Lovely Flawed Page 8

  “Okay, okay,” I say finally, looking in Mingmei’s direction. I’m bored to tears with my in-flight magazine. It’s the same one I’ve flipped through a bazillion times in the last nine hours. I lean forward and try to catch Mingmei’s attention across the aisle. I look past Zheng and flag her with my hand. She looks over at me. “Okay, I’ll bite. What dead bodies?” I say. Zheng is ignoring the both of us. He’s lost to a K-Pop video on the seat back in front of him.

  Mingmei leans forward and looks over at me. I see that the bespectacled child prodigy is now shoeless, just socks warming her feet as she reclines. She’s picking at a cup of chicken instant noodles with her chopsticks, a travel mask limp around her neck. “Who dies on a plane anyway?” I ask.

  “Nobody plans to die on a plane, silly,” she says with mock contempt. “You just die when you’re ready to die.” She smiles, then nudges Zheng with her elbow. “Tell her,” she says to Zheng. She needles him in the ribs again like a school chum. That’s a little odd. “Isn’t that right, Bow Wow?” she says. She has a nickname for Zheng?

  “What’s that?” Zheng looks at her, then pulls off his noise-canceling headphones. The K-Pop video on his seat back shows four Korean girls gyrating to an upbeat tempo on a London street. The girls wear Union Jack mini-skirts, Hello Kitty belly shirts, and flash California gang signs as they dance. Very international. Zheng pauses the video then looks at Mingmei again.

  “Isn’t that right, Bow Wow?” Mingmei says. “When people die on a plane, the flight attendants have to store them somewhere, don’t they? There’s a special place on most long flights where they store you if you die.”

  “I call bullshit,” Zheng says.

  “It’s true. 26 people died in 2013 on long-haul airplane flights,” Mingmei says. She smiles proudly at the factoid, then shouts louder so both of us can hear her. “It’s true! It’s called the corpse drawer!” she bellows. “It’s where they store the people who die in the air!”

  A married couple in the row in front of me turn around and glare at Mingmei. I look out a window and see the sky is getting darker. It’s afternoon, but the sun is now hidden deep in the clouds. I look at the route map on my seat back video screen. According to the moving plane icon, our jet is near the Sea of Okhotsk. If we crash, there will be no sign of us. Just three hundred of us turned into fish food.

  “Look around for the drawer,” Mingmei says. “Every long-haul plane has one. It’s for storing you if you die en route!” she yells. “And if the drawer is full, they put you in an empty seat in First Class.”

  “The final upgrade,” Zheng says.

  Our non-stop flight is one of those long-range ones. Our plane is designed to go and go and go some more. The thirteen-hour flight to Narita from JFK means that fuel is stored in our wings, fuselage, and tail. Just so we can make it to our destination without stopping. We have enough gas to get us to Tokyo—and a little extra. Just in case we don’t make it to Narita. Not that I’m a nervous flyer—I just love planes. I geek out about specs and capabilities. Jets have always fascinated me.

  At a couple of hours outside of Narita, the plane starts shaking. We’re cruising along smoothly over the North Pacific and the plane starts bouncing more severely. Then bucking like a bull. It’s severe turbulence. In an instant, things go from calm to uncomfortable. The fasten seat belt sign comes on and the flight attendants stow their beverage carts. Now everything is shaking. The movement is so severe I can’t even hear myself think. Then, the entertainment system goes out.

  “I hate flying,” Zheng says, arms folded across his chest.

  “It’s only bad if the wings snap off,” I joke.

  The plane lurches to the side, then drops. “Shit!” Zheng says, gripping his armrests.

  “Relax, Zheng. Planes don’t crash.” The plane shimmies, then drops again.

  “God, I hate this,” he says gritting his teeth. “What about Air France Flight 447? Japan Airlines Flight 123? The ValuJet crash in the Florida Everglades?” he says.

  “I’ve read about it, too,” says Jenny, our other young violinist, finally chiming in despite having been silent for the entire flight. From her seat in front of Zheng, she turns around and looks at us. She seems excited about the spirited topic. “It’s actually 23 people who die on planes each year. That’s the statistic I read. The biggest problem is when it happens on long flights,” she says.

  “I find this to be an inopportune time for this topic,” says an ashen-faced Zheng.

