Transcendence t-1 Read online

  Rayne looks confused. “Of course there were,” she says. “They became extinct thousands of years ago. Our great-great-great-great-grandchildren will talk about how there used to be big fish called ‘tuna’ in the oceans, just like our ancestors talked about the unicorns.”

  Gabi pats her on the back. “Girl, good thing you’re book-smart.”

  “What?” Rayne asks. “Gram wouldn’t lie about that.” She looks so lost that despite trying desperately to keep a straight face, Gabi and I both burst out laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, taking another bite. “No more tuna. I promise.”

  Gabi opens up her thermos and a strong spicy smell wafts over us.

  “What is that?” Rayne asks, leaning over to get a better look. “It smells amazing.”

  “It’s saag,” she says, poking at it with a fork. “My cousins have been cooking nonstop since they got here. Want a bite?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Rayne says, taking a forkful. “Oh man, that’s awesome.”

  I lean over to get some, and the fragrant spices overwhelm me. I take a deep breath and sit back against the concrete wall, feeling dizzy and unmoored. Rayne, Gabi, and the whole school fade until all I can see is a hot, smoky kitchen, the whitewashed walls punctuated with portraits of severe-looking old men.

  My mother bends before a cooking pot suspended over a fire, stirring a fragrant stew. Her long black hair is folded into a braid that hangs down the back of her neck and is covered with a loose scarf that she’s gathered in one hand so that it won’t drag into the flames.

  I look down to see my bare feet with their stubby brown toes sticking out of my loose cotton pants. I sit on a chair, far off enough so that I don’t get in the way, but close enough to feel the heat from the fire. My stomach is rumbling in anticipation of her good cooking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Better,” Alessandra says with a grin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Signore Barone!” Luisotti cries, throwing his hands toward heaven. “You are a savior.”

  “I’m afraid I do have some bad news,” Signore Barone says, his mustache drooping as his face falls. “Signorina Catalani’s instrument has sustained some damage on this trip.”

  The rest of our troupe gathers around the cart as he lifts my damaged cello case and sets it on the ground. Even above the din of the ferry dock you can hear an audible gasp as my fellow musicians see the ragged hole in the top of the case that reveals the splintered head of the instrument my parents had spent their life savings to buy.

  “Can it be fixed?” I cry against all hope. I look around the circle at the faces full of pity that are turned toward me.

  Signora Luisotti reaches over and puts her arm around me. “Perhaps,” she says. “But, Clarissa, it will never be the same.”

  “She’s right,” Signore Barone says, leaning over to get a better look. “Damage like this would forever affect the quality of the tone.”

  “What am I to do?” I ask. If I have no instrument, I’ll be sent home from the tour, and my dreams of playing in a truly world-class orchestra will be forever extinguished. I can’t go back to our village now that I’ve had just the smallest taste of success. Hot tears pull at the backs of my eyes.

  Alessandra puts her arm around my shoulders, and it is all I can do not to cry into her new traveling jacket. “Hush,” she says, her voice as soothing as her playing always is. “For tonight and until we can get this matter resolved, you will play your parts on my cello. We are onstage together only for the divertimento, so that is the one piece that will have to be reworked.”

  I look up at her. “I can’t do that.” Each instrument is as individual as a fingerprint, and having her make such a sacrifice is unthinkable.

  “Nonsense,” she insists. “I will hear of no argument. And while this isn’t Genoa, there must be an instrument in this city that will serve our purposes, at least in the short term.”

  “But,” I start, wishing that it were all as easy as it sounds, “we … I cannot possibly pay for another cello.”

  Alessandra waves the thought away as if it is a trifle. “My father will be glad to help,” she says. Signore Barone looks as if he is going to protest, but she continues quickly. “And we can work out some sort of payment plan as the tour progresses. Right, Papa?”

  Signore Barone’s face wears an expression of resigned exhaustion. “Of course, my dear,” he says. He leans over and kisses her cheek. “Whatever you wish.”

  She smiles broadly at him. “Then it’s settled,” she says. She turns to Paolo, standing between the two of us throughout the exchange, his eyes locked on her in an expression of adoration. “Now, what about the assistance I was promised?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, looking around the living room.

  Veronique smiles like nothing happened. “It’s static. I attract it like crazy.” She reaches out and puts a finger gently on the back of my hand. “See? It’s gone now.”

  “Right,” I manage. “Static.” I swallow hard and try to slow my breathing. The black notes on the page look like ants, and make about as much sense right this minute. “Which phrase was it again?”

