‘I’m… not sure I can do this,’ Dmitri said.
As soon as they had come inside the building and been directed by the receptionist to this room, he’d felt his stomach liquefy. He was used to schools, teachers and students. Used to performances – choir performances, that is. But coming here, he felt so insignificant. And so damn old.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Nicola said. Dmitri looked down at her soft white hand entwined with the twisted skin of his own, and felt worse, not better. But she had told him not to wear the gloves. She had convinced him that if he really wanted this, his past was the building block for his future. He believed her, and it had been he who had sent the email in the first place. He breathed in deeply and tried to clear his mind. Since Saturday night, he’d been practising almost non-stop in Nicola’s spare room. This was what he was born to do, and he was ready. But he still felt nervous.
At first, when they reached the door, he thought there must have been a mistake. Inside, a pianist was playing a passage from Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini, a virtuoso piece by Rachmaninov. The music was cut off abruptly. Someone was speaking. The passage began again, slower this time.
‘The woman said just to go in,’ Nicola said. Even she looked a little flustered. She was wearing a dark blue suit, a white silk blouse and black patent high heels. He felt a surge of desire as he remembered the look on her face this morning as she’d had to get dressed in that suit twice before they’d finally walked out the door. She looked beautiful and sexy in whatever she wore, but he did like her in a suit. Him and probably every other bastard at her work… The thought did little to improve his mood as he opened the door and they went inside.
The room was set up like a small lecture theatre. At the bottom of the raked seats, instead of a podium, a grand piano stood in the centre. A young man, who looked Chinese or Japanese, was sitting at the piano with beads of sweat on his forehead. There were three other students: two men and a woman, in the seats near the front. All were much younger than he was. On the other side of the piano, a man strode back and forth, talking and beating out time with his hands. He was in his mid- to late-sixties with thinning dark hair combed back from a sharp, well-defined face. Though his website photo was probably taken ten years ago, Dmitri recognised him. Mikhail Aslanov. Dmitri had had professors like him and had attended masterclasses like this many times. Classes designed to tear you down. It was up to you to build yourself back up again… Or not.
Mikhail Aslanov frowned as they entered. The young pianist played the passage a final time and the others in the room clapped.
‘That’s enough for today,’ Mikhail Aslanov said. ‘But next time, Yoshi-san,’ he looked down at the pianist, ‘I will expect perfection.’
The man looked so relieved to be up and away from the piano. Dmitri felt for him, remembering the nerves, and how it felt knowing that the others in the room may not be wishing you entirely well. For him, it was as if all the years since he’d last taken class had melted away, exposing the rawness, the inadequacy. Could he really do this?
‘Well done,’ he whispered to Yoshi, as he and the others left the room. The young pianist smiled gratefully. Compliments could be few and far between in this game.
Dmitri forced himself to walk down the steps of the hall towards the man at the bottom. He was glad that he’d at least had the presence of mind to ask the woman at the desk Mr Aslanov’s patronymic name so that he could address him formally. He was also aware that Nicola had stayed sitting in the top row. Dmitri knew that this was up to him now.
‘Good morning, Mikhail Petrovich,’ Dmitri said in English, ‘I am Dmitri.’ He held out his hand.
The older man looked wary and stern as he took it, frowning down at Dmitri’s hand as he shook it.
‘Thank you for responding to my email,’ Dmitri said.
‘Your email, yes.’ Mikhail Petrovich rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Your story, is… well, it is not for me to say. There is only one important thing now.’ He gestured to the piano.
‘Yes,’ Dmitri replied.
He set down his bag and went to the piano. He adjusted the stool, feeling the familiar boneless sensation in his fingers, like he had never played a piano before in his life. He took three deep breaths. Then he put his fingers on the keys to warm up. He cleared his mind, finding the place where nothing could reach him; the place inside where the music lived. He finished the warm-up. It was time to show this man what he could do.
With another deep breath, he launched into Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu. It was lightning fast, impressive, the treble line flying through the air like restless spirits, battling the complex base notes that anchored the music to the earth. And then, as if reaching an uneasy peace, the music changed into the almost impossibly beautiful and rich melody of the middle section. He gave himself to the billowing chords, lost himself in the magic of each note coming alive and shimmering into the next.
Dmitri was barely aware of the last chord, the sound evaporating into the ether. The room coming back in focus. Nicola, sitting in the back row, Mikhail Petrovich in the front row. His heart was beating so hard, the adrenalin ripping through his body. Had he played well, or had it all been in his mind?
