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For the next twenty days, Lulu did nothingbut practice violin. To squeeze as much improvement out of Lulu as possible, I paid Kiwon to come twice, sometimes three times aday to work with her. When Jed saw thecashed checks, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Itold him we’d make up for it by not going outto dinner all summer and not buying newclothes. “Also,” I said hopefully, “there is theadvance you just got for your novel.”

“I’d better start on a sequel now,” Jedreplied grimly.

“There is nothing better to spend ourmoney on than our children,” I said.

Jed was in for another unpleasant surprise. I had imagined that the drive to seeMrs. Vamos would take three, maybe fourhours, and had told Jed as much. The daybefore we were scheduled to leave, Jed goton MapQuest and said, “So where’s thisplace again?”

Unfortunately, I hadn’t realized that NewYork State is so big. Chautauqua turned outto be located near Lake Erie, not far fromCanada.

“Amy, it’s nine hours away—not three,”Jed said in exasperation. “How long are westaying?”

“Just one night. I signed Sophia up for acomputer animation course, which startsMonday—something exciting for her whileshe’s on crutches. But I’m sure we can makethe drive in seven—”

“What are we supposed to do with Coco?”Jed interrupted. Coco had been housebrokenfor only two months and had never traveledanywhere before.

“I thought it would be fun to take her withus. It’ll be our first vacation together,” I said.

“It’s not exactly a vacation to drive eighteen hours in two days,” Jed pointed out, alittle selfishly, I thought. “And what aboutSophia’s broken foot? Isn’t she supposed to keep her leg elevated? How are we going tofit everybody in the car?”

We drove an old Jeep Cherokee. I suggested that Sophia could lie down in the backseat with her head on Lulu’s lap and her legpropped up on pillows. Coco could go all theway in back with the suitcases and violins(yes, plural, which I’ll explain). “There’s onemore thing,” I added. “I asked Kiwon if shewould come with us and told her that I’d payher by the hour, including transportationtime.”

“What?” Jed was incredulous. “That’s going to cost three thousand dollars. And howare we going to fit her in the car? Put her inthe back with Coco?”

“She can take her own car—I told her I’dpay for gas—but actually she really didn’twant to make the trip. It’s a long way, andshe’d have to cancel her other teachinghours. To make it more appealing for her, Iinvited her new boyfriend, Aaron, to cometoo, and offered to put them up for threenights at a nice hotel. I found an amazingplace called the William Seward Inn, and Ibooked them each a double deluxe room.”

“For three nights,” said Jed. “You’rejoking.”

“If you want, you and I can stay at a cheaper place, to save money.”

“I don’t want.”

“Aaron’s a great guy,” I told Jed persuasively. “You’re going to love him. He’s aFrench horn player, and he loves dogs. He’soffered to watch Coco for free while we’rewith Mrs. Vamos.”

We left at the crack of dawn, with Kiwonand Aaron in a white Honda following behind our white Jeep. It wasn’t a pleasant trip. Jed insisted on driving the whole way, amacho thing, which gets on my nerves. Sophia insisted that she was in pain and losing circulation. “Remind me again—why amI coming on this trip?” she asked innocently.

“Because the family always has to stay together,” I replied. “Also, this is an importantevent for Lulu, and you have to support yoursister.”

The whole nine hours I sat tense andcross-legged in the front passenger seat, withCoco’s food, equipment, and fuzzy sleepymat where my feet should have been. Myhead was wedged between Sophia’s two horizontal crutches, which were suctioned inplace on the windshield.

Meanwhile, Lulu was acting like she didn’thave a care in the world. That’s how I knewshe was terrified.

18The Swimming Hole

“What?” Jed asked. “Tell me you didn’t saywhat I think you said.” This was a month before our trip to Chautauqua.

“I said I’m thinking about cashing in mypension funds. Not all of them; just the onesfrom Cleary.” Cleary, Gottlieb, Steen, andHamilton was the name of the Wall Streetlaw firm where I’d worked before Sophia wasborn.

