Notes from Juilliard
Chapter 7
This is stupid. I can’t believe I came all the way here.
Tish hesitated a moment, then pushed her way through the glass doors into the gathering twilight. She was greeted by a breeze that, though gentle, was so icy it quickly brought tears to her eyes. Or perhaps they were tears of frustration…
She can’t possibly be here… it’s too cold. She hates being cold.
After speaking with Ranko’s sister, Tish had managed to calm down. Akane had told her that Ranko had a tendency to wander off when she needed to think about things, but usually came back in a few hours. That calm had lasted until mid-afternoon, when “a few hours” had stretched into most of a day. Following Akane’s advice, Tish had searched all the roofs in Lincoln Center, followed by Ranko’s favorite haunts. She had had no luck anywhere, and her anxiety was starting to build again.
She was well aware that her roommate was more than capable of taking care of herself, and that she was probably just slow to come home. Tish kept telling herself so, over and over. She still couldn’t help being worried, so she kept looking. After exhausting the obvious, the thought had come to her to search here, and while it seemed implausible, doing something was far preferable to doing nothing.
She hugged herself and rubbed her arms to warm up; as she was doing so she locked gazes with the security guard, a heavyset black woman.
The guard smiled at her. “Pretty cold today. You’re one of the few brave ones.”
Tish nodded emphatically. “I’m looking for a friend, actually. I thought she just might be here.”
The guard waved her on in invitation. “It won’t take you very long today, honey.” She winked.
Tish nodded and set off briskly around the observation deck of the Empire State Building. The guard was right; there were only a handful of people, scattered here and there. To Tish’s eye, they all seemed to be wondering what on Earth they were doing here on such a frigid day. She snorted at herself again for even thinking of coming here. It had been a crazy idea, really, but she was fresh out of sensible ideas. I can’t believe I spent twenty dollars to come up here on the off chance…
She spared a brief glance for the view, which was spectacular. New York was lit up in all its glory, easily repelling the encroaching night. The wind blew insistently, but the view was clear and steady, and she could see for tens of miles in every direction. She looked to the Northeast, and wondered what Thomas and her father were doing now. Probably starting to make dinner.
Suddenly she stopped short, experiencing that momentary disorientation felt while deciding whether to believe your eyes. Twenty feet ahead of her, a forlorn young woman was bundled up in coat, scarf, and hat. Her arms were folded on the guardrail, her chin resting on top of them, and her face was pressed against the wire security fence as she watched the world go by far below.
Somehow, she seemed even smaller than usual.
Tish sagged slightly; it couldn’t have been a pleasant way to pass the day. She approached cautiously, as if afraid the figure in front of her was some kind of mirage that would evaporate if examined too closely. As she grew closer, Ranko seemed to sense her and looked up; Tish couldn’t help but notice the dried tears. “Tish? What are you doing here? I was about to…” She trailed off as she looked around. “It’s dark already? Have I been here…” Her face paled. “Uh oh…”
Tish didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and wound up doing both. “Ranko no baka! Do you know how worried we’ve all been? I mean… I mean, it’s not like you can’t take care of yourself, but when we hadn’t seen you since early this morning…”
Ranko was aghast. “Oh God, I’m so sorry… I was just thinking, and I completely lost track of the time. I didn’t… I mean, I would never…” She clasped her gloved hands together and bowed deeply. “Gomen nasai!”
Tish sighed; it was impossible for her to stay upset with Ranko for any length of time. “Oh, come on, then, let’s go home. If we hurry we can make it before the cafeteria closes.”
Ranko nodded, and together they walked back around towards the entrance. Ranko pulled her scarf a little tighter around her neck as the wind picked up.
The security guard smiled as they passed her. “I see you found your friend.”
Tish nodded. “Yes, thanks.” Ranko was blushing furiously and avoiding eye contact, too embarrassed to say anything.
It was considerably warmer inside, and both women relaxed slightly as they left the chill wind behind. Tish wondered how Ranko could possibly have had the endurance to stay out on the observation deck all day.
They had the elevator to themselves on the way down; Ranko stared at her feet, her brow knit. Tish, her mind finally able to move past the worry that had occupied it all day, started to notice Ranko’s demeanor by the time they were in the elevator for the last leg. “Hey,” she said softly.
Ranko looked up, her startling blue eyes looking at Tish but seeming far, far away. “What?”
“How are you doing? What have you been thinking about all day?”
Ranko sighed and looked down again. “I’ve been wondering if I should still be aiming to be a soloist.”
Tish blinked. “Huh? Why?”
Ranko looked up at the floor indicator for the elevator; they were passing the 40th floor. She swallowed to pop her ears; the rapid descent made the pressure change very noticeable. “Well… I’m out of ideas. I thought if I just worked hard, if I just kept at it, I’d get there eventually; it’s always worked for me before. I was sure I was ready for that concert, I was sure I had it nailed, but my performance still wasn’t good enough. I’ve tried everything I can think of to solve this problem. I’ve tried everything Professor Vasilev could think of. I’ve even tried everything Jean-Pierre could think of. None of it is working. Maybe… maybe nothing will. Maybe no amount of hard work will be enough. Maybe it’s me.” She fell silent, and Tish gave her time to think.
The elevator chime sounded, and the car slid to a halt; the doors opened onto the lobby floor. Ranko was still frowning as they headed for the exit. “I’ve even been wondering if I should continue to pursue the violin as a career.” Tish’s jaw dropped. “I mean, I don’t have problems like this with martial arts. I could help Ryouga run the dojo after we get married. I wouldn’t be traveling, and I’d get to spend a lot more time with my family.” She looked up and noticed Tish’s slack-jawed expression, and smiled. “I’m not thinking about that option very seriously. I still want to be a classical musician, more than anything. I love playing the violin. I can’t imagine not playing the violin.” She sighed. “But I can’t help thinking about how I seem to be better at martial arts. Maybe my success at that gave me unreasonable expectations about my musical skills. Maybe they’re not up to the demands of being a soloist. Maybe I should be looking into playing with an orchestra, or a chamber music group. Or teaching.”
Tish asked carefully, “Do you honestly believe any of that, Ranko?”
Ranko thought for a while as they exited onto 34th Street. “If you’d asked me two days ago, I would have said no, absolutely not. I’ve been totally focused on being a soloist ever since I became a violinist; it’s what I want to do. I was sure I could do it; a part of me can’t quite believe I’m thinking of… of giving up. But I’m really starting to wonder. And if I can’t solve this problem, I may not have a choice.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Ranko deflated slightly, and pulled her coat a little tighter around herself. “I don’t know. I’m not ready to give up yet, but I don’t know what else to try.”
“Earth to Saotome. Come in, Saotome.”
Ranko looked up and blinked. “Huh?”
Jean-Pierre was waving at her. “I thought my practice partner was in the room, but it seems she is elsewhere. Perhaps you could call her for me?” He folded his arms. “I’ll wait right here.” He looked off to one side with a nonchalant air, and started to whistle. Off-key.
Ranko blushed. “I’m sorry… I… Oh, we were going to play the largo again, right?”
Jean-Pierre raised an eyebrow. “Ahhh, very good, you remembered. Yes, we were, and I’ve been waiting for over a minute for the violin to introduce the piano.”
Ranko’s blush deepened. “Oh.”
Jean-Pierre closed the lid on the piano and swiveled around on the piano bench to face her. “I think I will wait for your spaceship to land before we continue.”
Ranko shook her head and sighed, and laid her violin on top of the piano. “I’m sorry to be so distracted.” She went to sit on one of the metal folding chairs against the wall, crossed her legs, rested her elbow on one knee, and propped her chin up on her fist. “I just finished a meeting with Professor Vasilev before I came here, and I guess I’m still thinking about it.”
“Don’t tell me… the faculty committee.”
She glanced over at him for a moment, then looked away, staring at nothing in particular. “They weren’t impressed with my performance.”
He nodded. “Yes, so?”
She shrugged, and managed a faint, halfhearted smile. “I won’t get another opportunity like that unless my playing improves.”
He nodded again, a little impatiently. “A temporary setback.” Her face clouded further. “What is it?”
“Well, I… I wonder if it is temporary. I talked it over with the Professor.” She bit her lip and looked down.
He frowned, and leaned forward. “What do you mean? Why… What did he say?”
Ranko hesitated a moment, then replied with a sigh, “He says I have to decide what I want to do. He will support me if I want to keep trying as a soloist. I told him I was thinking about it.”
Jean-Pierre shook his head. “I don’t understand. Thinking about what?”
Ranko blinked, bewildered. “About being a soloist. It’s what I want to do, but maybe I can’t do it. Maybe I should work with a chamber music group, or an orchestra.”
He leaned forward, intent, and there was an expression of disbelief on his face. “You’re not thinking of… giving up, are you?”
She winced. “Well… I wouldn’t say it that way, but… I guess it’s true. I think—”
Jean-Pierre shot to his feet, his hands balled into fists at his side. “You can’t give up!” he said heatedly, cutting off Ranko in mid-sentence and leaving her gaping like a fish. She had never, ever seen Jean-Pierre get this emotional before. The lighthearted playboy was gone, replaced by an intense young man she didn’t know. Or maybe she did know him, but only through the sound of a piano…
All she could manage was,“Wh-what?”
“You can do it. I know you can do it! Don’t give up, Ranko. You cannot give up.”
Jean-Pierre was surprising her yet again, and she struggled to regain her equilibrium. “I… I don’t want to give up, but… but I don’t have any more ideas to try. I’ve been working on this problem for over three years now, Jean-Pierre.”
His eyes narrowed. “And the Professor has no more ideas?”
Ranko felt slightly mesmerized, and tore her gaze away. “Well—no, he doesn’t, not right now. He’s tried very hard, but he can’t think of anything else yet. I can’t, either.” She frowned. “Ira Zoll is coming Thursday. Professor Vasilev thinks maybe he will have some ideas.” Her face fell slightly. “If he can’t help, then… then I’ll have to think very hard about what I want to do.”
Jean-Pierre shook his head emphatically. “No! No, you can’t give up, no matter what.” He took a half step towards her, then stopped. “I know you, I know what is in your heart. You can be a great artist!”
She sighed, starting to get a little exasperated. “Jean-Pierre, my problem is not self-confidence. If it was I would have given up three years ago. I appreciate that you’re encouraging me, but—”
He interrupted her again, his eyes flashing. “I’m not just saying empty words to cheer you up!”
She nodded vigorously. “I know, I know. I’m happy that you believe in me.” She smiled a half smile. “But maybe you are not completely objective?”
He raised an eyebrow, and the trademark grin returned. “Oh? And why wouldn’t I be objective?”
