tried to think of a way to describe what she had to admit was a rather odd holiday. “Well, it’s mostly for kids. They dress up in costumes, then go around to houses in the neighborhood and get candy.”

Ranko smiled. “It sounds like fun. How did it get started?”

It was Allison’s turn to blink. “You know… I honestly have no idea.”

Ranko laughed, as they both entered the lobby of the Rose building. “What was that about wearing a costume?”

Allison blushed and nodded. “Halloween is for kids, but sometimes adults like to wear costumes, too. They have parties instead of trick-or-treating—that’s the part where kids go around getting candy. People even wear their costumes to work or school on Halloween.” She smiled. “It’s a chance to pretend to be someone else for a while. There’s going to be a Halloween party in the rec room in Willson Hall Sunday night.”

Ranko mused about that. One part of her didn’t want to have anything to do with it. She’d been someone else for twelve years, and it had left a very bad taste in her mouth. On the other hand, it might be fun to dress up like Akane did in her theater productions. “I don’t know… maybe… I’m not sure what costume I would wear.”

“Oh, just be a favorite character from a movie or book, or something. Can you sew?”

“I had to fix my own clothes and my father’s too, when we were on the road. I cannot… can’t do anything fancy, though.” Ranko suddenly realized that there had been a reason behind her father’s insistence that Ranma should be the one to do all the cooking, and sewing, and other “household” chores. Father, you old fraud. She smiled, bemused.

Allison pushed her way through the cafeteria doors, Ranko right behind her. “Well, you can always buy a costume if you can’t make one. Do you have any idea who you might go as?”

Ranko thought about that. The women she admired most—both fictional and in real life—didn’t wear easily-recognized, flashy costumes. “I don’t know if other people would recognize Japanese characters.”

“You don’t have to go as a character. You can just be a monster, or a policewoman, or whatever.”

Ranko furrowed her brow. “I don’t know. Maybe I could wear my gi, or something like that.” They took their trays and went to stand in line.

“‘Gi’?”

“It’s what you wear to do martial arts.”

Allison brightened. “Oh, I know what you mean! One of those karate outfits.”

Ranko smiled. “Yes, like that.”

Allison nodded thoughtfully. “That would work.” She smiled. “So are you going to come?”

Ranko tilted her head. “I’m not sure… It’s not really a holiday I understand.”

Allison smiled a wicked smile. “There’s going to be lots of food.”

Ranko considered that for all of a second. “OK!”

Allison readjusted her cap for the fourth time in ten minutes. The baseball uniform had seemed like a cute idea, but the cap kept pushing her bangs into her eyes. I’m just about ready to ditch this thing… With this latest adjustment, though, it seemed to be behaving itself.

She scanned the room, looking for friends. The Willson Hall rec room was filled tonight not with students of music, dance, and acting, but with (among others) scuba divers, cowboys and cowgirls, monsters, superheroes, vampires, wizards, faeries, goblins, princes and princesses, and humanoid versions of several animal species and the occasional plant. Oddly enough, this bizarre assortment of beings was chatting amiably and grazing on hors d’oeuvres as quiet music played in the background… much like the students of music, dance, and acting usually did. The vampires seemed content to assuage their hunger with broccoli and chicken wings tonight.

Allison’s eyes came to rest on two women on the other side of the hors d’oeuvres. One was a blonde, blue-eyed cheerleader; the other was wearing a traditional kimono and had an elaborate hairdo. Thick white makeup covered the woman’s face (at least, Allison assumed it was a woman), turning it into a ritual mask that made it impossible to identify the person. She thought for a moment it might be her friend Ranko, but quickly realized the woman was much too tall. “I wonder if she’s supposed to be a geisha or something,” she said to herself, and headed over. The eyes peering out of the makeup watched her coolly as she walked up.

Allison looked the figure up and down. “You can’t be Ranko Saotome… you’re way too tall.” The woman was a little taller than Allison herself.

The woman hid her face with her fan and tittered, shaking her head. The cheerleader rolled her eyes.

Allison peered at the eyes, and tried to think if any of the other Japanese or Japanese-Americans she knew who were this tall. “Let me guess… umm… umm…” She tapped the side of her chin. “Erin Suzuki?” The woman shyly shook her head again. “OK, I give up!”

The woman abruptly thrust out her right hand, grabbed Allison’s, and vigorously pumped it up and down. “Tish Williams. Pleased ta meet ya.”