  “Your figure is off,” Mingmei says, as the plane bounces up and down. “The number is closer to 26. But what are they supposed to do with the bodies? You can’t just leave a dead person in economy for ten hours.”

  “Guys, please. Can we give this topic a rest for a minute?” Zheng says. He closes his eyes and tries to will away his fear.

  The shaking is making me nauseous.

  I bend down and retrieve my phone from the seat pocket in front of me. I busy myself trying to stick my headphones into it so I can get lost in some music. I fumble with my music app, trying to find a soothing melody. I select an Incubus song and turn up the volume. I stare at the seat back in front of me as we bounce along.

  Zheng grabs my arm from across the aisle. “Have you heard about controlled flight into terrain, CFIT?” he says. “That’s where the pilots forget what the fuck they’re doing and just crash into a mountain. What about that? They just space out up there. How do I know they’ve got their shit together?” he asks.

  I pull off my headphones. “Focus on something else. Take out a piece of paper and write some music. Compose a melody or write a letter to a friend. You’re just obsessing. It’s going to be okay,” I assure him.

  “The flight attendants. Look at them! Look at their faces. They know something we don’t. They know we’re going to crash, but they can’t let on. They can’t show fear. But I can tell they know. We’re going to die.”

  “Snap out of it. Relax. Mind over matter. Control yourself,” I tell him. The plane starts descending as we change altitude.

  “What the hell is that? Why are we going down? Maybe one of our engines is out,” he continues.

  I put my hand on his across the aisle. “It’s going to be okay, Zheng. I’m here for you. You’re fine.”

  As if on cue, the sun comes out the clouds. After forty-five long minutes, everything stops shaking. Finally. The entertainment system comes back on and the ride is as smooth as glass. The pilot gets on the PA and ad-libs an apology about the “bumpy air.” He encourages us to stay buckled up in case of any more unexpected turbulence.

  Outside, the sun shines brightly into the cabin; the sky is a beautiful pale blue. I see a few flight attendants unbuckle their seat belts and resume beverage service.

  I open up my laptop and hop on the Wi-Fi to get the news and check my email. I open up Claffer:

  @CLASSICALMUSICGOSSIPNYC DE LA GOTTARI LIKES GO-GO BOYS IN SHORT SHORTS? ONE AGING MAESTRO NEEDS TO CLOSE THE DOOR TO HIS CLOSET #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA

  @CLASSICALMUSICGOSSIPNYC RUMORS SAY A BOOZY PARTY GIRL VIOLINST AT THE NYC DLG ORCHESTRA IS A HOMEWRECKER #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA

  Malicious lies. I’m starting to feel sick.

  I open up my personal email and see a new message pop up. The sender is “Anonymous” and the subject of the email says “Look here.” When I open it, I expect to find spam or some phishing scheme from hackers in Uzbekistan. Instead, a photo starts downloading into my email.

  I wait for the attachment to download completely. It finishes, and I open it full-size. It’s a picture of three separate photos set out on a desk. The single shot shows the images in detail. I look closely and realize they’re of me. And then I notice whom I’m with. Jeff. One photo is of us holding hands, our faces inches apart. The other two shots are of us kissing. In one photo, Jeff’s hand is clearly up my skirt. Shit.

  I look over at Zheng just as he closes his laptop. He stores his computer underneath the seat in front of him, then catches my eye
. He looks at me and a small smile crosses his face. “Thank you for earlier,” he says. Did he just send me that email? He catches the eye of a toddler in another seat near him and sticks his hand out toward the little boy. I see the little tyke tug on Zheng’s finger.

  I stand up and use the bathroom before we land. I traverse the aisle and see De La Gottari engrossed in a novel. I stop and have a quick chat with him, then continue on my way. I see Mingmei waiting in line for the bathroom, and she asks me how I’m doing. I tell her I’m fine and that everything’s good. What I really want to say is how freaked out I am about those posts on Claffer and the email I just got. That’s how I’m really feeling. But I need to think some more.

  When I get back to my seat, Zheng is still playing with the kid across the aisle. He makes cutesy faces at the little boy as we descend into Narita. At one point, the little boy retreats behind his mother’s back, then peeks back around at Zheng and starts giggling. Zheng engages in a spirited game of peek-a-boo. The asshole is good with kids.

