The Ghost Adagio

Mentions suicide.

Emily Choy slogged through the gray drizzle and black slush to the 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 pink door and stepped into a 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!

Except for Room 8, at the end of the hall. Nobody liked using that one. People said it was haunted, that you could hear music coming from it at night after everyone had gone home. Emily shook her head. She didn’t believe in ghosts. The worst part about Room 8 was the piano. It was an English Broadwood grand, a relic from the nineteenth century that only had 85 keys, not 88. So you weren’t even playing with a full deck – literally. The old beast had wooden pedals and never stayed in tune to A440. String players hated playing along with it because they had to tune down almost a full step. 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 as if some prisoner was trying to escape. The light in the ceiling flickered nonstop, giving her a headache. She shrugged off her coat 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.

“I’m trying,” replied a soft 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.”

She looked around the room, heart pounding, and reached for her coat.

“Please don’t go. I can help you.”

“Who are you?”

“My name was Ming Xiao-wei, but ‘Julia Ming’ was my American name. 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. 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 scooped up her tote bag and leaped to her feet. She’d heard enough.

“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."

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. She peered in but saw no one. “All right, come out, whoever you are. This is getting old.”

“I’ll sing for you. I promise.”

“What, 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. Then it paused.

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

Hands shaking, Emily reached for her manuscript paper and a pencil. The music started with soft high notes that seemed to ring like a church bell. It grew louder and deeper until it thundered through the small room. 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 chords of resignation.

Nearly an hour had passed. Emily put down the pencil and rubbed her cramped hands. "I have to stop."

"Please keep going,” the voice begged, growing faint. “There's not much more." The keys slowed down Soon the sounds faded to a dissonant echo, like a cry from the grave. It ended in a C-minor chord that rang like a descent into hell.

Emily scribbled the last notes. “This – is- crazy,” she said. “'Is this all?"

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

"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 fluently. The piano seemed to sing in 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?" The dream faded. Emily saw the cracked walls and heard the hissing pipes again.

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

"All right. I promise."

The piano seemed to weep. "Thank you...thank you so much."

Emily hurried from the room and down the hall, past the cacophony of fellow students honking, squeaking and bellowing. Outside, she gulped down the chilly evening air and hoisted the tote bag onto her shoulder. A car roared past, splashing her with mud. She groaned and headed home.

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

Emily drew a deep breath and bent over the keys, her black hair spilling around her face. She began to play a new piece full of fire and thunder that gave way to deep chords, haunting and dark. After the final note, the hall was silent. Then the audience applauded with even more enthusiasm.

Emily bowed and left the stage, exhausted but triumphant.

Professor Lansing beamed at her. “That was wonderful! Did you compose that?"

She hesitated. For the longest 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."

With a knot of grief and betrayal in her stomach, 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.”

"The Ghost Adagio" placed first in the Cornwall Competition, and Emily Choy went on to become an acclaimed composer in her own right. In its own way, the spirit of Julia Ming lived on through Emily's mind and fingers. Music is eternal as long as there are those who play it.

But the piano vanished from Room 8, never to be seen again.