Allison blinked. “You’re not Japanese? You sure fooled me.”

Tish slowly shook her head. The cheerleader smirked and added in a thick Texas accent, “She’s in the auxiliaries.” Tish pulled down an eyelid and stuck out her tongue, which made a jarring contrast with her outfit. The cheerleader snorted, then turned to Allison and continued, “I’m Megan Johnson. Ranko lives in our suite; Tish here is her roommate.”

Allison blinked again. “Wait a minute… are you that tall black gal I’ve seen with Ranko?” Tish bowed formally, making a flourish with her fan. “That’s a great outfit! I didn’t recognize you at all!”

Tish shrugged modestly. “Megan helped me borrow the costume from the opera department. It’s from ‘Madame Butterfly.’” She fluttered her fan again. “I had to use the wig, too. I could never get my hair to do this. It’s too frizzy.” She looked Allison up and down. “So, why baseball?”

Allison leaned in close and said in a stage whisper, “Because I’ve been striking out on finding a boyfriend!” They all laughed.

Megan winked. “Maybe Ah should have come as a ball player, too.”

Allison smiled in commiseration. “That’s a great costume, though. You really look the part.”

Megan sighed. “Probably because Ah used to play the part.” For a moment she had a faraway look in her eyes, like black thunderclouds seen from miles away.

Allison looked around. “Is your roommate here yet?”

Tish shook her head. “Ranko? No, she was still up in the room. She was going to wear her gi, but as she was getting it out she spotted something else and got this strange look on her face. She told me to go on ahead.”

Megan grinned. “Ah think she’ll be here pretty soon. She’s not gonna take a chance on the food bein’ gone.” They all chuckled.

A voice came from behind them. “Ah, we must be discussing our favorite gourmand.” They turned to find Jean-Pierre standing behind them. He was wearing a striped jersey with blue jeans, had a bandanna wrapped around his head, and had patch over one eye. A plastic sword in a scabbard hung from his belt.

Jean-Pierre needed no introduction to Ranko’s friends. Tish looked him over carefully. “A pirate?”

He bowed slightly. “It was thrown together at the last minute, I must admit.”

Allison piped up, “Actually, it’s kind of cute. I like it.”

Jean-Pierre smiled. “Thank you. You look quite fetching yourself.” He grinned. “Have you caught anything yet?” Megan rolled her eyes, causing Tish to have to stifle a giggle.

Allison blushed. “N-no, not yet.” She dropped her gaze. Megan and Tish raised an eyebrow at each other.

There was an awkward silence, and Tish cleared her throat. “I’ve got my eye on some of those dumplings. Shall we?”

Jean-Pierre swiveled his head around, scanning the room. “I suppose, though it would be infinitely more fun were our voracious little hummingbird here. I enjoy watching her strike fear into the hearts of the caterers. However, she seems to be taking her own sweet…” he trailed off. “Mon dieu…” His jaw hung slightly open.

They followed his gaze to the door, and there found Ranko. She was wearing a Chinese dress, a dark green silk cheongsam with side slits that rose to a height that was just slightly naughty. The dress was not too tight, but only by a whisker; it showed off her curves to full effect. Her petite feet were clad in matching green silk slippers. She’d made her face up in a subtly different way, and her fiery red hair was gathered into two odango with short tails. She looked exotic, mysterious, and alluring.

She spotted her friends, waved, and started over. Male conversation more or less came to a halt as she flowed by, her martial arts training lending stunning grace to her movements. “She sure knows how to make an entrance,” observed Megan wistfully.

Jean-Pierre didn’t say anything, but his gaze never wavered from his study partner. The one who usually wore blue jeans or chinos now that the weather was getting chilly. He appeared a little flushed.

Ranko walked up to the group, unaware of the trail of high blood pressure she was leaving in her wake. “Hi guys… is there any food left?” She winked, and her friends laughed; the illusion was broken.

Megan smiled quietly. No matter that she looked the part tonight, Ranko was no femme fatale; her personality and her outfit were a mismatch of comic proportions. Then again, tonight was about pretending to be someone else…

Tish looked her up and down. “Don’t tell me, let me guess…” She put on a wicked grin and snapped her fan shut, pointing it at Ranko’s odango. “You’re Sailor Moon!”

Ranko gave Tish a sour look and folded her arms. “No, I am not Sailor Moon.” She shivered slightly. Allison and Megan exchanged confused shrugs.