He looked at Mikhail Petrovich, tension tightening across his shoulders as he awaited the verdict. The man was staring down at his own fingers, long and lithe, like Dmitri’s own. His performing days were most likely over. Was he remembering what it was like? Or thinking of a way to let Dmitri down easy? Or not easy at all?
‘That was… interesting,’ he said, finally. ‘You have come here hoping to impress me. Hoping to convince me that the years do not matter.’ He got up from the chair and began to pace back and forth thoughtfully. ‘Chopin,’ he mused.
Dmitri waited, unsure what to say. Had the Chopin been wrong? Going back over it in his mind, he’d played it flawlessly. More than that, he truly thought that he’d captured the essence of the piece. The dark and the light. The conflict, the romance. But this was why he needed more instruction. A coach. Someone who could tell him if his head was in the clouds, or just up his arse.
Mikhail Petrovich stopped pacing and turned back to Dmitri. ‘Play something else,’ he said. ‘Something that will tell me about you.’
Dmitri thought for a moment. His fear was slowly beginning to vanish. This was why he was here – to tell his story. A story that, for him, words could not adequately express. Only the music could do that.
He put his fingers on the keys, then began to pick out the melody of a simple lullaby, the berceuse from Stravinsky’s Firebird. It wasn’t something he had been practising, and yet, it came to him now. The soundtrack in the back of his mind ran on that this was madness. This wasn’t going to impress anyone, let alone this important man. But the haunting melody reminded him of playing as a boy, when everything had been so easy. The time before the darkness, his father listening to him, lost in the shared beauty of the music. Feeling that powerful hope, so full of possibilities, that only now had a chance of being reborn.
He finished playing, gradually returning to the present. Nicola… he looked up at her, drawing strength just from knowing she was there. Admiration shone in her eyes and he felt a warm flush of pride. He was aware of Mikhail Petrovich watching the two of them.
‘Yes,’ the man muttered under his breath. ‘I think I begin to see who you are.’
Dmitri nodded, unsure of the subtext.
‘I have some questions for you. Beginning with what you want, and why you are here?’
Dmitri took a breath, but before he could speak, the man cut him off.
‘You are not young. You did not finish what you started.’
‘No,’ Dmitri said, his head bowed.
‘Do you think that this is what you need? To come here and take class? To be torn down, built up? To what end?’
‘I don’t know.’ Dmitri raised his head, finding his voice. ‘I am here to get advice. Everything you say about me is true. But for many years, I have been torn down. Now, I believe the time is finally right to build myself up again. After all this time, I need to play again. I will play again.’
‘You need to play,’ the older man mused. He pointed back at the piano. ‘What do you need to play – for her?’ He had ignored Nicola the whole time, and now gave her a passing glance. ‘Play something for her.’
Dmitri tuned out the room, the situation, everything. For him, he was back to that first night in the church, when everything had begun. The reason she was here now. Not something romantic – that had come later. No, what he had found that night was the darkness. And a way to release it. Whether it was the right piece or not, he didn’t know. But somehow, it had been right for them, and the only reason he was here right now.
He closed his eyes and began to play again. Rachmaninov, The Bells. Moscow. That time was part of him. The past was part of him. Fire on snow. The darkness there. And the light.
‘Stop. That is enough.’
He hadn’t even been aware of playing. Of coming to the end of the piece. Or was he even at the end?
He opened his eyes. The light was almost blinding. The face of the man watching him came gradually into focus. Stricken with its own memories. He raised his hand to his face, and for a moment, Dmitri was sure that his eyes glistened with tears.
‘I will help you,’ Mikhail Petrovich said.
*
Nicola was used to difficult situations. Difficult negotiations, involving difficult people and millions of pounds. But how Dmitri could sit there at that piano, with that man Aslanov looking on, dissecting every note – every nuance – she had absolutely no idea. Several times, she’d almost got up from her seat. Clomped down the carpeted stairs. Told the old man where to go. Because that was easier than enduring the tension that was so thick she thought she might choke.
When Dmitri played the Rachmaninov, she almost lost it. It was so powerful, so raw. It catapulted her back to that night in the church when she’d first heard him playing; that first wrenching of the key that had unlocked everything inside of her. And yet, as he played it now, she heard a new beauty in it, a new depth. And when she saw the effect it had on Aslanov, she knew that whatever she heard with her untrained ear, she wasn’t just imagining it.
‘I will help you.’
As soon as the words were spoken, Dmitri seemed overcome. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Nicola immediately stood up and went down the steps. If Aslanov thought that her presence here was purely decorative, then he could think again.
