The Eggnog Chronicles Read Online Free PDF Page B

understood how that oddball drink became lumped in with Christmas foods, but then, there’s also bread pudding and fruit cake. Sometimes, I just go with the flow and add nutmeg. You can’t let Christmas traditions overrun your life—especially when those traditions include hooking a man on your candy cane.

4
    T hat afternoon, as I sat across the table from yet another shiny-faced prodigy, I longed for a pretzel stick or a lollipop or a flaming sword to take away the yearning for a cigarette, the yearning for a reason to escape this meeting and hang outside the door of Oscar’s while collecting my thoughts.
    Instead, I sat in a booth facing my lovely Japanese subject, Yoshiko Abe, and her mother, both of whom had bowed when I introduced myself. Sitting across from them might have been a mistake, as it was the position of confrontation. In deference, Yoshiko and Mrs. Abe kept their eyes averted from mine. I’d done interviews like this countless times, and I wasn’t looking forward to an hour of trying to extract personal information from a woman and child who for cultural reasons could not allow me to make a connection.
    â€œWould you like to order?” I offered.
    Yoshiko lifted the menu politely, her long fingers elegant against the laminated card. “Oh, I don’t know.” She turned to her mother and said something in Japanese. The mom answered back in Japanese, pointing to various items on the menu.
    Trying to appear attentive, I waited for the answer.
    Most foreign musicians pose a challenge, especially the young ones. There is the language barrier, of course, though most of my musicians speak English and I am fluent in French. These brilliant children also tend to focus exclusively on their craft with a level of discipline unmatched in the United States. Consequently, prodigies like Yoshiko often have no lives beyond their musical aspirations.
    â€œMy mother,” Yoshiko said, “she would like to try the prime rib very much, but she worries that she had a very large lunch.”
    Was that a yes or a no? I wiggled my toes in my boots, wishing her mother would make up her mind. “The prime rib is delicious,” I said. “And how about you? Something to eat?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know.” Shyly, Yoshiko lowered her head to the menu once again.
    I felt annoyed by their passive aggression and in no mood for a dance of semantics. Then I recalled that the Japanese language does not include a polite word for “no.”
    â€œHow about if I order some appetizers that we can share?” I suggested. “The sampler platter?”
    Yoshiko translated and Mom nodded. “Yes,” the girl said, “that would be very nice.”
    With that taken care of, I told Yoshiko that I had been researching her accomplishments. I knew that she had begun studying violin at the age of two, had performed her first concerto when she was just five, and had been touring since she’d turned eight. Last year, at the age of fifteen, she was the youngest violinist to win the Irving M. Klein String Competition. I asked how that accomplishment had changed her life, and Yoshiko shrugged.
    â€œNot much different,” she said. “Same old, same old.”
    â€œWhat do you do when you’re not playing the violin?” I asked. “Do you have any hobbies? Ways to relieve stress?”
    â€œI travel on tour,” she said, skittering over my question. “From the concert to the hotel. I plug in my laptop, then must do homework and e-mail it to my teachers.”
    Nose to the grindstone, I thought with a smile. “And how about fun? What do you do for fun?”
    â€œI have my violin,” she said, her eyes bright. “A del Gesus. It’s fantastic.”
    If I was going to dig through to her favorite TV show or a secret passion for pistachios, I was going to need a new angle. “What’s your favorite snack?”
    She squinted.