“Well, you… you…” She stopped suddenly, and flushed deeply. She bowed her head, embarrassed, wishing she could pull her head inside her turtleneck sweater like a real turtle. She hadn’t meant to open this particular can of worms. “Umm, be… because you are my practice partner, and my friend,” she finished lamely.
She felt a hand raise her chin; he was squatting down in front of her, his eyes level with hers. Those startling blue eyes they shared. “If you give up I know you will regret it, that you will be unhappy. I want you to promise me you will not give up.” He put his hands on her shoulders, and somehow it didn’t occur to her to protest. “Promise me, please.” His gaze was intense, and her insides were twisting in knots.
She stared back at him for a long moment, blushing horribly all the while, unable to look away. Finally, she shook her head, and whispered, “Jean-Pierre… giving up is not something I do easily. It’s the last thing in the world that I want to do. I want to be a soloist, more than anything. But… I can’t make that promise to you.” Her voice firmed. “When I was a teenager I learned a painful lesson, about trying to build a life on top of a lie, trying to be something I wasn’t. I won’t do that to myself again.” She gazed back at him steadily; then her eyes turned to her right shoulder and the hand resting there.
Slowly, grudgingly, his gaze softened, and he nodded. He withdrew his hands reluctantly and stood up, his demeanor still very serious. “It’s not a lie, Ranko. I am sure you have it in you.”
Ranko sagged and closed her eyes in frustration. “I always thought so too. So why can’t I find it?”
Ranko sat with her knees together, both her violin and her gaze in her lap. Her heartbeat was marking a brisk allegro.
“Ranko-chan…” She looked up; Professor Vasilev was smiling at her from across the room. “Relax.”
She smiled weakly. “I’m trying.” She looked around; it was a smaller practice room than the one she used with Jean-Pierre. There was a small studio upright piano and a few chairs.
“Why are you so jittery?”
Ranko gave a short, nervous laugh. “Well, first, I’m about to meet a living legend, and second, I… I’m wondering if he’s going to be able to help me, or…” She didn’t finish.
Ira Zoll was without question the most famous violinist alive, for good reason. His career spanned decades, and though he was in his eighties he still performed. These days, however, it was mostly for special occasions—like a state dinner at the White House, or a benefit concert. He had hundreds of recordings, and was beloved the world over. He was a major force in the world of classical music, and in the world at large.
Peter came over to sit next to her. “Yes, he’s world famous, but you shouldn’t let that intimidate you.” He smiled. “You’ve already worked with other top violinists.”
Ranko smiled a wan smile. “Yes, but he’s more than a top violinist. He’s a… a…” She frowned. “Like a movie star. I can’t remember the word.”
“A celebrity.”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s it.”
His smile widened into a grin. “Ira is a celebrity, all right, but he’s also a regular guy. He puts his pants on one leg at a time.”
Ranko nodded thoughtfully. “I do too, usually, unless I’m in a big, big hurry. It’s too easy to rip them the other way.”
Peter opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it again. He briefly contemplated trying to explain the expression he’d used, and decided that maybe he shouldn’t just now. “Speaking of pants…you needn’t have dressed up, really.”
“Oh,” said Ranko in a small voice. She’d reached into her meager collection of dressy clothes and picked out a conservative, professional-looking dress, hose, and heels. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to her to wear blue jeans and a sweater to meet Ira Zoll.
Peter leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. “As for the other… I don’t know if he’ll be able to help you with your expressiveness. But I do know you’ll learn something from him. Ira is like that.” Ranko was staring into her lap again. “It’s not helping that he’s a half hour late, is it?” She shook her head mutely.
Time passed slowly, but finally the door to the practice room opened, and Ranko looked up, her heartbeat accelerating to a thumping presto. Irene Vincent came in, followed by a middle-aged woman Ranko didn’t recognize, and… Ira Zoll. Ranko shot to her feet, remembering at least to lay her $55,000 violin on the chair beside her rather than dump it on the floor.
Ira Zoll looked old. Very old. He was wearing… blue jeans and a sweater. Unusually for someone his age, he was six feet tall, but so thin as to seem almost emaciated. His white hair hung in a faint fringe around his otherwise bald head. His skin was wrinkled and hung loose; it was thickly mottled with age spots. The only part of him that didn’t look old was his eyes: they were a warm, liquid brown, and twinkled from either side of a simply enormous, fleshy nose. He looked like a decrepit, ancient, six foot tall Jewish pixie.
The woman who was with him had wavy brown hair shot with threads of silver-gray, and was somewhat tall herself. Her brown eyes and general features announced that she was related in some way to Ira Zoll. She was holding onto his arm to steady him, and carrying a violin case.
Peter leapt up, a broad smile on his face. “Ira! It’s great to see you.” He strode over and gave the elderly man a fierce hug, which was returned feebly. Ranko winced; it seemed like Peter was going to snap the maestro in two. Judging by the expression on the middle-aged woman’s face, she felt the same way.
Ira didn’t seem to mind, though; he laughed softly, and spoke in a rough, quavering voice. “Peter, it’s been too long.”
Peter released him and stepped back, chuckling. “What, six months?”
Ira nodded. “Like I said, too long. I missed my usual visit earlier this fall.” The relative’s face clouded, and Ranko wondered what was going through her mind. “I didn’t get a chance to meet the new students.”
Peter smiled and turned to the middle-aged woman. “Anne, it’s nice to see you again. Don’t worry, I won’t break him.”
Anne laughed. “Sorry, Peter.”
Ira shook his head. “Why does everyone act like I’m some fragile old man?”
“Dad… you are a fragile old man. You’re 86.”
“Bullshit. I’m just pretending so I can get senior discounts.”
Peter grinned affectionately. “Anyway, speaking of meeting the students…”
Ranko swallowed when all the eyes in the room turned in her direction; Peter gestured in introduction. “Ira, Anne, this is Ranko Saotome, my student. Ranko, Ira Zoll, and his daughter Anne Kravinsky.”
Ranko tentatively reached out a hand, and gently took the wrinkled one offered in return. She was surprised when her gentle pressure was returned with a firm grip. “It’s a great honor to meet you, Mr. Zoll.” She nodded at his daughter. “And you, Mrs. Kravinsky.”
Ira released her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ranko. Please, call me Ira.” He looked her up and down, and the pixie eyes twinkled. “And tomorrow, wear comfortable clothes.”
She bobbed her head as her cheeks flushed slightly. “Yes, Mr. … Ira.”
“Peter has told me a lot about you. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” She nodded mutely, and he laughed again. “Try to relax, my dear. I don’t bite. Well, not often, and I’ve had all my shots.” She smiled faintly, and he waved at the chairs. “Let’s sit down, all right?” Ranko nodded, and they did. Peter took a seat as well.
Irene Vincent eyed the nervous redhead carefully. “Anne, it’s a little cramped in here, so why don’t you and I go to my office and chat?”
The other woman hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Peter, maybe we can catch up some more later?” He nodded. “Ranko, it was very nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you again while my father is working with you.” The young woman smiled back, and Anne turned to follow the department chair out the door.
“Annie,” called Ira. She turned back, her eyes questioning. “My fiddle.”
“Oh.” She looked down at the case in her hand and chuckled. “Sorry, Dad.” She crossed the room to hand it to him, then left. The door closed, and the room grew quiet. Ranko’s gaze bounced back and forth between the two older men.
Ira rubbed his hands together. “So, shall we get to work? We don’t have a lot of time today; I have another engagement in a couple of hours.”
Ranko blushed and nodded. “Ummm… Maybe I should start by explaining…”
Ira laughed and waved his hands. “I already heard all about you from Peter.” Ranko’s blush deepened. “What I want first is to hear you, not to hear more about you. Why don’t you play for me, and then we can talk.”
Ranko nodded and reached for her violin case, and started to take out her instrument. Ira leaned forward, intent. “What do you play?”
Ranko started to relax as the talk turned to business. “It’s a Lott ‘del Gesù.’ I’ve had it for about five years now.”
Ira nodded thoughtfully. “Here, just a minute.” He opened the case in his lap and took out his own violin. “I want you to try mine. It’s the real thing, a Guarnerius.” He smiled. “I know it’s a bit of a curve ball, but it’ll be easier for me. I know that violin very, very well; I know every sound it can make. So I’ll be listening to you, not your violin.”
Ranko stopped what she was doing and just stared for a moment; she’d never laid her hands on such a priceless instrument before. “O… OK. I’m used to mine, so it might take me some time to get used to it…” She lay her own violin down, and gingerly accepted the genuine article. “Should I use my own bow?”
“What kind is it?”
Ranko felt her cheeks grow warm. “It’s a graphite bow. The violin is loaned to me, but there was no bow with it, so I had to buy my own. The graphite one was the best bow I could get for what I could afford. I thought I could get a better bow when I started performing.” It struck her suddenly that if things kept going as they had been, it might be a long, long time before she could afford a really good bow, much less a violin like the one in her hands.
Ira nodded. “Very sensible. Here, use mine.” He handed it over. “It’s a LaFleur.”
Ranko tried hard not to think about how much it would cost to purchase what she was holding. She tried to grin and only partially succeeded. “I sure hope I don’t drop these.”
Ira laughed. “Don’t worry, if you do, I’ll say I did.” He winked. “I’m sure the insurance company expects me to anyway.” Ranko and Peter laughed too, and Ranko felt a little better. He might be a celebrity, but he was funny and unassuming. “Here, now that I’ve outfitted you, play something. How about some Paganini? Peter tells me you can pull off the Caprices with those itty-bitty fingers.” He grinned. “This I have to see!”
Ranko giggled and relaxed further. She started tuning up the instrument, and was intrigued. It wasn’t as different as she had thought it would be—her own was worth a fair penny, after all, and deservedly so—but there was something about the tone she could hear even while just tuning it.
She launched into the Caprice number 1 in E major, and tried hard to focus on expressing herself. At the same time, she explored the abilities of the violin she was playing, like a rider on an unfamiliar horse. The first couple of minutes were awkward, but the more she played, the more she was convinced that this violin had something her own did not. There was a quality to the tone that was unlike anything she had ever played before. I could get used to this real fast… She started to lose herself in the music as she felt more and more in control of this magnificent instrument. She didn’t notice the quiet smile on Professor Vasilev’s face.
Ira watched intently, the pixie eyes piercing and showing not a whit of his advanced age. When she finished the first Caprice, she looked up, questioning, but he merely nodded and gestured that she should continue. She played on another twenty minutes or so in this fashion, until he suddenly bade her stop after the number 7 in A minor. “OK, that’s enough.”
She looked up again, expecting some commentary, but Ira was looking off to one side, deep in thought. Finally, he looked back. “Now some Bach partitas. Peter tells me you know those forwards and backwards.” She nodded and started in on the very first piece she’d ever performed in public, the E major. Again he let her finish, his eyes never wavering.
