at all. The snowfall slowed down, then stopped. The clouds parted quickly, and the winter sky revealed a multitude of stars.
December
“My doves, winter is here! I mean, we have all noticed it before when we had to work our shovels, digging out our cars, but now it’s here officially, proved by the calendar, and that, my dears, is no joke. Soon we’ll hear the growl of a blizzard—are you frightened? You shouldn’t be! Remember, Radio Sweetheart is here with you, with its soft paws, ready to protect you from the frost! Stay with us! Call us, text us, and we will play the warmest, coziest winter music for you, the music you deserve!”
Irina never called him. Aspirin never called her either. Thank God they no longer needed to figure out who dumped whom, like a couple of resentful teenagers.
“We have Vita on the line! Hello, Vita. Whom shall we make happy today? Who is going to receive your musical hello?”
The previous night Alyona had performed at a city-wide student winter recital. Aspirin drove her downtown, to the old Center for the Arts, where the flat stage still kept memories of past assemblies. The concert hall was nearly full—most of the audience was the teachers and parents of the performers. When the MC, a girl of about sixteen, announced that the first-year student Alyona Grimalsky would perform the Gluck “Melodie, Dance of the Blessed Spirits” from Orfeo ed Euridice, a slight murmur ran through the concert hall—the audience was surprised.
Alyona wore a white shirt and a black skirt, bought the day before without trying it on and without any fuss. She came out and squinted at the audience. Aspirin broke out in a cold sweat; he thought the girl managed to switch the strings and, instead of “Melodie,” she would now play a song that raised the dead.
But that didn’t happen. Alyona was simply looking for him, Aspirin, and when she saw him in the audience, she relaxed, lifted her violin and played. It wasn’t pure emotion, in the way she talked about playing in the underground passage. But it was pure—pure music, and perhaps it was even more powerful.
The concert hall froze.
Alyona played the way people talked about beautiful memories. She spoke with the audience, without a trace of smugness or a hint of arrogance, restraint, or inhibition. At that moment everyone in the concert hall realized that if truly happy and free people existed, they looked exactly like that girl in a slightly wrinkled white shirt and a skirt that was a tad too long. And when she finished, the audience remained in shock for a minute, and then it exploded in a barrage of voices and applause. One of the children in the audience even whistled, but was quickly called to order.
Alyona took a bow, accepting the crowd without showing off or shying away, then left the stage without looking back.
The concert got off the rails a bit—the crowd simply could not settle. Someone rose from his seat, someone snapped at a neighbor, a chunky boy in a shiny shirt was sobbing for no reason. The MC had trouble announcing the next performer. A large crowd gathered backstage, their own children’s performances forgotten.
Alyona still held on to her violin. Svetlana Nikolaevna, the teacher Aspirin had met before, stood by Alyona’s side, ready to protect her treasure from a minute threat, and the two of them had been circled by a bald man and two women, like a family of sharks surrounding potential dinner.
“And I am telling you for the fifth time, she is not going to change teachers!”
“Please, there’s no need for drama—I just want to talk.”
“What is all this talk about being a first year—whom are you trying to trick? How long have you been studying violin, dear?”
“. . . must discuss with the parents . . .”
“Quiet, please! A child is onstage!”
And it was true—onstage some hapless child had been trying to overcome the noise in the audience.
Svetlana Nikolaevna noticed Aspirin, and her eyes took on an impression of a goalie facing a penalty shot.
“Alexey Igorevich! Let me congratulate you—as you know, I gave Alyona extra lessons in the last few weeks . . .”
“Let’s go,” Alyona said quietly; Aspirin had no sooner understood her than he heard the actual words.
“Thank you very much to all,” he said politely but firmly. “The child is not well. We have to go to the clinic—I’m sure you understand.”
With one hand he grabbed Alyona’s case, lying nearby on a