“That makes absolutely no sense from anypoint of view,” Jed said. “First, you’d have topay a huge tax and forfeit half the amount. More important, we need to save that moneyfor our retirement. That’s what pensionfunds are for. It’s part of progress andcivilization.”

“There’s something I need to buy,” I said.

“What is it, Amy?” Jed asked. “If there’ssomething you really want, I’ll find a way forus to get it.”

I got so lucky in love. Jed is handsome, funny, smart, and he tolerates my bad tasteand tendency to get ripped off. I actuallydon’t buy that many things. I don’t enjoyshopping, I don’t get facials or manicures, and I don’t buy jewelry. But every once in awhile there will be something that I get anuncontrollable urge to own—a 1500-poundclay horse from China, for example, whichdisintegrated the following winter—and Jedhas always managed to get it for me. In thiscase, I was overcome with a powerful urge tobuy a really good violin for Lulu.

I contacted some reputable violin dealerswho had been recommended to me, two inNew York, one in Boston, one in Philadelphia. I asked each dealer to send methree violins for Lulu to try, within a certainprice range. They always sent me four violins, three in the price range specified, andone that “is a little out of your pricerange”—meaning twice as expensive—“butthat I decided to send along anyway becauseit’s an extraordinary instrument and mightbe just what you’re looking for.” Violin shopsare similar to rug merchants in Uzbekistanin this way. As we hit each new price plateau, I tried to convince Jed that a fine violin wasan investment, like artwork or real estate.“So we’re actually making money the morewe spend?” he would reply drily.

Meanwhile, Lulu and I had a blast. Everytime a big new box arrived by UPS, wecouldn’t wait to rip it open. It was fun playing on the different violins, comparing thewood and their different tones, readingabout their difference provenances, trying toglean their different personalities. We tried afew new but mainly older violins, from the1930s or earlier. We tried violins from England, France, and Germany, but mostly fromItaly, usually Cremona, Genoa, or Naples. Lulu and I would get the whole family to doblindfold tests, to see if we could tell whichviolin was which and whether our preferences stayed the same if we couldn’t see theviolins.

The thing about Lulu and me is that we’reat once incompatible and really close. Wecan have a great time but also hurt each other deeply. We always know what the other isthinking—which form of psychological torture is being deployed—and we both can’thelp ourselves. We both tend to explode andthen feel fine. Jed has never understood howone minute Lulu and I will be screamingdeath threats at each other, and the nextminute we’ll be lying in bed, Lulu’s armswrapped around me, talking about violins orreading and laughing together.

Anyway, when we finally arrived at Mrs. Vamos’s studio at the Chautauqua Institution, we had with us not one but three violins. We hadn’t been able to make a finaldecision.

“Wonderful!” said Mrs. Vamos. “How fun. I love trying violins.” Mrs. Vamos was down to-earth and as sharp as a tack, with a quirkysense of humor. She was opinionated (“I hateViotti 23. Boring!”)and exuded power andimpressiveness. She was also amazing withkids—or at least with Lulu, whom sheseemed to take to instantly. Mrs. Vamos andJed hit it off too. The only person I don’tthink Mrs. Vamos liked very much was me. Igot the feeling that she had encounteredhundreds, possibly thousands, of Asianmothers and that she found me unaesthetic.

Lulu played the first movement of Mozart’s Concerto no. 3 for Mrs. Vamos.

Afterward, Mrs. Vamos told Lulu that shewas extremely musical. She asked Lulu if sheliked playing the violin. I held my breath, honestly not sure what the answer would be. Lulu replied yes. Mrs. Vamos then told Luluthat while she had the advantage of beingnaturally musical—something that couldn’tbe taught—she lagged behind in technique. She asked Lulu if she practiced scales (“Sortof”) and études (“What are those?”).