Still he made no comment on her playing. He gestured towards the younger man. “Peter, would you take the piano, please? I’d like to watch her playing with someone. Maybe the Brahms D minor Sonata?”
Peter nodded and sat before the small upright piano. “Ready when you are, Ranko-chan.” She inclined her head, and they began.
Ranko kept looking for some sign from the famous violinist as to what he thought of her playing, but he just watched, his eyes tightly focused, his craggy eyebrows creased in concentration; he almost looked like he was brooding. Each time they finished a piece, he asked them to play another.
Finally, after an hour of this, he abruptly called a halt. “All right. I’ve seen everything I need to see. Ranko, thank you; I’m sorry to have made you play nonstop for so long. Sit down and have a rest. Thank you, too, Peter.” Professor Vasilev nodded and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
Ranko sat down, Ira’s exquisite violin cradled carefully in her lap. “Ira… what… I mean…”
He smiled. “You’re an extraordinarily talented girl, my dear. Tomorrow, we’ll have more time and we’ll work on technique; I think I can give you a few tips. But today, I wanted to focus first on your problem with expressiveness.”
Peter looked nearly as anxious as Ranko; they both leaned forward in their chairs. “Do you have any ideas, Ira?” They both hung on his answer.
Ira paused for a long moment, then shook his head and blew out his breath. “No. No, I don’t.”
Ranko bowed her head in frustration, and fought back tears. This man had been her last remaining hope…
Ira waved his hands. “Hold on, hold on, what’s with the faces? I may not have a magic fix, but I do have some things to tell you.”
Ranko’s head snapped up, her eyes glistening. “You… you do?”
The old man nodded. “First, and most important, I agree with Peter. I think you have the potential to overcome this.”
Ranko sagged weakly in her chair, as she fought back tears of an entirely different nature. “Are you sure?”
He sighed and shook his head. “No, I can’t be sure; that’s just not possible. All I have is a feeling.” She looked at him inquisitively, and he leaned back in his char. “Look, I’ve listened to technically brilliant but musically vacuous students. To quote Gertrude Stein, there’s no there there.” He leaned forward again, intent, and gestured with his hands for emphasis. “You weren’t like that; you did something with that violin; there was a ‘there’ there. Unfortunately, I don’t know where that ‘there’ is. I just can’t explain it any better.
“I also watched you with Peter. The way you worked with him, the way you were able to communicate with him and respond to him, told me that you are in touch with the music at an emotional level. Now, that doesn’t mean you can express something yourself, but I have to believe someone with your technical skills can figure out how to connect what’s going on in your gut with your instrument at some point.” He smiled an approving smile. “By the way, you figured out how to make that old fiddle sing ungodly fast; that’s pretty slick in my book.” Peter nodded in agreement.
He paused a moment, the smile fading. “This is the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, and believe me, I’ve seen a lot. I’ve never seen another student with this problem; it’s something unique to you.”
Ranko sighed. “I’m out of ideas for what to try next.”
Ira shrugged. “I wish I had one for you. Tomorrow we’ll work on what I can teach you. I’m sorry I can’t help you figure this out, but it’s outside my experience.” He waggled a finger at her. “I want you to keep trying, though. You’ve got enormous talent, and that’s a gift not to be wasted. It’s worth throwing everything you can at this problem.”
She felt her spirits lift. The recent negativity from some of the faculty and other students—and from herself—seemed less substantial in the face of this man’s opinion. It wasn’t the hoped-for breakthrough, but it was enough to spark her spirit and keep her going, at least for a while. A smile crept onto her face. “Thank you, Ira.”
The old man stabbed his finger at his Russian friend. “I want you to stay on her case, Peter. Got me?”
Professor Vasilev laughed and nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of crossing you, Ira. It’s good to hear someone else feels the same way about Ranko-chan… especially if it’s you. I trust you more than anyone else.”
Ira grinned. “Me, I trust that fiddle. It doesn’t know how to lie.”
“OK, next, I want to try—” Ira Zoll was cut off in mid-sentence by a clearly audible growl. The look of surprise on his face was replaced by a grin.
Ranko blushed hotly. “Sorry about that.”
His grin broadened. “That was the second time. It sounds like your alligator wants to be fed.”
Ranko lowered her violin. “My… alligator?”
“Sure. That’s what I always used to say to Annie and George when they were little. You know, because of the alligators in the sewers…” He trailed off at the total lack of comprehension in her eyes. “Never mind. You’re hungry, right?”
Ranko offered up a guilty smile and shrugged. “Very.”
Ira nodded. “Perfect timing, me too. Let’s dump this stuff and go get something to eat.” He looked around for a moment, then put his worn notebook on top of the piano. He took a second to stretch, holding his arms out and and moving his neck back and forth.
They’d been working since first thing that morning; it was a good thing Ranko was an early riser, as Ira was a morning person himself. She had been surprised at how much time the old man was willing to spend with her. She would have thought that he had other things to do besides—the man played for presidents and kings, after all. She felt a little guilty about monopolizing his time when there were other students who could benefit from his wealth of experience. But not too guilty…
She turned towards her violin case, then paused. “Will we meet your daughter?”
Ira shook his head. “She’s meeting an old friend for lunch today.” He grinned and folded his arms. “It’s just you and me.”
Ranko smiled back, then set about putting her violin away. She spoke over her shoulder. “I guess we can go to the cafeteria…”
Ira waved his hand dismissively. “Pfeh. I have someplace much better in mind. We have to ride the subway one stop, but it’s worth it.”
Ranko closed her violin case and turned around. “Shouldn’t we use a taxi or something? Do you really want to ride the subway?” She frowned.
Ira nodded once, firmly. “I’m sure. I used to walk to this place; it’s only seven blocks from here, at 72nd Street. C’mon, you’ll see.” She smiled again and nodded herself.
They both put their coats on, and soon were on their way down the corridor towards the elevators.
As they walked, nearly every person they passed paused to greet Ira; some stopped to talk. Ranko couldn’t help noticing that many of them looked her over, clearly wondering what her connection was to the maestro.
As a result of all the glad-handing, it was twenty minutes before they were walking out the front door. Ira seemed a little unsteady on the broad flight of steps down to the plaza, but something in his bearing kept Ranko from offering assistance. “Aren’t you worried about people recognizing you as we walk?”
Ira laughed. “Don’t worry, as we get away from here very few people will know who I am. You’ll see, on the subway I’ll be just another grouchy old New Yorker.”
They drew a fair number of looks as they crossed the plaza, but as they left the campus and walked up Broadway, the gawkers diminished. The occasional person would stare at Ira, clearly trying to place where they’d seen him, then give up and move on.
He gestured expansively. “You see? Very few people recognize me. Sure, lots of people might have heard of me, but they don’t recognize me on the street.” He winked. “Once I stopped wearing my ‘Hi! I’m Ira Zoll’ name tag, it stopped being a problem.” Ranko giggled.
In due time they reached the 66th Street station, and Ira stopped at the top of the flight of worn, narrow concrete steps. He just stood there, his brow furrowed and his lips thinned, as if he were faced with a difficult problem. Ranko took a moment to recognize the unspoken request. She tentatively reached out, hesitated, then put her arm through his.
She had guessed right: Ira stepped forward, and together they slowly made their way down. She hadn’t had much practice at this kind of thing; her three surviving grandparents were all considerably younger than Ira, and got around just fine on their own, thank you very much.
She bit her lip; despite his bravado, Zoll-sensei was frail. He seemed even older in that moment, as if the act of acknowledging the need for such assistance made his age more real, like the cartoon character who steps off a cliff but doesn’t fall until he notices that his feet are no longer on the ground. As they reached the bottom, he muttered a brief “Thanks,” his tone an eloquent testimony to his frustration. On impulse, she gave his arm a brief squeeze in sympathy, and his expression lightened a little.
They were in luck; a train was just pulling into the station as they made it to the platform. The doors slid open, and they boarded, Ranko again helping the old man over the gap between car and platform. She spied two empty seats out of the corner of her eye—riding a subway was second nature to her—and made a beeline, at least as fast as she could with Ira.
Once they were seated and his independence was regained, Ira’s good humor returned, though he seemed pensive; Ranko left him to his thoughts. As they rode the Seventh Avenue Local one stop north, Ranko continued to notice the occasional stare, and thought that Ira might not be as anonymous as he believed. She supposed the attention could just as well be due to the odd juxtaposition of young Japanese woman and elderly Jewish gentleman.
After another slow trip up a similar flight of stairs, they reemerged into the pallid December sunlight, facing a small, narrow, triangular park, which might have been attractive had the trees not been devoid of leaves. “Verdi Square,” remarked Ira.
Ranko raised an eyebrow. “The composer?”
“Yeah, there’s even a statue.” He pointed off to one side; Ranko followed his direction to the marble statue of the composer and some of the more famous characters from his operas. “OK, across the intersection and we’re there.”
A short walk brought them to a small but garish glass storefront that seemed the focus of a whirlwind of pedestrian traffic and noise. “Gray’s Papaya,” announced Ira proudly, as if he ran the place himself. “Best hot dog in New York.”
“Hot dog…” A frown creased Ranko’s brow as she tried to place the term; suddenly her face lit up. “Oh, I know what hot dog is! I had that once when I went with my fiancé to a baseball game.” She paused, looking a little uncertain. “It’s a kind of sausage, right?”
“Bingo.”
Ranko’s smile faded further. “Does this restaurant put pork in it?” The sausage shape had made her and Ryouga very suspicious, but the vendor at the Tokyo Dome had assured them that his hot dogs contained no pork. Even so, Ryouga just couldn’t bring himself to eat it, but he hadn’t minded when she’d tried.
Ira shook his head vigorously. “No, it’s all beef.” Ranko’s smile returned. “Why? You’re not keeping kosher, are you?” He grinned.
Ranko’s reply was a blank look. “Kosher?”
“Never mind. So why no pork?”
“Well… It’s just…” she bit her lip, and Ira thought she looked surprisingly flummoxed for such a simple question. “I had a, umm, pet pig once I love… loved very much, so…” She blushed.
“Ah.” He nodded. “Shall we?”
They pushed their way inside, and were greeted by a throng of people and a cacophony of voices. The staff behind the counters was in constant motion, taking and filling orders in rapid succession and adding their own contribution to the general pandemonium. With so many people carrying on so many conversations in such a confined space, there was a considerable din. The place was cramped, with large plastic fruit hung from the ceiling.
Ranko knew immediately that Ira had been here before: eyes behind the counter widened in recognition, and smiles spread over the faces of several of the employees, even though no one called out his name. Ira took a number from a dispenser—27—and they waited their turn.
