Hanzai Japan: Fantastical, Futuristic Stories of Crime From and About Japan Read Online Free PDF Page A

in my head switches on. I open the cello case, and start to rosin the bow. As long as there is no problem with the left hand, the pitches will match. We can play a few bars, and then everyone will understand.
    It happened when I was 21.
    I am a performer, not a teacher. And I have confidence. At some point in the future, I will have the sound of my dreams. But that future will never come. I will have a car accident, and I will injure the tendons of my right hand. I will move to protect my instrument, and lose something even more vital. This is what the doctor will say: “There will be some aftereffects, but you will have no problems with your everyday life.”
    Nearly a half-century has now passed. I stopped performing, and chose the path of nurturing the next generation.
    My yearning is still with me.
    And that is why I am still carrying this regret, to the point of buying two tickets.
    How horrible will it be to die, still carrying this future that might have been?
    The expression on my face must be awful enough. A young woman looks my way, and tells me, “Everything will be fine.” I feel like I have seen her face somewhere before. But that is not possible. In no way am I fine.
    The violin runs up, and I play my first note, emphatically.
    That is when it happens:
    The feel of the bow hits me. It is a feeling I can never forget, no matter how long it has been. No matter how often I try, each time, it drops from my hand. That thing that I had finally “got,” that runs the length of the bow, from grip to tip. That feeling in my hand when I am playing the cello properly. The high I feel when my hands are in complete harmony.
    Like the slow gathering of the tide, I can feel the healing of my deep wounds. Am I able to perform again, as I thought I never would? Or …
    The violin carries the melody, and I follow, and then pass it back. Sky Spider’s lips move, just a bit. Oddly, I am able to understand what he is saying. I am certain that this is what he says:
    “I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”
    This is exactly what I am also thinking. Not just because it is my turn with the melody. We have each found a partner who understands us, and for the first time, harmony comes to life. We play, and over and over we return to the beginning. Here is a young man with whom I have never exchanged a word, but I am experiencing sympathetic resonance, as if I have a tuning fork inside.
    What is happening here?
    As I play, I look around the plane.
    The plane is still shaking, but no longer can I hear the roar of the jets. Many of the passengers are dressed rather formally for the flight. One has a cigarette, relishing every puff. His clothing is dazzlingly colorful, jangly, like a black-and-white film that has been colorized. A female passenger waves. She wears a skirt with a wide hem, her hair has a soft wave, and she wears high heels. Seeing her, I remember a certain story.
    There is a ridiculous urban legend musicians tell. With all their flying around, sooner or later anybody might end up wandering onto a “Ghost Ship,” or so the story goes. And when that happens, such a passenger might hear a violin with a sound like the nectar of the gods. Some such passengers might be able to take that sound home with them. And some might be possessed, or even go mad.
    That is the story a student of mine told me. I chided her. Instead of dreaming, move your hands some more, I said. At the time, she was my best student.
    “Really?” she asked. “Don’t you think you’d like to try and see for yourself?”
    I thought this response was brilliant. But on the forced march of a concert tour she suffered a miscarriage. Things between her and her husband soured, and at some point she put music behind her.
    I think about this often. What is the life of a musician?
    A ghost ship.
    Something that should never be.
    What then is this scene before my eyes? The truth is communicating with my right hand, I can feel the bow.
    There is just one