Mrs. Vamos told Lulu that all this had tochange if she really wanted to be a good violinist. She needed to do tons of scales andétudes to develop impeccable technique, muscle memory, and perfect intonation. Mrs. Vamos also told Lulu that she was movingmuch too slowly; it wasn’t good enough tospend six months on one movement of a concerto. “My students your age can learn an entire concerto in two weeks—you should beable to do that too.”

Mrs. Vamos then worked with Lulu on theMozart line by line, transforming Lulu’splaying right before my eyes. She was an exceptional teacher: demanding but fun, critical but inspiring. When an hour was up—bythen five or six students had come in andwere sitting with their instruments on thefloor—Mrs. Vamos gave Lulu some things towork on by herself and told us that she’d behappy to see her again the next day.

I couldn’t believe it. Mrs. Vamos wanted tosee Lulu again. I almost leaped out of mychair—and probably would have if at thatmoment I hadn’t seen Coco fly by our window followed by Aaron on the leash behindher.

“What was that?” asked Mrs. Vamos.

“It’s our dog, Coco,” explained Lulu.

“I love dogs. And yours looks really cute,”said one of the most famous violin teachersin the world. “We can see how those violinssound tomorrow too,” she added. “I like theItalian, but maybe the French one will openup.”

Back at the hotel, I was trembling with excitement. I couldn’t wait to start practicing—what an opportunity! I knew that Mrs. Vamos was surrounded by driven Asians, butI was all the more determined to astonishher, to show her what we were made of.

I pulled out the Mozart score, just in timeto see Lulu sink into a comfortable armchair.“Ah-h-h,” she sighed contentedly, leaningher head back. “That was a good day. Let’shave dinner.”

“Dinner?” I couldn’t believe my ears.“Lulu, Mrs. Vamos gave you an assignment. She wants to see how fast you can improve. This is hugely important—it’s not a e on. Let’s start.”

“What are you talking about, Mommy? I’vebeen playing violin for five hours.” This wastrue: she had practiced all morning with Kiwon before going to see Mrs. Vamos. “I needa break. I can’t play more now. Plus it’sfive thirty already. It’s dinnertime.”

“Five-thirty is not dinnertime. We’ll practice first, then reward ourselves with dinner. I’ve already made reservations at an Italianrestaurant—your favorite.”

“Oh-h, no-o-o,” Lulu moaned. “Are youserious? What time?”

“What time what?”

“What time is the dinner reservation?”

“Oh! Nine o’ clock,” I replied, then regretted it.

“NINE? NINE? That’s crazy, Ma! I refuse. I refuse!”

“Lulu, I’ll change it to—”

“I REFUSE! I can’t practice now. I won’t!”

I won’t get into the details of what ensued. Two facts should suffice. One, we didn’t havedinner until nine. Two, we didn’t practice. Inretrospect, I don’t know where I got thestrength and temerity to fight Lulu. Just thememory of that evening makes me feelexhausted.

But the next morning, Lulu got up and onher own went to practice with Kiwon, so allwas not lost. Jed suggested in the strongestterms that I go for a long run with Coco far, far away, which I did. At noon we went backto Mrs. Vamos, Kiwon accompanying us, andthe session again went very well.

I had harbored hopes that Mrs. Vamosmight say, “I’d love to take Lulu on as mystudent. Is there any chance of your flyingout to Chicago for lessons once a month?” Towhich I would have said yes, absolutely. Butinstead Mrs. Vamos suggested that Luluwork intensively with Kiwon as her teacherfor the next year. “You won’t find anyonewith better technique than Kiwon,” Mrs. Vamos said, smiling at her former student,“and Lulu, you have a lot of catching up todo. But in a year or so, you might think aboutauditioning for the Pre-College program atJuilliard. Kiwon, you did that, right? It’s extremely competitive, but if you work reallyhard, Lulu, I bet you could get in. And ofcourse, I hope you’ll come back and see menext summer.”

