Just then a shriek came from across the hangar (Orfeo Raskolov paid it little mind). Mrs. Liang had spotted her daughter’s tiny black backpack on one of the tables, and she’d nearly fainted against her husband’s shoulder. The backpack was no bigger than a loaf of bread and Mrs. Liang would recognize it anywhere: the black leather, the spaghetti straps, the brass clasps. Tien had worn it the last time she came home to Taipei, and Mrs. Liang had puzzled over the size. So absurdly small. So impractical. Why would anyone wear such a ludicrous thing? Fashion, Tien said; it was not about what you put in it. What kind of fashion was that? Mrs. Liang wondered aloud, though secretly, she admired the Italian leather.

Now, she rushed toward the backpack and snatched it off the table. One of the men in white suits tried to intervene. Did she recognize the backpack? he asked. Would she like to fill out a form? But Mrs. Liang ignored him. The leather was still damp. She tore open the clasps and emptied the bag’s contents on the table. Tien’s things were still inside! A compact disc player, her lip gloss! A prescription bottle. Even her passport!

The technician in the white suit was explaining—as gently as possible—that she wasn’t supposed to take anything. But Mrs. Liang was hysterical now, and her husband was trying to calm her. The technician kept intervening until the supervisor in the blue suit rushed over and took the technician aside. It was okay, he said. Leave her be. Mrs. Liang, meanwhile, clutched the bag to her chest. She wasn’t going to let it out of her sight. Not this time. She’d rushed to the next table, searching frantically for anything else that belonged to Tien.

The blue cello case was without a doubt Evdokiya’s. They’d bought the pricey thermoplastic case together in Paris. Orfeo Raskolov was drawn to it now almost in a trance, slightly trembling, for she’d loved that cello. It was one of a kind. A Guadagnini with a rich, sonorous tone, a beautiful amber varnish, a small nick in the bottom center of the back. She’d even given her a name (it was a she, Evdokiya insisted): Chanterelle. “Chanti” for short.