Daria Sokolkina - A violinist died in a god

Yeah, right, wiser.

– It seems you're more experienced in music than me, so you are the big cloud. And me, I am that tiny cloud, following you.

She showed her teeth, smiling.

– It's not true! You and I, we're those two big clouds next to each other. Alexander Pavlovich, I want to let you know this: Iosif Seraphimovich loves to scold and hates to praise. And so, – she put her hand upon my shoulder and looked me in the eyes with confidence, – please be aware of this as well: even if he underestimates your potential you have for sure, you have to remember that you're able to do whatever you want to. Wonderful studying years and a shiny place on stage are waiting for us. All you need for that is to practice but what's even more important than that is to believe. There's no life without faith.

A few small teardrops appeared in my eyes. I didn't understand why she decided to share these words with me now, for we don't even know each other. What do I know about her? Her name is similar to mine and she's interested in the same instrument. That moment I felt I was blessed from above.

Sasha put me out of my thoughts with her bright voice.

– Don't lie here for too long, you'll catch a cold! – I didn't notice she was long on her legs and finished her bun and I still lied on the grass with my case, crookedly. – Let's get warm at my place? I live near here.

– Well, let's continue what we started.

She laughed.

Sasha lived on the second floor.

What a wonderful place. There were countless paintings and little sculptures, everything looked expensive, even though the walls put a lot of pressure. On the hangers, there was a proud fur coat and a tidy autumn coat. Underneath the closet I saw a bunch of squeaky clean shoes. One of the shelves contained a case, a bit bigger than mine.

– Wash your hands! Would you like me to heat you up some soup? – She yelled from the kitchen.

– Thank you Sasha, I haven't finished my bun yet! – I took my coat off in the hallway.

– You can leave your coat next to dad's. Leave your case at the door.

I took a hanger and put my trash next to expensive fabric. This made me smirk.

– Quick, come here! I want to let you listen to something.

I went to the small kitchen and saw something special. A recording player with a box full of records.

– Sasha, where did you get that from?

– It's my parents'. – She looked through the records and got one. – They got it from my grandpa. Do you know a romance, "Oh I still remember"?

– That's the first time I hear that name.

The needle scratched the record. Something clicked inside me; I remembered the time when I sat next to my mom on the couch and watched her crochet napkins.

A sad female voice sang:

Oh I still remember

Your hazelnut eyes,

The mem'ry you left right beside me.

Oh how I regret

That I couldn't disguise

The flame that's still burning inside.

They say it's a sin

To decide your own fate

And run after hopes that are hopeless.

I couldn't predict

That it's true in my dreams

And only in them you will be mine.

My sight was deceived by

The heavenly light.

It seems you were born with that blessing.

I will not forget

All the words you won't shed.

And happiness, a mystery.

We had our last brief seconds to listen to it until the end and the door opened. I heard the sound of a shoe slam my case.

– Sasha, goddammit, who have you brought?

I rushed to stand up from the stool but then I decided that it'll be for the best if I sit down again. Sasha hurried to put the record away and ran towards the one who came in.

– Dad, this is my friend. We study together.

– I told you not to touch my records. When will you learn to leave them alone? Okay, I'll take a look at your friend now.

A man entered the kitchen, tall, with barely noticeable grey and messy facial hair. He left his second coat in the hallway and now he wore a suit vest upon his shirt. It seemed he ironed his pants several times. Tobacco resonated from his clothes.

– Is that your friend? – He pointed right at me. – I thought he'd be your age. – Now he looked me in the eyes. – What mad men study at school?

– Hello. I'm Alexander.

He shaked my hand without any visible desire.

– Sergei Mitrophanovich. Violist.

– Nice to meet you.

Sergei Mitrophanovich's lip twitched.

We didn't have time to finish the conversation; someone rang at the door. That someone was very dedicated and wanted to get to us bad.

Sergei Mitrophanovich unlocked the door. The creature entered the hallway, and it wasn't less elegant.

A rich short fur coat, pearls in ears and on neck, vivid makeup. Pale ginger hair in a bun. An evening dress can be seen from underneath the furry ones who died and left their heritage.

– He-ello, – she took her time with her vowels. – What are you do-oing here? – She looked all over me, hungry for knowledge. – Whose co-oat is this? Yours? – She pulled my wardrobe item by its fabric.

I wanted to destroy her. I wanted to show her that lacking big sums doesn't mean lacking dignity.

Sasha rushed from the kitchen.

– And who-o are you, what's your name?

– Alexander. I study together with Sasha.

– Alexa-ander, – she smudged my name wistfully. – Ali-isa Sergeievna. – She didn't even hand out her skinny arm in a leather glove. I felt like she was ready to spit on me. – Please, get o-out with your sque-eaker. Alexandra Sergeievna needs to stu-udy.

My arm twitched abruptly, my throat closed. I said something inarticulate, not wanting it.

Suddenly Sasha, who stood behind me all that time, grabbed my arm with hers.

– Yes, I will. Just let me take my "squeaker."

Alisa Sergeievna opened her mouth and moved. Sergei Mitrophanovich sighed.