  Veronique points to the music with her bow, this time keeping a careful distance between the two of us. “The transition here, to this D sharp.”

  It takes everything I have to concentrate on the paper in front of me. “It’s like this.” I show her the fingering while my mind races with images of carriages and a broken cello. Veronique doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong as we finish the lesson.

  I close the door behind her just as Mom calls from the kitchen. “Hey, can you go out and grab the garbage cans? I forgot to bring them in when I got home.”

  Still a little shaky, I call back, “Yeah. No problem.”

  As I walk down the steps to the street, I try to think about what I was doing when the visions happened. Something is triggering them, but it seems so random that I can’t figure out what. Grabbing the can, I turn to wheel it up the curb when I see Griffon sitting on the planter box next to our stairs.

  I jump back, losing my balance on the curb. “God! You scared me!”

  “Sorry,” he says, standing up and walking toward me. “I didn’t mean to. Baseball practice was canceled today, so I thought I’d come by.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, stepping back onto the sidewalk. I glance up at his face and know I’m not going to be able to keep the grin off mine. “You could have knocked, you know. You didn’t have to sit out here.”

  “I know,” he says. “But I didn’t want to interrupt your lesson. You play beautifully. Kat wasn’t exaggerating.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The cello. Earlier. I heard you playing just before Veronique came.” He points to the half-opened bay window in the living room.

  I glance irritably at the window, wondering who else in the neighborhood heard me. I can’t believe he spent the last half hour just sitting down here. “Thanks. But I didn’t know anyone could hear me.” I think for a second. “And how did you know her name?”

  “Veronique? You told me. At the restaurant. You said she’s your Thursday at four.”

  “Did I?”

  He shrugs. “I have a pretty good memory. Here, let me help you.” Griffon grabs the other two cans and follows me to the side of the house, where we park them up against the ivy. As we start to walk away, one can begins to roll toward the sidewalk.

  “Whoa!” Griffon yells, and reaches around me to stop it. As he does, his shoulder bumps mine and my eyesight gets fuzzy just for a moment.

  The window is nothing more than a narrow slit looking over the courtyard. I sit on the wide stone ledge, my forehead pressed into the small space, watching people come and go down below. Everything inside is screaming, but my outside is calm, my hands folded neatly among the folds of my gown.

  I blink, and see Griffon watching me intently. “Has that been happening a lot?” he asks quietly.

  “What?” I shake my head to clear it. I can feel beads of panicky sweat trickle down my back.

  “That,” he says, his eyes locked on mine. “You were somewhere else, weren’t you? Just for a second.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, running my hands over my hair.

  Griffon steps closer. “You said it in the Armouries Café the day we met. The feelings of déjà vu. The blackouts. Strange feelings. Experiencing things you couldn’t possibly have seen.” He bends down until I can feel his warm bre
ath on the back of my neck. The sensation causes me to inhale sharply. “Look, you don’t have to hide it from me,” he says softly. “I get it. I understood the minute I met you in London. I’ve been there. I can help.”

  Tears fill my eyes as I look up at him. I thought things were getting better, but they aren’t. I didn’t leave the visions in London—they’ve followed me here, and are happening more and more often. The thought that Griffon might really understand is overwhelming. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, part of me wanting to run inside and slam the door and make it all go away. But I know it’s not going away. I have to find a way to deal with what’s happening.

  “Can you come out for a little while?” he asks. “We need to be alone if we’re going to talk.”

  I shake my head. “No. I … um … I’m waiting for a friend to come over.” Rayne and I are supposed to go to the movies at the Red Vic, but that all seems so far away right now.

  “It won’t take long,” he says. He indicates the house. “I think someone’s worried.”

  I look up in time to see Dad pulling back the curtains in his office that overlooks the front of the house. I wave at him and he tentatively waves back, raising his eyebrows at the sight of Griffon.

  Griffon turns back to me. “If you want help—if you want answers, then come with me. If not, then go back in the house and I won’t talk to you about this again. But just know that what’s happening to you isn’t going to stop. It’s only going to get worse.”

  Answers. What kind of rational answers can he possibly give me for what’s been happening? Just the slightest possibility that I might find the truth makes me want to give him a chance. I’ll be no worse off than I am now. “All right. But I say where we go.”

  “Fine,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

  “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Trying not to look like I’m rushing, I walk quickly up the stairs and into the house.

  I pick up my phone from the table in the hall and walk into the kitchen. “Mom, I’m going out for a little while.”