She wondered what one should talk about with the world’s foremost violinist when you were standing in line with him to buy hot dogs and having to nearly shout to be heard. She looked up at him. “How long have you been coming here?”
“Since they opened—1972.” Ira looked thunderstruck. “My God, that’s 32 years now, isn’t it?” He had a faraway look on his face for a few moments. “I just felt like walking up Broadway one day after a long practice, and I found it by accident.” He smiled. “I’ve been a regular ever since, whenever I can make it.”
“Do you spend a lot of time in New York?”
The faraway look returned. “I was born and raised here. Things were very different back when I was a kid, but it’s still New York.” His eyes focused again. “Once I started performing, though, I spent a lot of time on the road.” He smiled down at her. “How about you? Born and raised in Tokyo?”
She nodded. “Yes, but I… my father and I traveled a lot during my childhood. I… settled down when I was in high school.” She sighed, and looked around.
He raised an unkempt eyebrow. “Homesick?”
She shook her head. “Not so much that. I miss my family, my fiancé.” She drooped slightly.
Ira was quiet for a few moments, then offered, “I understand. It’s hard, being on the road. I missed more of Annie’s and George’s childhoods than I should have.”
A familiar fear slithered through Ranko’s heart. At first, the very thought of being a mother had terrified her; her upbringing as a boy had left her totally unprepared for the notion of bearing children. But after she’d subdued that fear—and had begun to look forward to starting a family—another had arisen to take its place: having to leave her family behind frequently while she traveled to further her career. And she knew that the better she was, the more she would travel.
Her anxiety must have been plain on her face, for Ira added with a kindly tone, “That’s just the way things were back then. Things are different now, and it doesn’t have to be that way for you. A lot of the younger artists nowadays seem to do a better job than I did balancing career and family.” Their gazes met, and in that moment he wasn’t the great Ira Zoll, but simply a colleague with whom she shared the joys and sorrows of their profession… and a friend.
Ira’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “So tell me about this fiancé of yours.”
As if a floodgate had been opened, Ranko found herself growing garrulous, telling him about Ryouga, her sisters, her parents, and everyone else in her life back home. The end of the year had finally arrived, and she’d be seeing her loved ones in less that a week; eager anticipation colored every word. She almost didn’t notice when their turn was called.
A tall, teenaged boy, with blond hair in a ponytail and one pierced ear, was just starting to ask for their order—while giving Ranko a poorly concealed once-over—when a heavy-set middle-aged man with thick, salt-and-pepper hair came up behind him. “I’ll take care of these customers, Jason.” The teenager, confused and not a little disappointed, nodded and moved aside, as the man offered a friendly smile to Ira. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here, sir.” He turned his smile to Ranko. “And I see you brought a very pretty friend.” Ranko blushed slightly.
Ira nodded. “My daughter doesn’t like me to eat here. She says it’s bad for me.” He winked. “My student here was my unwitting accomplice today.” Ranko smiled uncertainly, as she wondered exactly how much trouble she’d gotten herself into.
“Good for you,” offered the middle-aged man. “Live life, I say. What’ll it be today?”
Ira’s eyes twinkled. “Two franks and a root beer.”
The man nodded and called out the order in a loud voice. “And you, Miss?”
Ranko turned briefly to look at the large crowd milling behind her; she didn’t want to have to wait again. “I’d like six hot dogs, please. And a jumbo orange juice.”
Ira and his friend behind the counter blinked. “Six…?” repeated the man.
Ranko nodded. “Yes, please.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then smiled. “A hungry young lady. Six it is.” He called out her order in the same way. “Don’t come crying to me if you can’t finish them, though.” He winked. “Are you going to eat this here?”
Ira frowned. “It’s too cold today to eat outside, and I don’t want to stand up while we eat.” He looked at his watch. “If we hustle, we can get back, eat, and dispose of the evidence before my daughter is back from lunch.” He grinned conspiratorially. “Put it in a bag.”
A few moments later, order in hand, they headed out the door. As they crossed Verdi Square towards the subway entrance, Ranko asked hesitantly, “Is your daughter going to be upset?”
Ira laughed. “Just a little—if she finds out. Don’t worry, it’s not you she’ll be upset with. Annie’s being a little… overprotective these days.” His expression sobered slightly, then brightened again. “She’s a good kid.” His eyes took on the faraway look again. “We eventually caught up on the time we missed together.”
He looked like he was about to say more when they heard a voice. “Excuse me.” They turned to find a middle-aged woman peering at Ira’s face.
He put on a carefully arranged polite smile. “Yes?”
The woman smiled. “Has anyone ever told you you look just like Ira Zoll, the violinist?”
Ira’s smile grew more genuine as Ranko slapped her hand over her mouth. “I can’t say I hear it too often.”
“Dad, you’re not wearing your muffler properly…” Ira Zoll wore a look of long-suffering endurance as his daughter set about wrapping his scarf a little more tightly.
Ranko wasn’t sure if the rumble she heard was coming from Ira or from the limousine idling in the underground driveway. She and Professors Vincent and Vasilev were gathered to bid the maestro and his daughter farewell; the limo was waiting to whisk them to the airport. They were leaving from an underground entrance to have a little privacy and to not have to shout.
The faint sounds of outside traffic echoed down the tunnel, amplified by the bare concrete walls. There was bright sunlight outside, though you’d never know it: harsh sodium lights lit the scene. Ranko wished they could have been elsewhere; the bleak surroundings were not helping her mood any.
“Annie, I played in Siberia once,” fumed Ira. “Do you know how cold it is in Siberia? This is nothing.” Ranko shivered and made a mental note to never visit Siberia.
His daughter smiled as she fussed. “You weren’t 86 when you played in Siberia.” Ira rolled his eyes, and Ranko and her professors couldn’t help smiling. “There.”
Anne stepped aside, and Professor Vincent came up to give the elderly man a gentle embrace. “Ira, it’s always a pleasure to see you, and your visits are a tremendous help to the students. Thank you. Please come again soon.”
The pixie eyes twinkled. “The pleasure is all mine, Irene. I just love hanging around with other young people.” He winked, and they all laughed. Ranko felt her mood lighten; there was sunshine here, underground or not.
It was Professor Vasilev’s turn, and his goodbye hug was as fierce as his welcoming one. He let go, but kept his hand on his friend’s arm. “Ira, I hope it won’t be quite so long before we see you again.”
Ira glanced at Ranko as he replied. “It won’t. There’s a special student I need to keep a close eye on.” Ranko’s cheeks reddened.
Peter nodded, smiling. “Thank you for all the time you’ve given her.”
Ira shook his head, serious for once. “I just wish I could have spared more than a couple of days.” His eyes went to Ranko again, and stayed there. “Though we did make the most of them.”
The young redhead approached the old man as Peter stepped back. She craned her neck a bit as she looked up at him. “It was an honor working with you, Ira. Thank you for spending so much time with me, and encouraging me so much.”
He regarded her soberly. “I was quite serious, my dear. I wish I could spend more time with you now, and I intend to make time in my schedule later this year to come back.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen a student who can pick up technique the way you can. Never. You have a true gift, and a teacher can’t ask for more than to help such a talent develop.” She blushed deeply and looked down, and Ira chided gently, “Come, come, now, no need to be so modest.”
She fought down her blush and looked up, to find Ira’s arms open and a smile on his face. Smiling herself, she stepped up to him, and they embraced, Ranko’s cheek pressed against his chest. His voice rumbled pleasantly in her ear, full of warmth. “Goodbye, Ranko.”
Somehow, it didn’t feel at all like saying goodbye to someone she’d met only the day before, and there was a sudden wetness in her eyes. “Goodbye, Ira…”
He held her out at arm’s length. “Have fun back home with your family, OK?”
She smiled brightly. “I will. I’ve been looking forward to it all semester.”
Anne cleared her throat. “Dad, I hate to play the villain, but our plane…”
“Right you are, Annie.” He squeezed Ranko’s shoulder. “I’ll be back soon. You keep working.” He waggled a finger, a broad grin on his face.
She nodded earnestly. “I will.”
He released her, took one last look around, and climbed into the limousine; his daughter got in on the other side. The car started to pull out, and Ira opened his window to wave, looking for all the world like a little boy on his first trip. All three of them waved back, and Ranko found her eyes growing wet again.
The car rolled down the tunnel, and disappeared around a curve as it rose towards ground level; Ranko watched sadly all the while.
Professor Vincent smiled. “He’s a very special man, isn’t he?” Ranko just nodded. “He has a lot of faith in you.”
A quiet smile stole onto Ranko’s face. She’d been hoping for a solution to her problems, but somehow… this was even better. “I know.”
Ranko balanced her tray on her right hand as she slid her ID card back into her purse with her left. Her attention was on neither action, but rather engaged in scanning the noisy, crowded cafeteria for a table. Her eyes stopped on a familiar sight, and she smiled. Jean-Pierre was waving from a table next to one of the large plate glass windows; the wan, cold sunshine from the plaza outside washed across his face. She waved back.
She weaved her way around tables and other students and slid into the orange plastic chair across from her practice partner, laying the tray with her double helping of stew on the table. “Hi, Jean-Pierre! I haven’t seen you for a while; I thought you went home already.”
He shook his head as he scooped another spoonful of soup. “No, I leave tonight. First Paris, then a two hour train ride.” He looked up and grinned. “It’s not too late to keep me company on the way, babe.”
Ranko half-snorted, half-laughed as she arranged her napkin in her lap. “You won’t give up, will you?”
Jean-Pierre raised an eyebrow and deadpanned, “Of course not. As a Frenchman, I cannot give up. They would revoke my citizenship.” He continue working on his soup.
She laughed in spite of herself. “I see. Well, I’m not going with you. It’s already bad you flirt with me all the time; with your father it’s too much.” She winked as she started in on her lunch. There was no reply, and she looked up to find him looking distracted.
She ran her mind back over her words, wondering what she’d said, and her brow suddenly knit. “Jean-Pierre, you are going to see your father, right?”
He took a moment longer to answer than she would have expected. “Yes, of course. Why else would I be traveling so far?” He smiled without warmth and took another spoonful of soup.
Ranko’s mind flew back to the first time she’d met the elder Laurent, and the argument she’d overheard between them. She wondered if the relationship between them was so bad that Jean-Pierre was reluctant to see his father, and wished she knew enough French to understand what they’d been saying. There was a lot going on here that Jean-Pierre was keeping to himself, and she was starting to worry about him.
While she’d been very closed emotionally when she was Ranma, that had been from the need to hide her own feelings—from her… himself most of all. Her natural disposition was to wear her heart on her sleeve. That, together with her past, had left her a little clueless about more subtle signs of others’ feelings, about which she was still the occasional target of good-natured teasing from Akane.