When I walked out of the building, it seemed to me I heard a cheerful voice. It was true.

– Alexander Pavlovich!

I lifted my head.

– Sasha! – She wiggled her legs that were hanging out of the metal balcony cage.

– Don't sit in the cold for too long.

– Don't worry. Catch!

I put the case on the ground and barely had time to catch a bottle of something.

– It's a gift for your patience.

– Who was that grumpy lady? Your father's friend?

– That's my mom.

I got silent.

– You're going to have fun tonight. Hope you like it. My phone number is there – you can call me when you need me.

I saw Alisa Sergeievna talk to Sasha about something. I smiled and headed home.

At home I stuffed my face with my mom, by food and her favorite which we drank together. I hope Sasha won't mind if she finds out I shared her gift with someone else.

When time has come to practice for a bit, I opened the case and plucked each string. That wasn't what I expected to hear – the strings said what they wanted to say and not what they were meant to, not something I heard before.

I dialed the number at my own risk.

– Hello! Alexander Pavlovich?

– Sasha! How did you know that I…

– Dad smashed the case. I heard everything, you know. And I knew you would call me to ask for tuning help.

– Iosif Seraphimovich said strings sounded in fifths. Is that two notes, the first and the fifth?

– Absolutely. Congratulations with your first success. I'm going to hit the tuning fork now, you'll hear it.

And I heard something. A bright iron voice saying "ah."

– Thank you, Sasha. But can you sing open strings to me?

Sasha repeated the iron voice on each pitch. Then she described to me in details how to tune.

– …And first you tune the A string.

– Thank you, Sasha. It just so happens I have the A in tune.

– That's great! It'll make your problem easier. Good luck! There's dad here, telling me I should practice. See you in class!

– Bye, Sasha.

I made it in an hour. I don't know if Sasha's gift helped me or I'm just a brave fool by nature. The scariest part was the E – my eye can barely catch it, what can I say about my hands. I played a couple of songs from Kesha's music notebook.

In the notes, Kesha's teacher wrote that Kesha's fingers handle the process poorly and sometimes bleed. Some notes had small brown spots on them. I had my back twisted a bit when I noticed.

I went to bed listening to classical music – I found mom's disc she didn't like for some reason.

-

I almost skipped on my way, whistling pieces. They were mostly Brahms' Hungarian dances.

While Iosif hurried at the speed of snails, I had time to finish the book.

– Good afternoon, Kamnev. Are you performing Brahms with your mouth? Where did you learn about him?

– I don't need to live under a rock.

– That's also right. – He unlocked the class door. – Today's topic is very interesting – note duration.

– Duration? I know about it already.

He showed his teeth in disgust.

– But how?

– My brother had a music notebook. It's written about everything in there.

Iosif lowered his eyelids.

– I don't think his teacher explained the quarter notes very well.

Now it was my time to ask him, "but how."

– I'll show you. Let's tune first.

I took my device out of the case. The A wasn't an A.

– Give me that.

– I can tune already. I will.

– You can't.

– Are you sure?

I grabbed the peg and began pinching the A, gradually pushing the peg into the pegbox.

– Can't you hear that? It's an A flat. More.

– I don't know about you but I have no desire to break the string. It's an A natural.

He exhaled quickly.

– Where are you from, so smart?

I smiled.

– Okay, nevermind. Durations.

While we were looking at the new subject, Sasha arrived.

– Hello, Alexandra Sergeievna! – Iosif rolled around to see the newcomer. – Look, Kamnev, Sasha can say right now how many thirty-second notes there are in a whole note.

– No, Iosif Seraphimovich, I can't, – she looked at the floor.

– But I can! – A voice could be heard behind their backs. – Thirty-two thirty-second notes.

– You're some kind of unrecognized genius, Kamnev.

– I could say the same but without being sarcastic, – Sasha opened her case.

– Shush. Let's continue.

While we were looking through not-so-new information for me, I noticed a small piece on the table, a one-page piece. Stealthily, while Iosif was distracted with Sasha's tarantella, I picked up my diva and began playing in the silent moment.

– Get this, thitry-second notes – they're light, quick… Kamnev, what are you doing?

I continued performing the piece, not looking at him, even when he put his trembling chicken leg upon my shoulder.

– Kamnev, respond, goddammit!

I stopped.

– What should I tell you? Here we mostly have eighth notes. Eighth and quarter pauses. Everything's just too simple.

– We're done for today. You know the durations, I don't need anything else from you today.

– But we still have some times left. Maybe you could show me something new?

– Get out, Kamnev.

I didn't say anything.

While I was getting dressed in the hallway, my ears caught a funny conversation.

– …It's impossible. No. I refuse to believe in it. He studied before me, somewhere.

– Iosif Seraphimovich, don't worry.

– Alexander Pavlovich! – Sasha rushed from behind the corner.

– What's up, Sasha? You had to leave too?

She only smiled.

– There's a concert in the school soon. Unfortunately, despite all your talent, you won't be performing. I've been getting ready for this my whole life. Do you know Vittorio Monti?