Before getting on the road for New Haven, Jed, the girls, and I drove to a nature reserveand found a beautiful swimming hole surrounded by beech trees and small waterfalls, which our inn-keeper had said was one of thehidden gems of the area. Coco was afraid ofgoing into the water—she’d never swum before—but Jed gently pulled her in to the deepcenter, where he let go of her. I was afraidCoco would drown, but just as Jed said shewould, Coco dog-paddled safely back toshore while we clapped and cheered, toweling her off and giving her big hugs when shearrived.

That’s one difference between a dog and adaughter, I thought to myself later. A dogcan do something every dog can do—dogpaddle, for example—and we applaud withpride and joy. Imagine how much easier itwould be if we could do the same withdaughters! But we can’t; that would benegligence.

I had to keep my eye on the ball. Mrs. Vamos’s message was crystal clear. It wastime to get serious.

19How You Get to Carnegie Hall

My heart sank. The score looked disappointingly sparse, a few staccato notes here andthere, not a lot of density or vertical range. And such a short piece: six scruffy xeroxedpages.

Sophia and I were in Professor Wei-YiYang’s piano studio at the Yale School ofMusic. It was a large rectangular room withtwo black Steinway baby grand pianos standing side by side, one for the teacher, one forthe student. I was staring at “Juliet as aYoung Girl” from Sergei Prokofiev’s Romeoand Juliet, which Wei-Yi had just proposedthat Sophia play for an international pianocompetition that was coming up.

When Wei-Yi and I first met, he explainedthat he’d never had a student as young asSophia, who was barely fourteen. He taughtonly Yale piano graduate students and a fewYale undergraduates of unusual caliber. Buthaving heard Sophia play, he was willing totake her on with one condition: that shedidn’t require any special treatment becauseof her age. I assured him that this would beno problem.

I love being able to count on Sophia. Shehas wells of inner strength. Even more thanme, she can take anything: exclusion, excoriation, humiliation, loneliness.

Thus began Sophia’s baptism of fire. LikeMrs. Vamos, Wei-Yi had expectations thatwere of an order galactically beyond whatwe’d been used to. The stack of music hehanded Sophia at her first lesson—six Bachinventions, a book of Moszkowskiétudes, aBeethoven sonata, a toccata by Khachaturian, and Brahms’s Rhapsody in GMinor—stunned even me. Sophia had somecatching up to do, he explained; her technical foundation was not what it should be, andthere were some gaping holes in herrepertoire. Even more intimidating waswhen he said to Sophia, “And don’t waste mytime with wrong notes. At your level, there’sno excuse. It’s your job to get the notes right, so we can work on other things during thelesson.”

But two months later, when Wei-Yi Yangproposed the pieces from the suite Romeoand Juliet, I had the opposite reaction. TheProkofiev didn’t look demanding all—itdidn’t strike me as a competition winner. And why Prokofiev? The only thing I knewabout Prokofiev was Peter and the Wolf. Why not something hard, like Rachmaninov?

“Oh, this piece,” I said aloud. “Sophia’s oldpiano teacher thought it was too easy forher.” This wasn’t entirely true. Actually, itwasn’t even a little true. But I didn’t wantWei-Yi to think I was challenging hisjudgment.

“Easy?” Wei-Yi boomed contemptuously. He had a deep baritone voice, which wasstrangely inconsonant with his slight, boyishframe. He was in his thirties, of mixedChinese and Japanese descent, but raised inLondon and Russian-taught. “Prokofiev’s piano concertos hold up the sky. And there isnothing—not one note—that is easy aboutthis piece. I challenge anyone to play it well.”

I liked this. I like authority figures. I likeexperts. This is the opposite of Jed, whohates authority and believes that most “experts” are charlatans. More important, theProkofiev wasn’t easy! Hurray! ProfessorWei-Yi Yang, an expert, said so.