  UR SHOW IN TOKYO WENT OFF WITHOUT A HITCH. DE LA GOTTARI GOT A STANDING O at the end of our second performance. Looking at him during the curtain call, I could sense his pride. The Japanese press really fawned over him. Good for him.

  I couldn’t think straight in Japan. I kept thinking about the email and the photos. Whoever sent them knew how to rattle me. Right now, I’m sitting on another flight. We’re headed back home, just a couple of hundred miles outside New York City airspace. I’m thinking about my future with the orchestra. Except I don’t need a fortune teller. I sense an awkward phone call coming soon.

  I haven’t said anything to Jeff about the photos because, well...what would I say? “Hey, so I’m being targeted by someone who wants to ruin my career. I’m probably going to lose my job. Oh, by the way, there are photos of you with your hand up my skirt. How about them Yankees?”

  Whoever sent me the email is going straight to Mrs. Notrabi. They probably already emailed her the photos. There’s no way my probation is going to survive this. And just as things were looking up. I hope Jeff doesn’t lose his job, too.

  After we deplane and clear customs, I pick up a cab at Arrivals and head to my apartment. I check Claffer to see the latest:

  @CLASSICALMUSICGOSSIPNYC A JUICY SOURCE SAYS ONE FEMALE DE LA GOTTARI VIOLINIST CAN’T STOP BOOZING. WE’LL FIND HER! #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA

  @SEXYCLASSICALMUSICGIRLSNYC GREAT SHOW IN TOKYO, ZHENG MASTER. U HAVE OUR HEARTS #WELOVEZHENGBAOCHOW #ZHENGMEALLNIGHTLONG #CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA

  @CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC THANK U TOKYO. GR8 SHOW. MORE TO COME. #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA #BEIJINGTONYCIAINTNOABC

  @NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA GREAT SHOW IN TOKYO. NEXT UP? NEW YORK CITY! #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA #CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC

  @CLASSICALMUSICGOSSIPNYC RUMORS POINT TO THIRD CHAIR LI HUA HUI AS THE BOOZER. AND READERS WANT TO KNOW...IS DE LA GOTTARI SWITCH-HITTING? #WELOVEZHENGBAOCHOW #ZHENGMEALLNIGHTLONG #CONCERTMASTERZHENGNYC #NYCDELAGOTTARIORCHESTRA

  Shit! What the hell!? This is character assassination.

  I text Tony. Maybe we can meet up for dinner and I can get his help. I need to talk to someone about this. And I really want something sweet right now. A big piece of yellow layer cake covered in pink buttercream frosting would do the trick. I think about my favorite bakery on Bleecker Street. In my mind’s eye, Tony and I are seated there relaxing at a small table al fresco, bathed in sunshine. A big piece of cake washed down with a nice glass of cold iced tea with lemon? Sold. I text Tony:

  I WANT BIG CAKE (Me)

  I GOT YOUR BIG CAKE RIGHT HERE, SEXY (Tony)

  NO! I REALLY WANT A BIG PIECE OF CAKE. MEET ME @ BLEECKER CAKE AT 7 TONIGHT? (Me)

  O.K. BABY. (Tony)

  Then I get a call. The call. Mrs. Notrabi is in my ear. I nod my head as she speaks, imagining I’m sitting in front of her. Nothing she says comes as a surprise. My probationary period is now over. They won’t be re-hiring me. Crap.

  After I drop my stuff off at home, I text Mingmei with the bad news. She says she wants to cheer me up. And she has something important to show me at the concert hall. I really don’t feel like seeing anybody right now, but I agree to meet up with her. Anything to take my mind off these lies. I hail a cab and head to the west side.

  “I am so sorry, sister!” Mingmei says, rushing up me as I emerge from the back of the taxi. We’re standing on West 76th Street and she has her arms around me. “This is just so awful. I am here for you no matter what,” she says earnestly.

  “Thank you.”

  “Formosa!” she says, thrusting her fist in the air. “Look, there’s something I want to show you, sister. Zheng is auditioning this afternoon. He’s playing for some movie people. To score a Hollywood movie. Him and a bunch of movie executives are in Audition A right now. Let’s sneak in and check it out!”

  “If my security pass works, I’m in,” I say.

  We enter the orchestra building, wending our way through the byzantine security ritual and rape tunnel. We finally get to the audition room, but approach it from the back, by the loading dock. We secret ourselves behind a palette of stacked folding chairs at the back of the room.

