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“How will I understand her when you aren’t here?” I haven’t thought about this; I imagined that the lessons would be in Mandarin.

He holds up a finger, wait.

We follow the teacher. My room is at the top of the stairs. To my surprise it is a large room with a comfortable-looking bed, a desk and a chair, a tall narrow window with the shades drawn. It has its own bathroom. I am glad, I would not like to share with this lady. Now she smiles and indicates the bed, the wardrobe, the desk. “She says, leave your things here, you can unpack in a little while.” I obey and follow them back down the stairs.

We sit in the kitchen around a table that feels small for three people. The kitchen is narrow and dark, but there are dabs of color everywhere: a yellow wooden bird hangs in the window, there is a pink vase with feathers in it, stacks of turquoise dishes by the sink. There are real books tucked into shelves and stacked on chairs—books left open, food-stained. I feel more at home; although I can’t read these books, their presence reminds me of my mother, who leaves a trail of half-read books all over our flat. Mrs. Baxter gives us bright red mugs of tea, real tea. My uncle smiles his appreciation. He speaks with Mrs. Baxter. I hear the sounds flying between them and wonder how I will ever learn English. Learning to play the piano seems less hopeless than decoding this very bumpy language.

“Oliver,” says Mrs. Baxter.

I look at her, panicked. I know this is my name now; what do I say? My uncle takes a small white cube robot from his pocket. He taps it twice on the table and it turns blue. “Go ahead and speak, Qing,” he says in Mandarin. The cube robot says something in English in a man’s voice. We all smile.

I say to the cube, in Mandarin, “Yes, Teacher?” It comes out of the cube in a girl’s voice, in English, I hope.

My uncle frowns and says, “One moment,” and he speaks to the cube, then says, “Again. You don’t have to speak so close to it, it can hear you if you are in the same room.”

I say, “Thank you for allowing me to study with you, Teacher.” My English voice is a man’s now. I nod my appreciation to my uncle.

Mrs. Baxter smiles and says something to the cube. A lady’s voice says, in robot Mandarin, “I’m happy you’re here, Oliver. Shall we get to work?”

We finish our tea and she leads us to the room with the piano. The piano is black and shiny, very smooth, it sits in the center of the room. It is bigger than I expected. There is a large fireplace with burnt wood and ashes in it and a huge mirror above it; the top of the fireplace is so high that I can only see my head in the mirror, between many small sculptures that look like eggs and amoebas. Nearby is a backless armless seat, a comfortable-looking red sofa, and a large dark blue armchair near it; the armchair is like a nest, shapeless and broken-in, with pillows, fingerless gloves, a packet of sweets, a phone, knitting, cigarettes, a blanket, all sorts of comforts and treats, as though a grown-up child lives in that chair. The room has many other things—plants, a low table, more chairs, a soft old Persian rug that reminds me of home. There are almost as many books as my parents have. One wall is all windows; I can see trees and red rooftops under a low gray sky. Her things all seem alert toward her, as though they are animals she has tamed.

Mrs. Baxter says something, but the cube doesn’t hear her and doesn’t translate. She raises her voice and asks my uncle, “Does it record? Or transmit?” He says no. She looks at me. “Have you heard anyone play piano before? What do you like to listen to?”

I look at the rug. Already I have the wrong answer. “No.” I name some of the Korean musicians I like, but she’s never heard of them.

“What do they play?” she asks.

“Robots.”

Mrs. Baxter smiles. “You are going to learn to play without robots, Oliver. Come here, look.” She raises the top of the piano and props it open. I look inside. It’s very complicated in there. I turn and look at her. “Please explain?”

“Keep watching,” she says. Suddenly I see a piece moving: it rises and falls, there is a sound. She says its name but I don’t understand. My uncle says, “He doesn’t know the English alphabet.” She nods and says, “Look at my hands. These are keys. When I press each one it makes a note. The key pushes the hammer, the hammer strikes the wire, the wire vibrates, the vibration moves the air, it reaches your inner ear and you hear a note. I’m moving the air, the air becomes music. Put your hand on your heart.” I do this. She makes loud crashing noises, playing dark notes that sound bad together. “Do you feel that in your chest?”

“Yes,” I say softly.

Uncle Stephen is getting bored. Mrs. Baxter notices this. “You don’t have to stay, this is only the very beginning.”

“What will he play for the examiners?” Uncle Stephen wants to know.

“I’m not sure. It depends on a few things. But perhaps he will play this . . .” She sits at the piano and massages each of her hands with the other hand. Then she touches the piano. The sound is very simple at first. She glances at my uncle; he is frowning, he opens his mouth to protest. She plays with her back straight, her head slightly inclined, not looking at the keys. Then the music is green, sparkling: her hands do completely different things, as though they belong to different women—her hands are jumping, flying, crossing over each other. Mrs. Baxter smiles slightly as she plays. The music chases itself, turns upon itself, repeats and changes, it makes patterns. It is glorious and like no other thing, or maybe it is like listening to math. I feel myself relax, time slows, I want it to go on, but it comes around and completes. Mrs. Baxter swivels on the bench and says to my uncle, “Will that do?”

“Was that ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’?” he asks.

“That was a piece called Twelve Variations on ‘Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman’ by Mozart.”

He nods, satisfied. “I’ll be back next Saturday.”

After he is gone Mrs. Baxter says, “Well, young Oliver, the first lesson is that life is one big long audition.” She laughs, and though I don’t understand the joke I laugh, too.

Mrs. Baxter puts her finger to her mouth and I become quiet. She opens a cabinet and brings out another cube just like the translation cube my uncle left behind. She knocks it three times on the table and puts her cube next to his. It turns yellow, then green, then orange. The orange slowly becomes red and begins to pulse. Mrs. Baxter makes a sour face at it. The first cube turns from blue to purple, the second cube turns from red to purple, both cubes begin to pulse together.

Mrs. Baxter beckons with her fingers, come with me. She passes through the kitchen, opens the back door, walks down some steps into the garden. As I follow her, I realize that this is the garden I was in last night—I was here, in the future! We walk to the little shed. The door makes a loud squeak as she opens it, and she holds up her hand, don’t come in. I wait. The garden is warm and damp, moss covers everything, it’s slimy under my feet.

Mrs. Baxter emerges from the little house and closes the door, locks it. I follow her back to her house. In the kitchen she opens her hand and shows me two earpieces. She gestures, sit down; we both sit at the kitchen table. She hands me one of the devices and puts the other in her own ear. It is transparent and pliable, and as soon as it rests in her ear something inside it that looks like a beating heart turns green and then blue. She gestures for me to do the same; I insert the device in my right ear. I hear a tiny quick patter, like the heart of a mouse, and then it quiets.

“It has synchronized to your own heartbeat,” Mrs. Baxter says. The voice I hear is almost simultaneous with her speaking; it sounds exactly like her voice would be if she was a Mandarin speaker. I burst out laughing, it is so perfect! “Say something, Oliver,” she says, smiling at my wonder.

“How does it work?” I don’t hear the translation, but she seems to hear and understand.