Still, she’d improved a lot over the last five years, and you didn’t exactly need to be a genius to pick up on the signals coming from Jean-Pierre. She’d thought him a carefree, obnoxious playboy when they first met, but hadn’t felt that way in a long time. He was a friend; a vexing friend, to be sure, but a friend nonetheless. And he had a thorn in his side, that much she could tell.
“Well…” she ventured, pausing in indecision and then continuing, “Would you please say hello to him from me?” She watched for his reaction.
He looked up from his soup, the rakish grin plastered back on his face. “Don’t you want to tell him yourself?” He didn’t quite wink.
Ranko sighed inwardly. As Ranma, she had used sullenness and insults to keep people away; Jean-Pierre used flirting and verbal fencing. A cardinal rule in martial arts was to not telegraph your moves to your opponent, but in social venues she was still a clumsy beginner: Jean-Pierre had read her clearly and parried. Kasumi was a master at this, but Ranko had years of catching up to do. She’d hoped to help if she could… maybe another day.
“No, thank you,” she said primly, lifting a forkful of stew. “But please tell him for me.”
Jean-Pierre nodded. “Of course.” His eyes widened slightly as he noticed for the first time just how much food she had on her plate. “Speaking of older men, how did things go with your private lessons? I’ve been anxious to find out.” He grinned.
The double-entendre was lost on Ranko, and a bright smile lit her face. “Oh, do you mean Ira? He was wonderful! He helped me on many of my techniques. I was very lucky; he spent a lot of time with me when he was here.”
Jean-Pierre was lucky himself; Ranko’s attention was on her lunch, and she missed the affectionate smile that he didn’t stifle quite fast enough. He schooled his features and waved his spoon. “Yes, yes, that’s all good, but what about your expressiveness? Did he have an idea?”
Ranko’s smile dimmed and her shoulders slumped slightly. “Well… no, not really. He didn’t know what is causing my problem.” She poked at her stew with her fork.
Jean-Pierre sucked air through his teeth, all thoughts of teasing having fled. “Ah, that’s bad. He’s got a real talent for spotting students’ problems. I was sure…” He shook his head slowly. “Did he have anything to say?”
Ranko nodded. “Yes, he believes I can be expressive. He says that there’s a ‘there’ there, and he thinks I have it inside of me.” She shrugged. “He had no ideas about how I could help it get out, though.” She started eating again.
Jean-Pierre leaned back, his soup forgotten for the moment. “Well, still, that’s good, that’s good. He can see your talent, and his opinion means a lot with the faculty. That will help.”
Ranko nodded as she chewed and swallowed. “Yes, it will help Professor Vasilev with the pressure from other faculty. I’m happy about that. He took a risk for me, to bring me here.”
Jean-Pierre seemed filled with nervous energy, and more than a little distracted. His head nodded up and down slowly and he spoke half to himself. “I knew it! I knew someone like him could see your potential.” His eyes focused on her, intent. “He did not have the answer, but you must not give up, yes? If the soul of your music is trapped inside, you must set it free. This great man sees it there, and it would be a crime to leave it imprisoned.”
Ranko didn’t smile at Jean-Pierre’s melodramatic way of putting things, because he had a point, couched though it was in Kunouesque sentiments. She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.
She’d been struggling with her expressiveness for three or four years now. If she’d been lacking in self-confidence, she would have been beaten down a long time ago. Thank God Akane and Nabiki had helped her deal with that issue early, before the pressure really came to bear. Still, she’d been so sure someone here at Juilliard would have the answer, would know what to do; so sure that here, she’d finally lick it.
But with a long line of experts, culminating in Ira Zoll, telling her they didn’t have a clue what was wrong, there was nothing left to pin her hopes on. There wasn’t a next thing to try, another rabbit to pull out of her hat. Logically, she should be thinking about changing the focus of her career.
But she wasn’t, and Jean-Pierre had helped crystallize the reason behind why she didn’t feel that way. Those same experts, Professor Murata and Professor Vasilev and Jari Hajek and Ira Zoll and yes, even Jean-Pierre: they all believed in her, believed that she had what it took. And thanks to Juilliard and these wonderful people, she could still believe in herself, without thinking she’d crossed the line from self-confidence into delusion.
They couldn’t help her fix her problem, but they could help her believe in herself. And that was something she needed, no matter how things turned out. Somehow, Saotome Ranko believes in herself was much more important to her than Saotome Ranko doesn’t lose.
She set her fork down, and looked him in the eye. “Thank you.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling.
He seemed caught off-guard; all he could manage was, “Eh? What for?
“For being a person who believes in me. Because of you and Ira Zoll and other people, I can believe in myself, so I don’t feel like giving up. While I believe in myself, I can keep trying. So thank you.”
Jean-Pierre smiled back. Not a smirk or a leer, but a genuine smile, his eyes radiating warmth, approval, and other emotions she didn’t want to think about. That smile, so unlike the one he usually gave her, caught her unawares; her heart skipped a beat. His music was in his eyes, and it was the kind of music that filled your sails and took you someplace far, far away. Words deserted her.
She couldn’t tear her gaze away, and felt a growing need to fill the silence that was saying something she did not want to say. What she finally blurted out was, “I’m going home to Japan tomorrow.”
The spell was broken; Jean-Pierre dropped his eyes, and after a long moment spent regarding his spoon, quietly picked it up again, stirred his soup once, and resumed eating. “Ah. Please give my regards to your family.” He seemed to want to say something more, but ultimately didn’t. Ranko felt horribly confused and horribly guilty, and had no idea why. Her eyes dropped into her lap.
There was an awkward pause of a different sort, and she grasped at the conversational thread, desperate to restore some semblance of normality. “Thank you, Jean-Pierre. I… I will.” She picked up her fork, and said brightly, “My roommate Tish Williams is going along with me.” She started working on her lunch again, studying it far more than it deserved.
“Oh, I see,” said Jean-Pierre in mock indignation. “And why is she invited and not me?”
He sounded more like his old self, and Ranko dared to look up. He seemed OK, so she smiled a little. “Because she never hits on me.”
Jean-Pierre grinned, and Ranko felt better.
“Ta daaa!” announced Tish from the front door, one hand on the doorknob and the other using a potholder to hold aloft a small covered baking dish. “It’s all ready. I’m sorry I took so long; someone else was using the microwave and I had to wait my turn.”
“Oh Lord, you weren’t kiddin’, were you?” wondered Megan Johnson. “You’re really gonna do this?”
Ranko glanced sideways at Megan, her expression dead serious. “I never joke about food.” She waved Tish over, and her roommate sat down next to her on the sofa, laying the potholder on the coffee table and the dish on top of that. “How much did you make?”
Tish pulled the lid off the dish, and steam curled up from the contents; she snatched her hand away. “About a cup. It should be enough.” She waved at the steam with the lid in her hand.
Ranko opened the box in front of her, revealing a large Alfie’s pizza. The other girls paused from eating their own pizza to watch, mesmerized, as Tish proceeded to drop spoonful after spoonful of freshly microwaved kernels of corn all over the pie.
“This feels kind of like desecration,” observed Hannah Bennett. “You know, like walking on the flag or something.” Susan Burnes snorted, and Flora Ho and Harya Prakash looked at each other and shrugged.
Tish rolled her eyes but said nothing. When she was done, she and Ranko surveyed her handiwork, then each picked up a slice and took a big bite. They chewed for a while.
“It’s not bad,” offered Ranko. “It’s a little strange, but it’s not bad.”
Tish tilted her head slightly. “It’s still missing something.” She and Ranko looked at each other and smiled. “You think?” Ranko nodded, and got up.
The redhead disappeared into the room she and Tish shared. They heard the sound of a small refrigerator door opening and closing; Ranko returned holding a plastic squeeze bottle.
“No,” whimpered Megan.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” announced Anne Raffo. Hannah nodded vigorous agreement.
Ranko sniffed. “Don’t criticize something if you haven’t tried it.” She held the bottle of mayonnaise upside down over the two slices they’d taken and squeezed a few squiggles onto each piece. Once again she and Tish each took a bite, then chewed thoughtfully for a while. Hannah put her own slice of pizza down and stared at it forlornly.
Tish nodded her head, satisfied. “It’s still a little off; the sauce here is different. But it’s pretty good.”
“Yes, I think so,” agreed Ranko, and proceeded to squeeze mayonnaise onto the rest of the pie in thin, looping stripes.
“Couldn’t y’all have waited to get home to eat… corn and mayonnaise pizza?” asked Megan plaintively, her voice a wan shadow of its usual energetic self.
Ranko blinked. “Why wait? It’s so good.” She waved at their pie. “Want to try some?”
Megan lay down her own slice of pizza, swallowing heavily. “No, thank you.”
“I’m game,” offered Susan. “Can you spare half a slice?” Ranko nodded and started cutting one of the large slices in two.
Megan stared at her roommate. “You’re kiddin’, right?”
“Megan, dear,” crooned Susan, “you need to broaden your horizons. I’m going to bring you back some haggis.”
Megan’s eyes narrowed. “What’s haggis?”
Susan smiled a positively enigmatic smile. “It tastes so much better if you don’t know.” She reached out and took the half slice of pizza from Ranko’s outstretched hand. She eyed it for a moment, then took a bite. She chewed for a while, an odd expression on her face. “How… interesting.” Megan stifled a giggle. “Is this your favorite?”
Ranko looked off to one side for a moment, thinking. “Well… I wouldn’t say it was my favorite. I like it, but I like okonomiyaki better.”
Hannah scrunched up her face in confusion. “What’s oko… okoko…?”
“Okonomiyaki,” responded Tish. “It’s kind of like a cross between an omelette, a pizza, and a pancake. I love it, too.” She grinned. “Ranko here is the real connoisseur, though. She has a friend who runs an okonomiyaki restaurant.”
Ranko sighed wistfully. “She makes the best okonomiyaki I’ve ever eaten. She used to live nearby, but she moved back to Kyoto two years ago to be close to her family.” She laughed. “She still refuses to tell me her secret recipes, so now I must get by with restaurants that are not as good, and what I can make myself. Actually, my okonomiyaki is not bad, though it’s not as good as Ucchan’s. Oh, that’s my friend, Ku… Ukyou Kuonji.”
Susan was grinning. “Yes, I can tell that you’re fond of… of whatever you called it. Is that one of the things you’re looking forward to?”
Ranko smiled and nodded. “Yes, but mostly to seeing my family and friends. And my fiancé. It will be nice to be home.” Everyone chorused their agreement. “What are you looking forward to, Susan?”
“Not the weather, of that you may be certain,” replied Susan, and everyone laughed. “Well, just spending Christmas with my family, and seeing home again. Having real tea with meals instead of this Lipton rubbish you can’t escape here.”