  From our spot, we see Zheng standing in front of a half-dozen smartly dressed California types, all impeccably groomed and tan. Zheng ascends the small stage, then reaches down to shake each of their hands. We can’t hear the small talk, but we see the smiles and can sense the vibe.

  Zheng gets himself in position onstage and the room goes silent. He stands quietly with his violin in one hand and his bow in the other. He lowers both of his arms to his sides, closes his eyes, and bows his head. What the hell is he doing? The room is so quiet you can hear the soft whoosh of air circulating in the room’s vents.

  A full twenty seconds passes in silence. Zheng stands there like he’s part of a silent prayer vigil. Barnum and Bailey would be proud. He finishes his theatrical posturing and begins. The opening notes tell me we’re in for a treat. He’s playing one of the most difficult pieces to master in classical violin, Violin Concerto No. 1 by Paganini.

  The beginning of the piece doesn’t romance us. It doesn’t titillate us. It grabs us by the throat like a tiger. Zheng’s bow whips up and down the strings, his face calm and eyes laser-focused. The music rushes into my ears in harmonious, sonic perfection. I sit there slack-jawed and spellbound. Mingmei and I look at each other, riveted. Goose bumps.

  It’s the cadenza where Zheng really shines. The cadenza is the violinist’s chance to dazzle the audience. It’s a musical solo where they can add some flourish and color of their own. To make the piece theirs. There are a few standards played in Concerto No. 1, but Zheng eschews tradition. He goes rogue. He goes insane.

  He starts the cadenza by wowing the visitors with his pizzicato. He plucks the strings instead of bowing them to carry the melody. Then, he flips the violin behind his head and continues plucking out notes at machine gun speed like an Asian Jimi Hendrix.

  He whips the violin back underneath his chin and uses double and triple stops, playing two and three strings at a time to create an even more unique sound. The crystalline notes reverberate through the audition room; each is perfect.

  “Holy crap,” Mingmei whispers.

  I look over at the visitors and see them in awe.

  “No soul. Just a machine,” I whisper.

  “You’re just jealous,” Mingmei whispers.

  “Not at all.” The truth hurts.

  Zheng gets to the end of the piece and his arm is pumping furiously. His bow-hand contorts into shapes I’ve never seen before as his left hand snakes up and down the fret board. I’ve never heard so many notes played so rapidly.

  As he nears the end, he teases the cadence, but never gives in, coming close to ending the piece, but never quite finishing. It’s aural titillation that makes us ache for a release.

  Zheng teases the tonic sexually, doing some arpeggios on the dominant, then dances around atonally on the strings.
The music begs for the cadence, but again Zheng deceives us to delay our gratification. I look over at the movie types and can sense their angst and desire for conclusion.

  Again Zheng teases us, delivering only the deceptive cadence. Will he give in and finally deliver an authentic cadence? He heightens us aurally, and he looks at the visitors more closely. He senses their ache and desire for release. He knows they need a musical conclusion. He finally gives in to our desire with a frenetic aural rush and climax. Finally, he takes us home.

  The final notes decay into the room and Zheng bows gracefully.

  “Brava!” the visitors yell. “Brava!” They applaud loudly and pour on the accolades.

  That was some main course; I’m ready for dessert.

  HEAR THE TOILET FLUSH AND THE BATHROOM DOOR OPEN. MY DESK DRAWER IS OPENED and I hear someone shuffling my papers. The bookcase in my entryway gets a once-over. Someone is re-arranging my books, shoving things to the side. Next, my kitchen cupboards are pillaged, plates and glasses moving on the wooden shelves. I hear my junk drawer open with a clang and my stuff noisily upturned. I turn over in bed, trying to ignore the din. This must be what it’s like when a cop flips a perp’s pad. Finally, I sit up and look up at Tony. “What do you want, baby?”

  “Your cigarettes,” he says in his morning voice.

  “No está en casa. I’m a bar smoker. Come back to bed.” Tony walks over in his aqua boxer-briefs and climbs into bed next me. He cuddles me, twining his legs around my waist and wrapping his arms around my head. He kisses me on the cheek, John-Lennon-naked-with-Yoko-Ono style. I look down and notice his hard-on and touch him through his boxers with my hand.