The next day Mr. Chandrasekhar didn’t tell the class to read. He told them he had a story for them. “A student in our class has alerted me that you children, some, or even most of you, are interested in this flute of mine and that you would like to learn about it and its music. Is this true?”
“Yes.” The class answered uncannily in unison. No one neglected to answer. No one made any silly remarks or tried to be funny. They all genuinely wanted to know.
“Well,” Mr. Chandrasekhar clapped his hands. “Then I will tell you a story, which is short for history, which is what this class is all about. It may not be an American history that I am telling, but I am only a substitute. What can you expect?
“My story begins a long time ago in the place where I am from. It begins with my father, who made flutes and other instruments for a living. My father didn’t play exactly, or, that is to say, he didn’t play very well. Nearly everyone plays where I am from. He was a fashioner of instruments, and he taught the craft to me. But, and this is the tricky part, he could only teach it to me after I had taught some of it to him.
“Before my parents were married, my mother wanted my father, in order to gain her hand, to prove that he was a very skilled artisan. She probably would have married him no matter what, but she wanted to see how good he could become. So she asked him to make her a flute different from any other flute. For a year he worked on it every day and couldn’t get it right. Now, while all of this was going on, I was waiting impatiently to be born. So, in order to hurry up my birth, I designed this flute and gave the plans to my father. I named her Chandravenu. My father gave her to my mother. And, after I was born, my mother gave her to me, knowing the flute was really mine to begin with.”
Stacy Keenan raised her hand. “But what do you mean? How did you design it if you weren’t even born yet?”
“It is a mystery,” Mr. Chandrasekhar said. “But aren’t mysteries sometimes wonderful?”
Mr. Chandrasekhar picked up his flute, held it at arms-length toward the class. “Who would like to try to play?” he asked.
Every hand rose.
Mr. Chandrasekhar patiently took the flute from child to child, positioning each finger on the proper button. Most couldn’t make a single sound come out of it. The ones who had some success made teeny, little squeaks jump out of the flute, after which silence reigned. Stacy Keenan couldn’t get the thing to make any noise whatsoever.
“I really don’t think I’ve had the proper training,” Robert said when the flute came to him.
“Do you want to try?” Mr. Chandrasekhar held the flute out.
Robert thought it over. “No.”
Then it was Esmeralda’s turn. She was afraid; it wasn’t clear to her why. No one had really been able to play it, but she desperately wanted to play and make that beautiful sound. She had such fear of not being able to play that she wasn’t sure she wanted to try at all.
“Would you like to?” Mr. Chandrasekhar asked.
Esmeralda didn’t say anything.
“Ms. Comstock?” Mr. Chandrasekhar placed the flute on her desk. “Here it is.”
Esmeralda picked up the flute. Its wooden body felt warm in her hands, and the silver buttons gleamed in the sunlight streaming into the room. Mr. Chandrasekhar positioned her hands and fingers correctly, and Esmeralda placed the instrument as she had seen. She waited for a moment, took a breath and closed her eyes. She thought about all of the music she had heard Mr. Chandrasekhar play. She could recall every silken note from the few days he had been in class. She thought of how complete she might feel if she could make sounds like that come alive. Esmeralda opened her eyes. The flute was sounding. She hadn’t intentionally started playing; she simply found herself blowing into the flute and producing a strong high tone. Mr. Chandrasekhar was smiling.
No one else had been able to make the flute sing. She felt immense satisfaction. Then she thought about the other kids, about how she had succeeded where they had failed. They’re all going to envy me, she thought. And all at once the flute stopped. She tried blowing again and nothing happened. It was as if it simply decided to stop working, all on its own.
3. The Party
On Friday, Mr. Eldredge was back in fifth period history. Esmeralda was crushed. She walked in the door beaming and happy and ready to hear and do more music. But there he was, standing at the board, already scribbling away. She knew she would never see Mr. Chandrasekhar again, that the strangely real magic of him and his flute was gone forever.
“Are you okay?” Robert asked as they were walking home after school.
“What do you mean?” Esmeralda asked.
“Well, I mean, I know you hate Mr. Eldredge, and you kind of were in love with Mr. C.”
Esmeralda rolled her eyes. “I don’t love Mr. Chandrasekhar. He was nice. And besides, anybody would be better than Eldredge.”
“You’re in denial.” Robert pulled off his glasses, breathed on the lenses and wiped them with his shirt.
“Robert, denial?”
“Yes.” While distracted with replacing his glasses, Robert tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, let out a little squeak and then continued on as if nothing had happened. “You’re in denial. I heard about it on a talk show. The grief is too much for you to bear.”