Harya piped up, “Yes, good tea will be very nice. It will be nice to be warm, too, and to see my family. But…”
“What is wrong, Harya?” asked Flora.
Harya sighed. “My parents have been a little… evasive recently on the phone. I think there is something they’re not telling me.”
Everyone turned to the diminutive oboist, concerned. “What do you mean, Harya?” asked Megan.
Harya frowned. “Well, I told them I made first oboe in the orchestra this year, and that if I kept it up I could get a seat with a good orchestra when I graduate. They were happy and proud, but… it seemed as if it wasn’t getting through to them. As if their minds were on something else.” She bit her lip. “I’m worried my grandmother is ill again, and they’re not telling me. She’s not very old, only sixty-four, but she’s not in good health.” She stared at her lap.
Flora patted Harya’s hand. “I’m sure your grandmother will feel much better when she sees you.” A tentative smile broke out on Harya’s face.
After a moment the petite Indian woman looked up. “Thanks, everyone, I’m sure things will be fine. What about you, Flora? What are you looking forward to?”
Flora smiled. “Well, Chinese New Year is not for month or two, but I look forward going home very much. I miss my family. Megan, what about you?”
The blonde grinned. “Is it my turn? Family, Christmas. And barbecue.” After a moment, her eyes unfocused, and the smile dimmed slightly. “If I’m lucky I won’t run into Ed.”
Hannah frowned for a moment. “Oh, the gorilla? Your ex-boyfriend?” She mimicked an ape, scratching herself and screeching.
Megan laughed, her good humor returning. “Yeah, that’s him. Calluses on his knuckles.” She turned to Tish. “How about you, Tish? You’re goin’ to Tokyo with Ranko tomorrow, but you’re takin’ two different planes, right?”
Ranko and Tish exchanged glances and grinned. “Actually,” said Tish, “I was on a different flight on a different airline, because I couldn’t get on the same flight as Ranko. But a couple of days ago, when she told Eimi Taneoka about it—you remember her, right?—and that I’d be waiting at Narita for twelve hours for Ranko’s flight, Eimi just smiled and pulled out her cell phone, and ten minutes later I was on the same plane.” She shook her head.
“Wow,” said Hannah. “It’s nice to have a friend who works for an airline. Is she going to be on your flight?”
Ranko shook her head. “No, she returned to Tokyo yesterday, and this year she will be getting a vacation the week before New Year’s. She promised to visit while we’re in Tokyo.”
“You gals just gonna hang out while you’re there?” Megan grinned. “Doin’ Japanese stuff?”
Tish raised an eyebrow. “‘Japanese stuff’?”
“You know, Carry-oakie and watchin’ sumo and that kinda thing.”
Tish laughed. “Definitely no on the sumo, and they’d better have earplugs if they ask me to sing.”
Ranko blinked. Had Megan meant karaoke? Probably. She wondered silently how karaoke could become “Carry-oakie.” Listening to Japanese words that had made their way into English was a lot like that parallel world she’d visited: very familiar, but mutated in odd ways. She imagined that the English words adopted into Japanese must sound the same to American ears.
Ranko refocused on the conversation as Tish continued, “We’ll be celebrating New Year’s, and Ranko has some wedding things to catch up on.”
The redhead rolled her eyes and nodded. “I have to shop for bridesmaid’s dresses and visit the woman who is making my wedding kimono.”
Anne’s eyes were wide with excitement. “That sounds wonderful! I’ve never been to Japan. Are you going to do any sightseeing?”
Tish smiled. “No, I’ve seen most of the sights already. I lived there for eight years.” Her smile faded slowly and her eyes were very far away. Her roommates looked on, confused—except for Ranko.
“Is there something else?” asked Susan tentatively.
Everyone was quiet as Tish paused a moment before replying. “Well…” she offered slowly, “I… I was also hoping to look up some friends from when I lived there.” She said it casually, but her eyes lent it far more weight than her tone implied. The mood grew sober.
Megan said softly, “Good luck, Tish. I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for.”
“Ranko.” A hand shook her shoulder.
Though she was asleep, her brain assessed the touch in an instant—gentle and nonthreatening—thereby saving whoever it was from a broken arm. Ranko’s eyes flickered open, and she tried to reply, though what came out was “Ungh.” Where… where was she? Her eyes focused, and Tish’s face came into view. Her mind started to clear, and assimilated the noises of a busy airliner cabin.
“Mmmph…” She rubbed her eyes. “How long have I been asleep?” She’d wanted to stay awake to help reset her body’s clock, but she’d been so tired…
“About three hours.” Tish smiled and gestured with her head. “Look out the window.”
The redhead leaned across her companion and peered out the tiny window. She saw nothing but a sea of thick white clouds illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, and was about to ask what there was to see, when she spotted it: a shallow, perfect, truncated cone just peeking through the clouds. She took a few moments to savor the view, and felt a sudden pang of homesickness. She sat back down in her own seat. “Mount Fuji.” Tish grinned, and Ranko smiled herself. “Welcome home, Tish.”
The tall black woman didn’t say anything, but turned to look out the window once more. Ranko wished she could look too, but she’d lost the game of “jan-ken-pon” for the window seat.
After a while, Tish turned back. “Sorry to hog the window; there isn’t anything more to see now, just clouds. I should have given you a longer look.” She looked back at the traces of cloud that were starting to race past the window. “I guess we’ll be landing in just a few minutes. Do you know who’s going to be meeting us?”
Ranko’s heart started to beat a little faster. “Akane didn’t say. I’m sure she’ll be there, and Ryouga, and probably my mother. Beyond that I don’t know.” She closed her eyes momentarily. Just a few more minutes…
The plane shook slightly, and then again, harder. The seatbelt signal sounded, and the PA system came on. “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the captain. I’ve turned on the seatbelt sign a little early. The Kantou area is experiencing thunderstorms and high winds at the moment, and the ride will be a little bumpy. Please stay in your seats with your seatbelts fastened for the remainder of the flight.” He repeated the warning in English, and Ranko marveled that this time she could understand it both ways.
The plane shook again, hard, and Tish swallowed heavily. She turned to look at the horizontal streaks of rain that were racing across the window glass, then quickly closed her eyes. “I shouldn’t have turned my head like that.” She slowly turned her head back, her eyes still closed. “I hate rough landings.” She sighed. “I hope your family brought some umbrellas. It looks like it’s pouring out.” She cocked her head slightly. “I’m sorry, did you just say something? I didn’t quite catch it.”
“No… not really.”
Ranko and Tish inclined their heads to the customs inspector, who returned the courtesy. The two young women headed for the exit, luggage in hand; since it was just a two week trip, that consisted of a few bags rather than the giant trunk Ranko had lugged to New York. Her heart felt like an excited dog bouncing around the house in anticipation of being let out. There was a pair of large doors a few paces in front of them, and on the other side of that…
Tish took in her roommate’s expression and grinned. “I think I’m looking forward to this almost as much as you are.” Ranko blushed slightly and laughed.
Through the doors, to the left around the security barrier, and… there was a mob scene. Hundreds of people thronged the arrival lobby at Narita, milling about like tigers pacing their cages and peering anxiously at them and all the other arriving passengers pouring out of the customs area. Ranko imagined that this must be what a zoo exhibit felt like.
She was struck by how quiet and orderly this crowd was compared to the streets of New York, though the linoleum floor and hard walls amplified what noise there was, and the PA system periodically blared forth with this landing or that cancellation. She also couldn’t help noticing that many of the people she saw looked to be on the wet side.
She peered right back at them, searching the throng for a familiar face. On the one hand, she hoped to spot a yellow-and-black bandanna, but on the other she didn’t look forward to having to explain “Ryouko-chan” or “Mr. Panda” before they’d even left the airport. If either of them had come, she couldn’t imagine how they could have navigated the weather outside without triggering their curses.
She put those thoughts aside as they moved out into the middle of the floor, craning their necks to scan the terminal. “Do you see them?” asked Tish.
Ranko slowly swiveled her head around. “To be honest… I can’t see much of anything at the moment. There are too many people and they’re all taller than me.” She could jump, of course; that would let her get a good view. Aside from causing a scene, however, it would be a tad difficult not to land on someone’s head in a crowd like this. “Do you know what they look like?”
Tish bit her lip. “Well, I think… wait a minute… there! About fifteen meters that way.” She pointed. “I remember that bandanna. And I think that’s your sister with him.”
“Ryouga and Akane…” Ranko’s heart beat even faster; a loud thunderclap sounded outside, and her mood dimmed slightly. Water was splattering against the plate glass windows of the arrival lobby in huge, fat droplets, like little water balloons dropped by a bratty god-child; though it was still early evening, it was very dark outside. At least she said ‘him.’ He’s made it this far.
Meanwhile, Tish was waving energetically at the pair she had spotted; they were weathering the flow of people in the still backwater next to a pillar. She had a great deal of difficulty catching their attention; several times they looked directly at her, but their gaze moved on without stopping. Finally she said, “Come on… they can’t see you and they don’t recognize me, so let’s head over there.” The two of them started making their way through the crowd, which was no small feat, especially with their luggage.
As they got closer, Ranko could make out not just Akane and Ryouga, but her mother and Kasumi as well. As her family’s eyes made contact and lit up in recognition, an enormous smile spread over her face, a smile she could not have suppressed even if she had wanted to.
She couldn’t wait any longer; she lay down her luggage where she stood, even her violin, and darted through the crowd, closing the remaining few meters in an instant. All she saw was a pair of open arms waiting for her… and then her face was nestled in his chest, and his arms were tight around her. “Ryouga…” she sighed softly.
His eyes were closed, an expression of utter bliss on his face, which was nestled on top of her head. “Welcome home.” She tilted her head up, and their lips met in a modest kiss—they were in the middle of an airport terminal, after all. It seemed both far too short, and as if time had stood still; when she pulled away, her eyes were wet. Akane, Kasumi, and her mother were all hovering and waiting their turn, each overjoyed in their own way.
Ranko looked around, her face still set in a wide smile, despite the tears. “Sis…” She let go of Ryouga and hugged Akane fiercely, an embrace as fiercely returned. “Mother… Oneechan…” Words failed her momentarily, and tears were streaming down her face. She swallowed; her throat hurt. “Oh, gods, how I’ve missed you all.” She laughed even as she cried; Akane was in a similar state, and the two embraced again.
She went to her mother next; the older woman smiled quietly as she held her daughter tight. “You know, Dear,” said Nodoka, her voice cracking slightly, “I thought that after twelve years a few months would be nothing, but I was wrong.” Ranko nodded silently into her mother’s embrace.
Kasumi lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Welcome home, imouto-chan. I’ve missed you.” Ranko, still in her mother’s embrace, reached up to her shoulder and gripped Kasumi’s hand tightly, getting a firm squeeze in return.
