The fourth movement held the most infamous feature of Bartók’s entire sonata: quarter tones. These were the tones between piano keys, notes between notes. Here, the violin fingerboard showed no wear, for these were signs of bad intonation, or even worse, a bad ear.

Yehudi Menuhin had asked Bartók to rewrite this section conventionally, not only because of the technical difficulty, but because to him the deviation seemed unnecessary.

Unnecessary?

Why did Bartók write this for violin? After all, he was a pianist. Why write for the violin, even while dying of leukemia? Why did Miss Satomi teach her? After all, she was the Queen of Hell. Why spare her student, even as she was dying for souls?

Unnecessary?

Here, with her fingers upon the in-between places, Katrina played a deviation that the instrument thought was wrong, the audience thought was wrong, that everything she had learned about intonation and harmony thought was wrong. Here, where even Aubergine’s resonance became cold and faraway, Katrina drew her bow across the strings, quickly, smoothly, roughly, flirtatiously, desperately.

Cursed or not, she drew her bow across as she would draw her breath. Queer or not, she would play with a cursed bow and be called an abomination. Trans or not, deviant or not, that did not mean that there was anything wrong with her love.

Miss Satomi once told her that the violin’s difficulty is one of the greatest mistruths in all of music. There are only four strings, tuned in perfect fifths. The relations between the courses are inviolate; one’s hand rests in familiar places, positions, whether playing a melody up and along one string, or over to the next. When you are in tune, the entire instrument sings in sympathetic resonance.

But when it stops singing?

What then?

Standing alone, Katrina looked into the darkness and, from her own emptiness, her own hollows, played the music that she knew for herself was right.

And suddenly, Katrina realized how much she was enjoying herself. Tomorrow she would be gone. She would miss Astrid and Miss Satomi. She’d miss Shirley so very much.

But they would be fine.

Katrina thanked Béla Viktor János Bartók and sent him a prayer. For here, where in his in-between notes, in his lonely intonations, she had said everything she needed to say. In the dissonances and off tones beyond the reach of the piano, beyond even Aubergine. Katrina would now be fine, as well.

For stripped of familiarity, of decency, of hope, even damned, she realized, more powerfully than ever, that her music, this music, still holds.

Before a befuddled audience she could not see, Katrina held and was held. And to them, Katrina Nguyen played her farewell. It was a song of neither forgiveness nor gratitude. Nor of trust nor anything else the world might think she owed.