The Ghost Adagio

The Ghost Adagio:

Emily Choy slogged through Boston’s gray drizzle and black slush, and made her way to the side door of the Kenmore Conservatory, shivering in the March cold. She wished she’d worn her winter coat, but the weather app on her phone had said 40 degrees. It felt a lot colder than that. Oh well, this was New England. If you didn’t like the weather, wait five minutes and it would change.

She tugged open the drab pink door and stepped into a solid wall of heat and noise. The stairwell echoed with ghostly instruments and voices. As she made her way to the practice rooms in the basement. As she passed each one, she could see that the shades were down. Rats! All of them were occupied.

Except for Room 8, at the very end of the hall. Nobody liked using that one. People said it was haunted, that you could hear music coming from it late at night after everyone had gone home. Emily shook her head, swinging her glossy black ponytail like a horse. That was nonsense, of course. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

The worst part about Room 8 was the piano, and no wonder. It was an English Broadwood grand, a relic from the nineteenth century that only had 85 keys, not 88, for God’s sake. So you weren’t even playing with a full deck – literally. The old beast had wooden pedals and never stayed in tune to A440, concert pitch. String players hated playing along with it because they had to tune down almost a full step.

Singers, especially sopranos, complained they had to sing too low. And piano players had to struggle with the sticky keys.

Now she entered Room 8 and switched on the light. The air smelled musty and the radiator clanked like a prisoner was trying to escape. The fluorescent light in the ceiling flickered nonstop, giving her a headache. She took off her jacket and opened the keyboard of the ancient piano. It creaked like old bones waking up. When she played a scale, the notes echoed in a jumble of sound instead of clear rising tones.

“Sing, you old beast,” she snapped as she set up her music book on the desk

“I’m trying,” replied a soft mellow voice.

Emily jumped. “Who said that?”

“Don’t be afraid,” said the voice. It seemed to be coming from the piano. “I won’t hurt you.”

Emily slammed the keyboard shut and stood up.

“Please don’t go. I can help you.”

“Who are you?” Emily shouted.

“My name is Julia Ming Song. Have you not heard of me?”

“No.”

“I’m not surprised. In my day, nobody believed a Chinese woman could compose Western classical music."

Emily snorted. “Right. You’re a talking piano. Now I’ve heard everything.” She marveled at how calmly she was standing there, talking to some invisible being.

"So what are you doing down here"

The voice hesitated, then answered with soft intensity, “This was my piano when I was alive. I came to this room and took an overdose of sleeping pills and vodka. This is where they found my body.""

“What?” Emily leaped up, knocking over the stool. She reached for her backpack but the music books spilled out.

“Please stay,” begged the piano. “If you learn my music, I will sing for you as no one else can.”

“But – but – what happened?”

Now the voice turned fierce. “I was the first woman and the first Chinese-American composer to have my work featured in the Cornwall Competition here. The composer who taught at this school was jealous of me. He came in second, and swore he couldn’t handle the humiliation. He blocked my every effort to get published or recognized. He taunted me, saying ‘No one will ever believe a Chinese woman could write such music. I will make sure of it.’ And he was right.

The voice turned desperate. "Please bring back my music."

"But how?"

"Open my cover. I will play for you."

With dread in her stomach, Emily heaved open the large lid of the piano, half-expecting to find a body inside. But it looked like a regular piano, except all the strings were stretched out straight. In modern pianos, the bass strings are crossed over the other low ones. A cloud of dust flew out, and she sneezed.

Emily peered in, over and under the piano but saw no one. “All right, come out, whoever you are. This is getting old.”

“I’ll sing for you. I promise.”

“What, are you like some genie in a lamp? Will you grant me three wishes?”

“I wish I could, but I’m not magic. But I can sing for you if you play me.”

In stupefied disbelief, Emily sat down.

"Now," said the piano, "Here are the opening bars." Like a player piano, the keys moved up and down as if invisible fingers were playing it. Then it paused.

“Please write it down," urged the voice. "Before you forget."

Slowly Emily reached for her manuscript paper and a pencil. The music was slow and haunting, starting with very soft high notes that seemed to ring like a church bell long untouched. It sighed with longing and grew louder until it thundered through the small room, roaring in rage and frustration. High arpeggios plunged down the keyboard into sudden pauses, leaving unspoken grief hanging in the air. At last the music began to subside into deep, rich chords of resignation.

Nearly an hour had passed, and Emily's hand had cramped. She put down the pencil. "I have to stop."

The piano begged her, "Please keep going. There's not much more." And in fact its voice was growing faint. The keys seemed to be moving more slowly, with tricky rhythms. Soon it faded to a long dissonant echo, like a cry from the grave. It ended in an eerie C-minor chord that rang like a descent into hell.

Emily finished writing the last few notes. “This – is- crazy,” she said when she was done. “'Is this all?"

"There's much more, but this will do."

Feeling a strange prickling all over, Emily asked, "What do you call this?"

"The “Ghost Adagio.” But there's one measure you didn't quite get. Go up an octave in the Coda and slow down that last run.”

Emily tried it, her fingers moving more fluently than before. Somehow the piece flowed in a way it hadn’t before.” The piano seemed to sing in a poignant manner, an easy rippling of sound that ended in a soft breath.

"You've given me back my voice. But I have one last favor to ask."

"Now what?" Emily felt the dream fading around her. She saw the ugly cracked walls around her and heard the hissing of the pipes again.

"Please play this piece for your recital. Tell them my name, Julia Ming Song. A few people might remember me."

"All right. I promise."

As Emily scooped up the manuscript and added it to her tote bag, the piano seemed to weep. "Thank you...thank you so much."

Emily hurried back down the hall, past the cacophony of fellow students honking, squeaking and bellowing. In the chilly evening air, she took a fresh grip on her tote bag and headed home.

At the recital, she played Beethoven's "Appassionata," to thunderous applause. She stood and bowed, then sat down again. A puzzled murmur ran through the hall.

Emily bent over the keys, her long hair spilling onto her shoulders. She began to play a new piece full of emotion and thunder, subsiding in the deep rich chords, haunting and dark. When she was done, there was stunned silence. Then the audience applauded with even more enthusiasm.

Emily took several bows and strode off-stage, exhausted but triumphant.

Professor Lansing, beamed at her. “That was wonderful! You’ve passed your exam with flying colors!”

Emily hesitated. For a fraction of time, her honesty and desire for acclaim hung in the balance. She heard that plaintive voice ringing in her head. "Tell them my name. A few people might remember me." Her heart wanted to reveal the truth but her brain told her coldly, "No one would believe you."

Her stomach felt knotted with grief and betrayal as she answered, "Yes, it's mine."

"What do you call it?"

"The Ghost Adagio."

The gray-haired professor exclaimed, "An unusual title, but an outstanding work! I think you have a promising career as a composer.”

"Thank you, Professor," Emily said simply.

"The Ghost Adagio" placed first in the Cornwall Competition, and Emily Choy went on to become an acclaimed composer in her own right.

But the piano vanished from Room 8 and was never seen again.

The End