With a happy sigh, she released her mother and took another look round at all of them. “It’s so wonderful to be home.” She sniffled and wiped at her eyes; she felt nearly overcome. “Oh…”
Akane patted the redhead’s shoulder comfortingly as she wiped her own eyes. She turned to look around at the crowd. “Sis, where’s your roommate? I thought you said she was on the same plane.”
For a brief moment, panic seized Ranko’s heart, yanking it out of the warm place it had just settled into. Had she managed to lose Tish? “What?! She was just… oh, she’s right over there.” She headed off towards a tall black woman standing nearby, who was smiling at the scene while trying to ride herd on the pile of luggage at her feet. Ryouga followed to lend a hand.
Akane’s eyes bulged slightly as she watched Ranko and Ryouga help carry the luggage over. While she’d heard a description of Tish from Ranko months earlier, somehow, she’d still had an image in her mind of a Japanese woman. She found it hard to connect the person she’d spoken to on the phone with the person before her now, a tall, willowy, black giantess. Akane was tall for a Japanese woman, but Tish was quite a bit taller.
“Everyone,” said Ranko as they rejoined the group, “this is my roommate.”
They all watched as Tish executed a perfect bow, and said politely, “My name is Tish Williams. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Ranko watched her family’s faces grow slack, and remembered her reaction when she’d first heard Tish speak Japanese.
Nodoka was the first to recover. “I’m Saotome Nodoka, Tissue-san. Thank you for being such a good friend to my daughter. I’m sure she was a handful.” She smiled and bowed herself.
Ranko blinked; she’d developed enough of an ear for English that she hadn’t even noticed how much the Japanese pronunciation of Tish’s name sounded like… “Mother, it’s ‘Tish,’ not ‘Tissue.’”
Nodoka’s cheeks reddened. “I am so sorry, Tissue… Tisshu-san.” She laughed, embarrassed. “I have to admit that I have a lot of trouble with foreign names…”
Tish waved her hand back and forth. “It’s quite all right, Saotome-san, I’m used to it. That’s why my friends all used to call me ‘T-chan.’” She noticed that Ranko’s fiancé cringed slightly, but couldn’t imagine why. “Your daughter wasn’t any trouble at all; on the contrary, she’s been a wonderful friend to me.” She bowed again. “Thank you for inviting me into your home during the holidays.”
Nodoka blushed again. “Please call me Auntie, Tisshu-san. Actually, you are welcome to visit my home, but Ranko is currently living with the Tendou family…”
Akane stepped in smoothly. “I’m Tendou Akane, Tish-san. I’m very pleased to meet you.” As she bowed, Akane gathered from Ranko’s relieved expression that she’d pronounced the name correctly; it must be thanks to her English classes at college.
She straightened from her bow and smiled. “Such a good friend to my sister is welcome in our home any time.” Tish bowed in return.
Kasumi nodded her head and bowed as well. “I’m Tendou Kasumi, Tish-san. I’m Ranko and Akane’s older sister. It’s a pleasure to have you here.”
Tish returned the formality. “Thank you, Tendou-san. I understand you’re to become a doctor. Congratulations; your family must be very proud.”
Kasumi smiled radiantly. “Thank you. And please, call me Kasumi.”
Ryouga was next; he inclined his head. “Hibiki Ryouga, Tisshu-san. Nice to meet you.” He put an arm around Ranko and squeezed. “Thank you for taking such good care of her.” Ranko leaned her head against his shoulder and smiled up at him.
Tish beamed. “It’s very nice to meet you, too, and you’re very welcome.” She smiled. “I’ve heard an awful lot about you—about all of you.” Her eyes lingered on Ryouga for a moment, then took in the rest of them. Well… I have to admit they seem pretty normal to me, and very nice, too. Daddy’s right, I have an overactive imagination.
“I’m sure the two of you must be positively exhausted, so why don’t we head home?” asked Kasumi solicitously. “We can chat some more on the way.”
There was another loud thunderclap, and the noise of the rain against the windows became more intense, making sharp little noises like a string of firecrackers. All eyes in the party turned towards the water that was sluicing down the outside of the glass.
“We came through that on the way down,” said Tish, shivering slightly and pulling her long camel coat about her a little more tightly. “I guess we’re going to get a little wet on the way home.”
Ryouga shook his head. “No need.” He held some tickets up and waved them. “We came on the Narita Express. A little pricey, but the station is underground at both ends.” He grinned, then looked down at Ranko and winked. She grinned and winked back.
“Oh, thank you,” breathed Tish with heartfelt gratitude. “I wasn’t looking forward to waiting for a bus in this weather.”
“Shall we?” offered Nodoka, and they all collected the luggage and headed for the stairs leading to the underground station for the trains that served the airport.
Kasumi and Nodoka were interrogating Tish—oh so politely, of course—and so Ranko took the opportunity to hang back with Ryouga and Akane. Ryouga had his arm draped around her shoulders, and her arm was around his waist. “Ryouga… won’t we have to take the Yamanote line? The platform is above ground.” She blinked. “Oh wait, the subway…”
Ryouga nodded. “Right. We can take the Marunouchi line from Tokyo station to Ikebukuro, and the Ikebukuro line platform is enclosed.” They started heading down the stairs.
“But how are we going to get home from Fuurinkan-cho station?”
Akane giggled. “We took a taxi to the station when we left. It’s a bit of a splurge, but I think we’d go for it on a night like tonight even if we didn’t have ‘Ryouko’ to worry about. I guess we’ll have to take two on the way back.”
“But from the cab to the door…”
Ryouga reached back and patted his backpack. “Heavy rain gear, including goggles, a collapsible umbrella, and a mini-thermos full of hot water.”
Ranko shook her head slowly. “Wow… you guys thought of everything.”
Ryouga gave her another squeeze, which sent a pleasant shiver through her. “There was no way I was gonna miss seeing you as soon as you got off that plane, even if I had to swim to get here.” She squeezed him back, her eyes the only reply necessary. She definitely planned to follow up that pitiful excuse for a kiss with something much better later on…
They reached the platform in the second basement, and Kasumi and Nodoka continued to pepper Tish and Ranko with questions about life at Juilliard and in New York for the ten minutes it took their train to arrive. There was a short wait, after which the silver doors slid open; they filed inside. Tish felt a little relieved when she found herself in a set of four facing seats with Ranko, Akane, and Ryouga. The seats were very comfortable; in fact, both Ranko and Tish yawned prodigiously soon after sitting down.
Ryouga smiled. “Tired?”
Tish nodded sleepily. “I don’t even want to think about what time it is in New York.” She yawned again.
After a few moments, the PA system came on with a prerecorded announcement. “Welcome to the Narita Express. We will depart momentarily for Tokyo Station. Please make sure—”
They never found out what they were supposed to make sure of, as the PA system was cut off when the train and the station were plunged into complete darkness.
I really, really didn’t want to wait for a bus in this weather. Tish clutched at her coat in misery, shivering to try to keep warm.
Not only were they having to wait for a bus, they were having to wait quite a while. The direct lightning strike on a station transformer had put the station and all incoming and outgoing trains out of commission. Emergency lights had come on to dispel the darkness after a few scary moments; after about ten minutes of confusion Japan Rail employees with bullhorns had made the announcement that the damage could not be repaired right away. All passengers were to be taken by bus to the town of Narita and the JR main line, where they would board new trains.
While this plan was sound in theory, it was difficult to put into practice. Hundreds of people needed to be transported, with more piling up as new flights arrived. There had been a wait before the buses started arriving, and it had quickly become apparent that anyone who actually wanted to board one of them would have to line up—outside. With twice the number of passengers and buses as normal, the boarding area was mobbed. And of course, all of this was in the midst of a cold, wet, nasty storm. The boarding area was nominally sheltered from the elements by an overhang, but every few minutes a wet, stinging gust of wind reached in to assail the unfortunate crowd like a cloud of angry insects. In other words, it was a typical travel nightmare.
The six of them had been waiting their turn under these conditions for the past forty-five minutes. Conversation had been sparse: they all were cold, the two travelers would have fallen asleep if they hadn’t been standing up, and none of them really had the energy to talk, since they’d have to shout to do so. Finally, however, they’d reached the head of the line, and would be able to board the next bus. Tish supposed it could have been much worse.
She looked around at her roommate’s family. Ranko had her violin case inside her coat, not wanting a drop of water to reach the expensive instrument. She looked intensely uncomfortable; Tish knew that her small body lost heat rapidly, a fact she was acutely aware of due to her own slender build. Kasumi and Akane flanked their sister, and all three women were pressed together with arms around each other in an effort to stay a little warmer. Tish would have loved to join the huddle, but felt she was still too much of an outsider.
If Ranko’s mother was cold, she did not deign to show it in her expression; she was wearing an ankle-length coat that Tish didn’t think could be keeping her nearly warm enough, but her face was a study in refined patience. Tish turned to look at Ryouga…
…and shook her head again. He was wearing a hooded slicker and goggles, rubber wading pants, high boots, heavy waterproof gloves, and was holding up an umbrella, even though they were under the overhang. Every time one of those sodden gusts of wind reached them, he would expertly swing the umbrella around to defend himself, looking for all the world as if he were engaged in swordplay, and deeply unnerving their neighbors in line. This was a man who clearly did not want to get wet.
Tish thought he was being ridiculous, actually, and wondered why he wasn’t trying to keep his shivering fiancée warm instead.
Her thoughts were cut short as a bus pulled up: the bus Tish knew they would finally be able to board. Ringleted angels with trumpets could not have heralded a more divine paradise than the harried-looking woman with a bullhorn who shepherded them onto the motor coach. It turned out the bus was heated, and Tish felt she had died and gone to Heaven. She sighed pleasantly as she followed Ranko down the aisle.
They had been among the last to board, and Tish didn’t expect they’d be able to sit together. As it turned out, there was a cluster of empty seats all together, and with good reason: they were arrayed around an open window.
After handing her violin to her mother, Ranko yanked on the window, hard, but it wouldn’t budge. She fiddled with the latch, she tugged at it, but it would not move. Tish knew that Ranko was incredibly strong, and figured it was a lost cause, but the redhead turned to her fiancé. “Do you want to try?”
Tish thought Ryouga grinned, though it was hard to tell underneath all the equipment. “Sure.” He switched places with Ranko, and gave a few experimental tugs on the window. Nothing. “Oookayy…” He braced himself, gave a hard yank, and the window came free. Literally. He was holding it in his hands. “Oops.”
He tried putting it back in place, but the clips that held the window in its tracks had popped out, and were nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, the attendant at the front called out, “Excuse me, but could you all please sit down? The bus is ready to leave.”