Tish took another, closer look. “Ah!” she exclaimed. “That photo…”

Ranko grinned. “Right!” She struck an exaggerated martial arts pose. “I am a Chinese Amazon warrior!” She straightened up, smiling sheepishly as she fingered her hair. “I didn’t want to make my hair purple like my friend Shampoo, though.”

Megan’s eyes lit up with devilish glee. “‘Shampoo’?”

Ranko smiled. “Well, her name is really”—she enunciated carefully—“Xian Pu. But it’s hard to pronounce that right in Japanese.” Megan’s grin widened, while Tish’s smiled dimmed slightly.

Allison ran her eyes over Ranko’s dress and stammered, “Does… does she dress like that?” She blushed slightly.

Jean-Pierre took the opportunity to run his own eyes over Ranko’s dress. Again. There might have been a light sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

Ranko giggled. “Not very often. She used to dress like this a lot more when she was trying to… uhh…” she blushed, “when we were in high school. We sometimes go shopping together, and I bought this at her favorite store in Tokyo.” She smiled. “I don’t wear it very often, though.” Jean-Pierre sighed inaudibly.

Allison furrowed her brow. “Why is she in Tokyo if she’s a Chinese Amazon?”

Ranko hesitated. “Well, I met her in China, and she… ummm… she followed me home to Japan.”

Megan raised an eyebrow. “Is she… uhh… you know…”

Ranko blushed again. “N-no.” She laughed nervously. “She was trying to hunt me down and kill me, actually.”

There was a moderate silence as everyone digested this. Finally, Allison squeaked, “Kill you?”

Ranko’s hands fidgeted nervously. “Well, to make a long story short, I fought her without understanding her village’s laws, and I caused her great shame, so she vowed to kill me.”

Allison asked tentatively, “And now she’s… your friend?”

Ranko nodded and smiled. “Yes, we are good friends. We, umm, got everything straightened out.”

Tish frowned. “So why is she still in Japan?”

“Her great-grandmother Cologne decided that she would get a better education in Japan. We went to high school together, and she’s a political science major at Tokyo University right now. They will both go back to China after my wedding in June.” Ranko smiled. Cologne had lost a potential son-in-law, but felt pretty good about what she had got in return.

Megan asked in a small voice, “‘Cologne’?”

“Well, actually it’s Kuh Lon. It’s just…”

“…hard to pronounce in Japanese.” finished Megan.

Ranko nodded. “Yes, exactly.”

“You’ve had a very interestin’ life, haven’t you?” observed Megan, her expression slightly shell-shocked.

Ranko’s eyes lost focus, and seemed to be looking at something else. “Too interesting.”

Tish watched this for a moment, then said gently, “Come on. The food’s getting cold.” She patted Ranko’s arm and winked.

Ranko laughed, her cheeks slightly pink. “OK.” They all headed over towards the hors d’oeuvres. Jean-Pierre trailed a few steps behind, not unlike a duckling imprinted on its mother.

Tish couldn’t help smiling when Ranko’s face lit up like a kid’s in a candy store and she practically snatched a plate and started foraging. A wide variety of morsels were rounded up and transferred to her growing hoard. Tish happened to glance at Megan, and they shared an amused smile.

Ranko watched Jean-Pierre out of the corner of her eye as she filled her plate. He was just standing there, very quiet, occasionally glancing in her direction; it seemed very unlike him. After a while, he shook himself, and went to the end of the table to get his own plate.

Ranko took the opportunity to lean over and whisper to Tish, “Jean-Pierre seems very quiet tonight. I wonder if something is bothering him?”

Tish replied drily, “I think it’s a pretty safe bet that something is bothering him. I wouldn’t worry about it, though.” Ranko nodded thoughtfully, and turned her attention back to the buffet.

Tish grinned. Ranko didn’t even realize that she was paying Jean-Pierre back, with interest.

She was having fun wondering just how much food Ranko could fit on one plate when she heard a young man’s voice from behind them. “That’s a beautiful cheongsam, Miss. You look great in it.”

Tish turned her head to see who was trying to hit on her roommate, the latest in a long line. He looked on the young side, maybe a freshman; he probably took Ranko’s short stature to mean she was a teen as well. He was wearing a flirtatious grin…

…and a costume straight out of “Cats.” He had cat ears in a furry wig, and whiskers painted on his face. His outfit was covered with fur, and he had a tail pinned on. It was a great costume… or would have been for anyone else. Tish’s eyes widened and her adrenaline surged as she realized what was about to happen.

Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as Ranko started to turn around, an amused half-smile on her face. Tish wanted to do something—anything—but couldn’t seem to move. Ranko’s other friends showed no sign they understood the situation, and Tish thought she had some idea how Cassandra must have felt.

The slow-motion tableau was shattered when Ranko caught sight of the young man standing behind her. Her eyes grew wide, and Tish watched, mesmerized, as the petite redhead changed in a heartbeat from exotic temptress to terrified little girl—and something else. Something inhuman was sharing that little girl’s eyes, something that sent a shiver up Tish’s spine. The plate slipped from Ranko’s hand, crashed to the floor, and splattered them all with cheese cubes, carrot sticks, and dumplings.

Jean-Pierre’s eyes widened and he reached out a hand. “Hey babe, is something—”

He was cut off by an ear-piercing scream, which silenced the entire room; they all winced and closed their eyes reflexively. When Tish opened hers again, Ranko had disappeared. “Where?…”

Allison tugged on Tish’s arm, and pointed up. They all craned their necks and looked up; there, fifteen feet above their heads, Ranko clung to the ceiling, trembling. She peeped back over her shoulder, staring down at the cat-man, her eyes wide as saucers. The deathly silence continued as everyone in the room stared right back up at her. Tish wondered if her roommate had gecko blood; how could she possibly hang on to the ceiling like that?

Let’s worry about that later. She slapped the freshman on the arm. “Go stand behind that curtain!” she ordered.

“But…”

“Go!” urged Tish. The teenager swallowed, nodded, and hightailed it for the curtain, hiding himself from sight. Tish looked up again. Ranko looked a little less terrified, but seemed to be hyperventilating. Tish called softly, “He’s gone… it’s OK, you can come down now.” Ranko seemed to consider this. Jean-Pierre watched in silence, his jaw hanging open.

“Sweet Jesus, what on Earth?…” Megan released the breath she’d been holding.

“My dad says it’s called Ailurophobia,” answered Tish. “She’s afraid of cats. I had no idea she was this afraid, though.” She looked up, and tried again in Japanese. “It’s OK, Ranko. The cat is gone. You can come down now, ne?”

Ranko nodded shakily. She dropped from the ceiling, landing as easily as if she’d jumped off a curb. She looked up at Tish with big eyes.

Tish shook her head sadly. “Ranko, you should have told me you were this oof!” She was cut off when her roommate threw her arms around her and buried her face in her kimono, trembling. Without hesitation Tish hugged her back, as Megan, Allison, and Jean-Pierre looked on quietly. The room quickly grew noisy again as conversation resumed.

Soon Ranko let go, and started to mumble, “I’m sorry… He… he surprised me… I… I’m OK now.”

Tish put a hand on her arm. “Do you want to go back to the room?”

Ranko shook her head forcefully. “N-no. I want to stay here. He… he’s not really a… a c… a c… c-cat, and… and I will be OK. It… it was just… surprise.” She let out a long, long sigh. “Th-thank you, Tish.” She offered up a slightly damp smile.

Tish smiled warmly. “Anytime.”

Ranko nodded in gratitude, then looked down at her feet. She sighed, looked up again at Tish with a resigned smile, then knelt to start cleaning up the mess she’d made. Tish knelt down to help, and after a moment Megan and Allison joined them.

Jean-Pierre watched them work for a moment, then went over to the curtains. He took his plastic sword out and used the broad side to swat gently at the shape inside. “You can come out now, mon ami.” The student peeped out from his hiding place, and warily looked around.

Jean-Pierre regarded the young man coolly. “It would appear that she has no taste for cats.” He waggled the toy sword for emphasis. “I think it would be best if you were to stay away from her, no?”

The freshman looked Jean-Pierre up and down, taking in his slightly hard-edged expression. He had a strong feeling the senior was not just referring to the rest of the evening. The boy nodded slowly, sighed, and wandered off.

They all stood up, the cleanup finished, and Tish watched Ranko watch the cat-man go, a sober expression on her face; she seemed nervous but in control of herself. Tish saw her roommate shiver, then turn back to the hors d’oeuvres and start to put a new plate together. As she busied herself, she seemed to recover further, and soon the happy smile was back on her face, as if the whole thing had never happened.

Tish shook her head slightly. Ranko, what in God’s name happened to you?

End Chapter 4

Thursday, December 22, 2005

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