Alyona was playing piano. In Aspirin’s presence she never even dared (or never wanted?) to touch the instrument.
The same musical phrase was played again and again, in a fast tempo. The combination and sequence of sounds was definitely music and definitely harmonious. Aspirin had no idea how this could be played on such an old piano, especially within two octaves.
The phrase repeated, and Aspirin suddenly realized it was a request. It was a request for something unknown, directed at an unknown someone, and it was played over and over again, with different intonations, but its meaning remained unchanged . . .
He came inside and slammed the door. The musical sentence ended abruptly. The lid was lowered immediately. Alyona stood with her back to the instrument as if she’d never touched it. As if she didn’t even care.
“Who asked you to touch stuff that doesn’t belong to you?”
She sat on the sofa and crossed her legs. She glanced at Aspirin as if he were nothing but a mosquito. Mishutka sat on the sofa by her side, his paws crossed, his eyes indifferent.
As he did every time they had such a confrontation, Aspirin gave up and went to his room. He made some tea, took a shower, and changed. He had a few hours to kill before his next shift, and he could spend them at some cozy pub. However, Aspirin would have greatly preferred taking a nap for an hour or so, or just lying down with a book, but there was no rest to be found in his own home.
A few soft “pinching” sounds came from behind the closed door; then the violin came in in full force. Aspirin had never heard Alyona use her bow, and got up to look. She probably practiced when he wasn’t home. The sound, slightly screechy at times, every now and then grew clear and expressive, surprisingly confident and sonorous. Alyona played an étude.
She saw him in the door and stopped playing. “What?”
A second ago he wanted to speak with her. Now, under that contemptuous stare, he only mumbled, “We are out of bread. The butter is almost gone too.”
Without a word, she untied her rest pad and returned the violin to its case. Full of anger, Aspirin left the room.
The front door closed.
He put on his shoes and jacket, hoping the little bitch forgot her keys. When he went down the stairs, though, he saw that Alyona hadn’t left the building. She stood by the entrance to the lobby, clutching Mishutka to her chest.
“What’s wrong?”
Alyona stared at the floor. “It’s them.”
“Who?”
“Them.”
Aspirin followed her eyes. Two boys, around fourteen or so, stood by the garage, smoking and spitting. At first Aspirin had no idea what the issue was, and only a minute later did it connect for him.
“At first I lost my voice. And then they covered my mouth . . . with their hands.”
These guys had truly lousy timing.
Alyona clutched the bear to her chest. Aspirin wondered whether she would be able to set Mishutka off. Would it work if there was no immediate threat to the bear’s owner, but rather an order?
“Are you actually afraid of them?” Aspirin asked brightly. “With that by your side?”
Alyona did not respond.
“Or have you made a mistake? And it’s not them?”
Alyona said nothing. Aspirin tried to look into her eyes, but she turned away. Her fingers, worn out with work, hangnails on each tip, dug into the bear’s chocolate fur.
She was scared and she was disgusted. She was trying to overcome her revulsion, but—right in front of Aspirin—she kept failing. And as much as he loathed her, she was still just a little girl, and the pity—and outrage—welled up inside him.
He glanced at the teenage smokers again, then back at Alyona. He winced inwardly, then crossed the yard.
The boys noticed him; they exchanged surprised glances, but didn’t try to run. There was no reason for them to run.
In the time it took him to cross the yard, he came up with absolutely nothing. No words came to mind. He simply approached the boys and grabbed them by the scruff of their necks.
One of them managed to pull away, but Aspirin grabbed the other with both hands.
“What? What the hell, man?”
“I will tell you what the hell,” he said, the words appearing by themselves, tinged with ice. His internal stupor gave way to the excitement of retribution. “We’re going to the police station. Robbery and an attempted rape. Are you fourteen yet? Jail