Whisper (39 page)

I understood now why I walked between two worlds and why this had become my place. I was the bridge—I was the translator between those who come into this world whole and those who don't. Ranita would join me as a member of both worlds.

“I'm ready to play.”

He rubbed his eyes with both hands, stood and walked around the desk, lumbering in heavy strides. He looked at me through eyes so bloodshot I wondered if perhaps he too should lie down on his bed and not move for three days.

“Are you sure?”

I wasn't sure. How could I be? I was about to tell my story to a roomful of people in a huge auditorium, and who knew if my message would come through? But this was the way I spoke and this was my story and these were my friends who needed my help and this was my little sister whose cleft palate would be fixed and whose earaches would disappear.

“I'm sure.”

The auditorium was vacant, hollow and dark. We were early. As Solomon and I parked in our usual spot, a car pulled into the space next to ours, and out of it stepped Dr. Ruiz, Jeremia with Ranita and Eva, David, Candela and Oscar.

I couldn't stop the sudden tears. I sniffled, rubbing my nose on the sleeve of my sweater, and tried to smile, but my mouth wobbled and my lower lip drooped. Candela put her arm around my waist on one side and Eva did the same on the other. Jeremia stood in front of me, his eyes dark, his mouth straight. He reached out and touched my cheek with the tip of his finger. Then he pulled me away from Eva and Candela, slipped his arm around my waist and held me against his chest. I pressed my cheek against his neck and listened to his breathing.

Dr. Ruiz walked beside Solomon and we all made our way to the dark stairs that led from the parking garage to the auditorium. We walked down the aisle, Eva gasping and pointing as we went, touching the ornate gold decorations on the sides of the seats. I'd never been here when the orchestra was absent and most of the lights were turned off. The building felt very hollow, emptied out, and I clutched Eva's hand, glad to have her warmth beside me. Solomon and I sat on the stage and waited.

Ruy Climaco rushed in, flipping his hair from his shoulders and leading his body with his chin. His eyes and mouth were narrow slits in his face and his arms pumped back and forth, the baton gripped like a sword in his right hand.

“Well, miss,” he said before he was halfway down the aisle. “Think you're a bit high and mighty, don't you? Think you can come and go as you like—well, young lady, I'm here to tell you that playing with the City Philharmonic is an honor, and you, child, should understand that. You don't miss practices for the Philharmonic even on your deathbed—and you, you especially, should be grateful for the opportunity…”

As he talked, a baby gurgled behind him, and then someone coughed. Ranita shrieked, cooed, blew bubbles. Ruy Climaco slowed his speech and turned around. When he saw the group of people seated in the front row, his hand moved to his face, fluttered and covered his mouth.

“Good God.”

The people in the front row smiled, except for Jeremia, and Oscar waved a leg at Ruy. Ruy turned around abruptly, his jaw clenched.

“Let's begin, then, shall we?” Solomon said.

We practiced for two hours. I tried to remember all the advice given to me by Ruy Climaco and by Solomon. Ruy hummed the accompaniment, I kept the beat steady, I counted in my head and played the song of Purgatory Palace.

I was only a small part of the performance, and my piece came in the middle. For the first half of the evening I sat in the front row with my family. Jeremia and I took turns holding Ranita, bouncing her on our laps, feeding her bits of a roll. She gurgled along with the music, but the sound she made was lost in the song of the orchestra. For a time, she seemed to listen, but mostly she slept.

At intermission, Solomon stood up and motioned for me to follow. When I rose from my seat, Jeremia pulled on the sleeve of my sweater. He held his hand out to me, the back of the hand up, the fingers curved around something in his fist. I opened my hand beneath his. His fingers touched my palm, and when they did, energy burst into me, tingled through me, and I was awake as I hadn't been for a long time. Something dropped into my hand. It was my carved violin, complete and whole once again. Jeremia said nothing, but for the first time since he had returned to me, he smiled. I leaned down and pressed my lips against his. He kissed me back, strong, sure, unembarrassed.