Aslanov looked at her as she came down to his level. ‘And you are?’ the old man said.
‘Nicola Taylor,’ she held out her hand and shook the old man’s firmly and with purpose. ‘I’m Dmitri’s… manager.’
He raised a single grey eyebrow. ‘I bet you are.’
‘You know the situation,’ she said. ‘So we need to know what he needs to do next.’ She looked at Dmitri. ‘Right?’
‘Yes.’ The single word seemed to be a struggle.
Aslanov looked from one of them to the other. He finally settled his sharp gaze on Dmitri. ‘You have come here out of nowhere. Walked in off the street, with your story, and your ability. But I have checked up on you. I verified that you were in Moscow the year you said. And as surprising as it seemed, they remembered you. As someone with great promise. Had you gone back, perhaps in a year or two when you were older, then they would have made you into something different. You would have lost that innocent, untrained quality that you have to your playing now. A quality that was not valued back then. But today…?’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
Nicola kept a close eye on Dmitri, who was staring down at his scarred hands. He seemed to be able to do little else but nod in agreement at what Aslanov was saying. Nicola had the idea that the old man could probably go on all day like this. Lecturing, thinking aloud. Now that they were here, she felt angry with herself. She should have spent some time over the last few days doing her own research. Trying to figure out how to turn a man who ‘walked in off the street’ into a bloody concert pianist. At least known the right questions to ask.
Aslanov turned back to her. ‘He will need an agent. Someone who can open the right doors. There is really no time to lose.’ He turned back to Dmitri. ‘There is no point sitting here in masterclass, working towards a degree. Right now, you need to get your name out there. Tell your story, make recordings, sell them. Then, and only then, will you be able to achieve your dream of performing.’ The man barely paused for a breath. ‘You will need to be ruthless in your focus. And have much courage. Do you understand?’
‘I… think so—’ Dmitri began.
‘Yes,’ Nicola interjected. ‘Yes, we do. Now, do you have a name of an agent?’
‘The one I have in mind is called Bill Campbell.’
Nicola typed the name into the notes section of her phone.
‘He will know how to proceed,’ Aslanov said.
‘Good,’ Nicola said. At the end of the day, Dmitri’s career was a business like any other. Concert pianists were paid to perform. There had to be some reason for people to come and listen and pay for the privilege. Dmitri had told her that there was often an element of novelty to it, such as a very young or very old performer, or a competition winner. Or – a man with a past who had overcome serious obstacles. Either way, it was all going to have to be carefully managed. ‘And you will speak to him first?’
‘I will do it today,’ Aslanov said.
‘Fine.’ Nicola handed Aslanov her card and one of Dmitri’s. She respected his total no-nonsense and upfront manner – no platitudes, and no bullshit. She assumed the interview was over when he took the cards and put them in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. But Aslanov turned back to Dmitri.
‘Play something else.’ He pointed to the piano. Nicola almost laughed. The interview was over, and now, Aslanov simply wanted to enjoy the music.
Dmitri instantly sprang to life, his eyes glowing with a strange fire. Then he closed his eyes and played a piece that was perhaps her favourite of all that he’d been practising. The one he’d recorded for her on the memory stick. He’d had to tell her more than once what it was; Chopin seemed mostly to call his pieces by their number and key signature. Nocturne No. 20 in C# Minor. The opening trill, dazzling like the glitter of moonlight on ice.
Nicola smiled as she sat down in the front row and closed her eyes, letting the music carry her away. At this rate, she really was going to be ridiculously late for work. But she didn’t mind. At all.
*
It was really happening. Everything he’d dreamed of – no, hadn’t even allowed himself to dream about – was there, almost in front of him. It was as if he’d been wandering for his whole life underneath a stormy black sky, and now, the clouds were shifting, allowing him a first, and infinitely precious, glimpse of the stars.
Dmitri spent the whole afternoon with Mikhail Petrovich. He played through more of his repertoire – feeling a profound joy even when performing for an audience of one, that took him by surprise. They had tea together, talked: about music, about Russia, about life in general. As a boy at the Conservatory, he would have been in awe and fear of a man like this. But now, even though they were not equals, Dmitri appreciated this opportunity to spend time with a master.
In the late afternoon when he finally left the Conservatory to go back to his flat and change before the night’s carolling, he felt like another missing piece of him, dislodged and directionless, had been found and reinserted. Between Nicola, and his piano, he experienced something that he’d never expected to feel again.
He felt whole.