Transcendence by C. J. Omololu Page B

shouts, his voice shrill with the rise in volume. “This country is populated by nothing but idiots and fools.”
    “Relax, Antonio,” his wife soothes. Out of all of the adults in our group, Signora Luisotti is always the voice of reason. “We have plenty of time.”
    Signore Luisotti pointedly takes his watch out of his small vest pocket to check the time. “Nonsense. Signore Sutter is expecting us in two hours, and we still have to make our way to the hotel first. We’ll never make it at this rate. Where are the rest of the trunks?”
    As his shouts continue, Alessandra’s father appears with a flat cart loaded with the missing trunks and instruments
.
    “Signore Barone!” Luisotti cries, throwing his hands toward heaven. “You are a savior.”
    “I’m afraid I do have some bad news,” Signore Barone says, his mustache drooping as his face falls. “Signorina Catalani’s instrument has sustained some damage on this trip.”
    The rest of our troupe gathers around the cart as he lifts my damaged cello case and sets it on the ground. Even above the din of the ferry dock you can hear an audible gasp as my fellow musicians see the ragged hole in the top of the case that reveals the splintered head of the instrument my parents had spent their life savings to buy
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    “Can it be fixed?” I cry against all hope. I look around the circle at the faces full of pity that are turned toward me
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    Signora Luisotti reaches over and puts her arm around me. “Perhaps,” she says. “But, Clarissa, it will never be the same.”
    “She’s right,” Signore Barone says, leaning over to get a better look. “Damage like this would forever affect the quality of the tone.”
    “What am I to do?” I ask. If I have no instrument, I’ll be sent home from the tour, and my dreams of playing in a truly world-class orchestra will be forever extinguished. I can’t go back to our village now that I’ve had just the smallest taste of success. Hot tears pull at the backs of my eyes
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    Alessandra puts her arm around my shoulders, and it is all I can do not to cry into her new traveling jacket. “Hush,” she says, her voice as soothing as her playing always is. “For tonight and
until we can get this matter resolved, you will play your parts on my cello. We are onstage together only for the divertimento, so that is the one piece that will have to be reworked.”
    I look up at her. “I can’t do that.” Each instrument is as individual as a fingerprint, and having her make such a sacrifice is unthinkable
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    “Nonsense,” she insists. “I will hear of no argument. And while this isn’t Genoa, there must be an instrument in this city that will serve our purposes, at least in the short term.”
    “But,” I start, wishing that it were all as easy as it sounds, “we … I cannot possibly pay for another cello.”
    Alessandra waves the thought away as if it is a trifle. “My father will be glad to help,” she says. Signore Barone looks as if he is going to protest, but she continues quickly. “And we can work out some sort of payment plan as the tour progresses. Right, Papa?”
    Signore Barone’s face wears an expression of resigned exhaustion. “Of course, my dear,” he says. He leans over and kisses her cheek. “Whatever you wish.”
    She smiles broadly at him. “Then it’s settled,” she says. She turns to Paolo, standing between the two of us throughout the exchange, his eyes locked on her in an expression of adoration. “Now, what about the assistance I was promised?”
    “I’m sorry,” I say, looking around the living room.
    Veronique smiles like nothing happened. “It’s static. I attract it like crazy.” She reaches out and puts a finger gently on the back of my hand. “See? It’s gone now.”
    “Right,” I manage. “Static.” I swallow hard and try to slow mybreathing. The black notes on the page look like ants, and make about as much sense right this minute. “Which phrase was it