I stood beside Solomon at the back of the stage, and he said to me, “You, Whisper, are the strongest person I know.”

I had just curled into myself for three days. I had been sad, lonely, lost and abandoned. I slipped the string around my neck and felt the weight of Jeremia's violin against my chest.

Pulling my shoulders back, pulling my stomach in, I stood straight and finished tuning my instrument. My veil had slipped to the side, and I adjusted it over my face. It was time.

The orchestra members took their seats, tuned their instruments, readied themselves. Ruy Climaco climbed the steps to the stage, turned and bowed to the audience. The audience clapped—a few yelled. I allowed myself a slow, careful smile.

“We are honored to have a guest violinist today. Whisper Gane, a sixteen-year-old virtuoso, will be playing a piece that she composed herself. Please give a warm welcome to Whisper Gane.”

Ruy's arm swept toward me and his face turned in my direction. He beamed as though he had never been angry. I took a deep breath and tucked my bow under my arm. With my left hand I reached out to Solomon and squeezed his arm.

“Your song is a miracle, Whisper, and your story needs to be heard.”

“Thanks for being the first to listen,” I said. I walked onto the stage, I bowed to the audience and smiled when the front row of listeners screamed, yelled and whistled.

“Break a leg, Whisper,” yelled Oscar, his voice booming through the auditorium, one of his legs held up over his head. Some audience members laughed, others gasped.

Looking out into the audience, the lights from the ceiling blinding me to anything but those in the first few rows, I listened to my heart—the slow, steady beat of calm. I fitted my violin to my shoulder, rested my chin on it and, at Ruy's signal, began to play.

My hands didn't flutter, my heart didn't race, my knees didn't become slick with sweat. I was transported to Purgatory Palace, to a place where love existed at the edges of torment and loneliness. My song found wings and flew through the auditorium. I kept the beat, I listened to the orchestra, and we played in harmony.

As I drew my bow over the strings of the violin for the final notes, I opened my eyes and saw that in the first row, all my family and friends were on their feet, clapping, screaming and yelling my name. Their enthusiasm leaked from the front row to the back, and soon the entire audience had risen to its feet, clapping, whistling, cheering for me, a reject, a lost member of this world.

When the clapping died down, I continued to stand in the same spot. Silence filled the room after people had shuffled down into their seats. Ruy held his hand out toward me and instructed me to take a bow. Instead, I tucked my violin under my arm, reached up with my left hand and felt the veil whisper against my face as I lifted it from my head.

Gasps rose up like moths from the depths of the audience. Ruy stood in front of the orchestra, his face frozen, his hand stiffly held in front of him.

I stepped foward and looked over the audience. Tonight, almost every seat was full. My friends and family in the front row screamed once again and yelled my name. It was then, as Whisper Gane without the veil, that I took my bow.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank: Tony Wolk, my thesis advisor, for his patience and unswerving optimism; Michelle McCann, Diana Abu-Jaber and Barbara Ruben for joining the thesis committee; Danielle Schneider, Sasha Sterner, Arianna Strong and Samantha Thompson, my student readers, for their time, feedback and willingness to be guinea pigs; Connie Barr, Kelly Garrett, Marla Bowie LePley, Laura Marshall and Lisa Nowak, my writing group members, who gave me consistent feedback and believed in the big picture; John and Andrea Struyk, Angela Struyk-Huyer, Catrina Huyer and Alana Miner for feedback throughout the writing process; Eric, Quinten and Eli for their patience and unfaltering support. And finally, thank you to Sarah Harvey, my editor at Orca Book Publishers, who believed in the project and whose guidance was invaluable.

Chris Struyk-Bonn
previously detassled corn, worked in a small motor-parts factory, framed pictures, served in various and sundry restaurants and sorted eggs in an egg factory. She is currently a high school English teacher in Portland, Oregon, and has at last discovered a job she thoroughly enjoys.
Whisper
is her first book.