My heart skipped a beat. The first-prizewinners for this competition would performas soloists at Carnegie Hall. Until nowSophia had competed only in local competitions. I had gone crazy when Sophia playedas a soloist with the Farmington Valley (allvolunteer) Symphony. To jump from there toan international competition was dauntingenough, but a chance at Carnegie Hall—Icould hardly stand to think about it.

Over the next few months, Sophia and Ilearned what it was like to take piano lessonsfrom a master. Watching Professor Yangteach Sophia “Juliet as a Young Girl” was oneof the most amazing and humbling experiences I’ve ever had. As he helped Sophiabring the piece to life, adding layer upon layer of nuance, all I could think was, This manis a genius. I am a barbarian. Prokofiev is agenius. I am a cretin. Wei-Yi and Prokofievare great. I am a cannibal.

Going to lessons with Wei-Yi became myfavorite thing; I looked forward to it all week. At every session I would religiously takenotes, the scales falling from my eyes. Occasionally, I felt out of my league. What did hemean by triads and tritones, and makingharmonic sense of the music, and why didSophia seem to get it all so quickly? Othertimes, I picked up things that Sophiamissed—I watched Wei-Yi’s demonstrationslike a hawk, sometimes drawing sketches inmy notebook to capture them. Back homethe two of us would work together in a newway, jointly trying to absorb and implementWei-Yi’s insights and instructions. I nolonger had to yell at Sophia or fight with herabout practicing. She was stimulated and intrigued; it was as if a new world were opening up for her, and for me too, as a juniorpartner.

The hardest part of the Prokofiev was theelusive Juliet theme that formed the backbone of the piece. Here’s what Sophia laterwrote in a school essay about “ConqueringJuliet”:I had just played the last notes of “Julietas a Young Girl,” and the basement studio was dead silent. Professor Yangstared at me. I stared at the rug. Mymom was scribbling furiously in our piano notebook.

I reviewed the piece in my head. Wasit the scales, or the jumps? I had nailedthem all. The dynamics, or the tempo? Ihad obeyed every crescendo and ritard. As far as I could tell, my rendition hadbeen flawless. So what was wrong withthese people, and what more could theypossibly want from me?

At last, Professor Yang spoke.“Sophia, what temperature is thispiece?”

I was tongue-tied.

“It’s a trick question. I’ll make it easier. Consider the middle section. Whatcolor is it?”

I realized I had to give an answer.“Blue? Light blue?”

“And what temperature is light blue?”

That was easy. “Light blue is cool.”

“Then let the phrase be cool.”

What kind of instruction was that? The piano is a percussion instrument. Temperature isn’t part of the equation. I could hear the haunting, delicatemelody in my head. Think, Sophia! Iknew this was Juliet’s theme. But whowas Juliet, and how was she “cool”? Iremembered something Professor Yanghad mentioned the week before: Julietwas fourteen years old, just like me. How would I act if a handsome olderboy suddenly declared his undying lovefor me? Well, I thought to myself, shealready knows she’s desirable, but she’salso flattered and embarrassed. She’sfascinated by him, but she’s also shy andafraid of looking overeager. This was acoolness I could comprehend. I took adeep breath and began.

Shockingly, Professor Yang waspleased. «Better. Now do it again, butthis time let Juliet be in your hands, notyour facial expressions. Here, likethis—” He took my place on the pianobench to demonstrate.

I will never forget how he transformed the little melody. It was Julietjust as I had envisioned her: alluring, vulnerable, a little blasé. The secret, Ibegan to realize, was letting the handreflect the character of the piece. Professor Yang’s was cupped in the shapeof a tent; he coaxed the sound from thekeys. His fingers were sinewy and elegant, like ballerinas’ legs.

“Now you,” he ordered. Un fortunately, Juliet was only half thepiece. The next page brought a newcharacter: lovesick, testosterone-fueledRomeo. He posed a completely differentchallenge; his tone was as rich andmuscular as Juliet’s was ethereal andslender. And of course, Professor Yanghad more questions for me to grapplewith.