Ranko put a hand on his arm. “Do you want to wait for the next bus?”
Ryouga shook his head. “No. Everyone’s exhausted and cold. I’ll manage.” Ranko surprised Tish by sitting next to the open window herself, and Ryouga sat in the row behind, laying the window pane on the floor. Tish frowned and sat down next to Ranko; if her roommate’s fiancé wasn’t man enough to keep her company, at least Tish would. Akane sat next to Ryouga behind them, and Kasumi and Ranko’s mother were in front of them.
Ryouga handed Ranko the umbrella over the seat, and she popped it partway open and held it against the window to block the opening, just as the bus pulled out from under the overhang. Rain immediately started lashing against the umbrella and dripping onto the floor of the bus. Ranko hurriedly shifted the umbrella so that the bottom edge hung out the window. The makeshift solution seemed to be working, although water was leaking around the edges.
The bus crept out into the traffic on the airport access road, edging its way out into a faster-moving lane. Tish had a hard time seeing out with the umbrella blocking the window, but eventually the buildings grew farther apart, and the bus left the airport. There were no streetlights to illuminate the blackness outside and no conversation among the cold and weary travelers, so Tish leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.
She wasn’t aware how much time had passed when she was awakened by a rude sprinkle of icy water in the face. She spluttered and looked around; Ranko was fiddling frantically with the umbrella, which was wet all over the inside. A second later it became clear what had happened: another splash of water shot up from the roadway, caromed off the inside of the umbrella, and this time arced over the seat to catch Ryouga square in the face.
Tish heard a feminine voice exclaim “Ahhh—” then suddenly cut off. Had that been Akane? She turned to look. Ryouga was slouched down in his seat, and for some reason the rain gear seemed baggier than it had a moment ago. He was holding a cup of steaming liquid, and drank it rather carelessly; most of it splashed on his face, dripping off the goggles. He sat up straight in his seat again, though Tish had the oddest feeling that he’d… expanded, somehow.
She shook her head and turned back to Ranko, who had maneuvered the umbrella to make a tighter seal against the window. “Well, I guess he got wet anyway.”
Ranko’s eyes widened in panic. “What?! He… did he…” All of a sudden she stopped speaking.
“Did he what?”
“Uhhh… never mind.”
Tish blinked. “Does he have a problem with water or something?”
Ranko blurted out, “Ummm… yes. He’s, ahh, allergic.” She winced.
“Allergic to water?”
“Well, ummm, it’s just really cold water. He’s, ummm, not really allergic, but, ummm… he has a, ummm… reaction.” She sagged slightly.
Tish said nothing, leaning back in her seat again. They’re not quite as normal as I thought. Considering Ranko herself, perhaps that shouldn’t have been a surprise. She closed her eyes again.
Tish watched Akane pay and thank the two taxi drivers who had driven them from Fuurinkan-cho station to the Tendou family home. She turned and regarded the impressive gate, which a sign announced to be the entrance to the Tendou Dojo. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle during the two and a half hours it had taken them to get home, but Ryouga had still dashed inside immediately on their arrival. At least he’d had the good grace to carry in a couple of suitcases as he went.
So far, Tish was not impressed with her roommate’s future husband. She couldn’t imagine what kind of reaction to cold water could make a grown man act like such a baby.
The splash on the bus had been only the beginning. He’d done the umbrella-swordplay business on the platform at Narita City again, only to be blind-sided by a blocked rainspout overflowing at an inopportune moment—directly onto his head. He’d cringed so much he’d almost seemed to shrink, and immediately guzzled whatever hot beverage he was carrying in that thermos, only then straightening up again. The Maronouchi subway line had been shut down due to minor flooding, so they’d had to ride the Yamanote line after all, and Ryouga had gotten splashed again. And again. And again. By the time they’d climbed into the cab at Fuurinkan-cho station, Tish had watched him go through the cringing and hot water routine five times. The one time she’d gotten a good look at his face, his expression had seemed to be just this side of a nervous breakdown.
She blinked her weary, bloodshot eyes, and helped the other women carry the rest of the luggage in. At this point, she didn’t care about Ranko’s fiancé, or much of anything else. All she wanted was to get something to eat, have a quick bath, and tumble into a futon.
Once they were in the entryway, Kasumi seemed to recover her good cheer rapidly. “Tish-san, I’m so sorry you had to suffer through all that horrible weather. We’ll have you warmed up in no time.”
As they all took off their coats, more people appeared from the hallway. Ryouga again, no longer encased. (Tish had a brief, odd mental image of him in plastic wrap in a refrigerated case at the supermarket, and knew she needed to get to bed.) Two older men, one tall and wiry with a broad mustache and a broader smile, and the other a short, stocky, bald bear of a man, with wire-rim glasses and an easy grin; both were wearing gis. With them was another young woman whose hair was in a no-nonsense shoulder-length style; her eyes were not smiling quite as much as her mouth, and her face announced that she was related to Akane and Kasumi. Tish knew she’d seen all of them in photos, but her mind was too addled with fatigue to put names to the faces.
Ranko introduced one of them by hurling herself into his arms, literally jumping out of her shoes in the process. “Father!” she cried, wrapping her arms around him as best she could; his grin softened into a quiet smile as she nearly disappeared into his embrace. Tish started to smile, then remembered.
She felt like she was watching a badly adjusted television. Superimposed on the scene in front of her—loving father and daughter embracing in reunion—there was another image: her roommate moaning and twisting in her sleep, crying out “Daddy, the cats… make them go away! Please, Daddy… Please… No…”
Inside her something ugly bubbled and snarled, enraged; something that wanted to hate this man for torturing his own daughter. Not knowing exactly what he had done made it even worse: once or twice, when she’d been awoken by Ranko’s nightmares, her half-dreaming mind had conjured up atrocities to match the cries in the bed across the room. Sometimes she rationalized that it couldn’t have been as bad as she imagined; sometimes she feared it had been much worse.
But the obvious love Ranko and her father held for each other twisted her incipient rage in a different direction. At least he loves her. At least he didn’t run away and leave her. At least he didn’t throw her away like… garbage. The rage died unborn, transformed into a familiar and incurable pain.
Ranko and her father broke their embrace, and everyone’s attention was on Tish; she shoved her thoughts aside and repeated her self-introduction, bowing respectfully to the older men. As she had suspected, the taller one turned out to be Akane and Kasumi’s father, Tendou Souun; Ranko’s father’s name was Genma, which Tish remembered now that she’d heard it again.
The young woman was Tendou Nabiki, the middle of the three Tendou sisters. Tish noticed that Nabiki was appraising her carefully; her personality seemed more guarded than that of the others. She seemed to be amused; by what, Tish couldn’t tell.
She was quickly ushered into house slippers and hustled down the hall, and soon found herself sitting with the rest of them around a large table in the family room of a large and magnificent traditional Japanese home, worthy of the promise made by the gate out front. The doors to the outside were closed against the weather, but Tish could just make out a garden and what looked like a koi pond. She felt an enormous sense of relief to finally be at rest after traveling so far for so long, and drank in the comfortable surroundings.
Once everyone was settled Kasumi turned to head towards the kitchen. “Just give me a moment and I’ll throw something together for us to eat.”
Nabiki grimaced. “Sorry, Oneechan, when Akane called and said you’d be late, I tried calling the Nekohanten to get something, but they’re not making deliveries tonight.” A glance passed around the room, leading Tish to wonder what everyone knew that she didn’t. Ranko seemed particularly pensive.
The redhead shook herself and got to her feet. “I’ll help, Oneechan.” Akane seemed to be about to add something, but bit her lip and looked down, subdued.
Tish started to get to her feet as well, but Kasumi spoke firmly. “Please don’t get up, Tish-san. It’s kind of you to offer, but you’re our guest, and you must be exhausted.” She turned to Ranko. “Are you sure you don’t want to rest, too? You’ve had a very trying day.”
Nodoka stood up. “Let me help Kasumi, Dear. You’ve been traveling all day, and it wouldn’t be right for us to put you to work in the kitchen right away.”
Ranko opened her mouth to object, then looked between her older sister and her mother and closed it again. She nodded reluctantly, and sat back down.
Kasumi and Nodoka smiled and headed for the kitchen, from which soon emanated busy and purposeful noise.
Tish looked out through the closed doors again. “Your home is beautiful, Tendou-san. I’m looking forward to seeing the grounds in the daylight.”
Souun’s face lit up in a proud smile. “Thank you, Tissue-san. Our home isn’t much, but I hope you enjoy your stay here.”
Ranko looked around at her family and smiled. “It’s so nice to finally be home.” She yawned suddenly, leading Tish to do the same. “Actually, it’d be even nicer to be in bed.” Everyone laughed.
“Dinner won’t be long, and then you can get to bed,” said Kasumi, ducking in from the kitchen carrying a tray filled with tea cups, a pot, and several glasses of water. She set it down carefully on the table. “Here’s something to drink while you’re waiting.” She reached for the teapot.
“Let me do that for you, Oneechan,” said Akane. “I can take care of this at least.” Kasumi smiled and withdrew, as Akane leaned forward to distribute the teacups around the table. “Would you like some tea, Tish-san?”
“Yes, please,” answered Tish sleepily. “Actually, I’d like some water, too, if you don’t mind.”
Akane smiled and handed one of the glasses to Tish, who reached across to get it. She wasn’t quite awake enough to grab it before Akane let go, and the glass dropped straight to the table, where it landed square on its bottom. It didn’t shatter, but the contents erupted in a fountain, spraying everyone.
Tish opened her mouth to apologize, but couldn’t utter a word as her brain belatedly played back the last couple of seconds. As soon as the water had struck them, something had happened to Ranko’s fiancé and father: their bodies had shifted like putty.
Ryouga had seemed to shrink, the bulk of his torso, shoulders, and upper arms melting away. His chin and jaw had shrunk as well; his brow had receded and his face had become soft and round. The shape of his face and chest announced that he was now a she. She smiled nervously and stuck her hand behind her head.
Ranko’s father had changed even more drastically: he’d expanded rapidly in size, black and white fur sprouting all over his body. Two eyes surrounded by black circles of fur had replaced his glasses, which dangled from one furry ear.
It had only taken a second, but every detail of the transformation stood out vividly in her memory. She stared back and forth between the two of them, recognizing the panda and girl she’d seen in Ranko’s beach photos. She turned to look helplessly at her roommate, whose cheeks were bright red: she looked equally incapable of speech.
She turned back to stare at the girl and the panda, and felt dizzy; there was a kind of buzzing noise in her ears. The last thing she saw as her vision narrowed to a point was the panda holding up a sign saying, “Really, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this.”
End Chapter 7
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
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- All original characters and story elements expressed herein are Copyright © 2002-2008 by Deborah Goldsmith.
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