months of lessons. But she refused! She said she doesn’t want to waste time on preparing for the recital. Do you know what she said to me? ‘I take lessons to learn how to play one single piece. I need to master second and third positions, and vibrato.’ Vibrato! After six weeks!”
“She sets challenging goals for herself,” Aspirin said carefully. “What exactly is the problem?”
The teacher stared at him, her eyes burning with disdain.
“Her head is getting too big,” she said finally. “She started missing chorus and solfège. If she continues in this manner, her enormous talent is going to be wasted. She is not going to succeed. Ever.”
Aspirin glanced at his watch. The teacher noticed, and her nostrils flared even further.
“I will speak with Alyona,” Aspirin said placatingly. “But you shouldn’t pressure her. She is having a difficult childhood.”
He paid for his coffee and left without drinking it.
It rained. Uncharacteristically, Alyona took a break from practicing; she stood by the window, tracing the path of the raindrops on the glass.
“Why wouldn’t you perform at this recital?” Aspirin asked as soon as he entered.
“I knew she was going to complain to you,” Alyona said without turning her head. “Called for the heavy artillery. Asking Daddy for help.”
“It’s not an unreasonable request. You are her pride and joy. She wants to show you off. What do you have to lose?”
He bit his tongue. If an outsider heard their conversation, it would sound like a perfectly normal conversation between a father and a daughter on a perfectly normal topic of important school issues . . . and that scared him. Had they settled into their parts? Was it easier for them to function this way?
“Sometimes I think I will never learn it.” Alyona continued to gaze at the rain. “I practice and practice . . . Everything hurts. And still, I am as far away from his song as I am from the sky. No, more like from . . . It doesn’t matter.”
“You’ve got all the time in the world. Within a thousand years you’ll definitely get the hang of it.”
She turned to look at him, and he instantly felt guilty about his joke. He flinched at her glare. “Why are you looking at me like that? Anyone standing over my shoulder?”
“I am tired of you. If you only knew how tired of you I am.”
“Oh—you’re tired of me? Do you think I feel any differently?”
She made a face. “Good morning, my loves, DJ Aspirin is here with you, you can relax, we have many wonderful cozy hours in the soft cuddly arms of Radio Sweetheart . . .”
“Such an excellent impression of me. I’m entirely wounded.” Having heard such sarcasm from her, he was positive she caught it from him this time.
He went to his room.
He had an article due at Macho last Friday—today was Monday. Aspirin turned on his laptop meaning to get some work done, but instead he surfed the Web for an hour and a half.
Alyona spent that time practicing. Aspirin listened to the endless, exhausting repetitions of the same measures. By the end of the second hour, the piece sounded perfect; Aspirin had to admit that, aside from a light, easy touch, there was expression in Alyona’s style. She played a simple dance melody with as much temperament as if it were the “Ride of the Valkyries.” He went to the living room.
“Nice job.”
She looked at him askance.
“I am sure you will get really good sooner than a thousand years,” he said, trying to ingratiate himself. “I give you a couple of weeks—you’ll probably play it then. Is it complicated, that song?”
“Not really. It does take people outside the limits of this world. Occasionally, it raises the dead. Otherwise, it’s nothing special. Just a simple tune.”
Yes—quite simple.
“Good morning, my doves! And now Tuesday is finally here, and DJ Aspirin is here again to spend a few cozy hours with you in the soft arms of . . .”
He nearly choked on his words, as if a bone was stuck in his throat, preventing him from pushing the words out.
“. . . of Radio Sweetheart,” he managed. “Some of you listen to us at home, and some of you listen to us at work. There is even a very stubborn little girl who listens to us—and thinks that easy music is a bad thing. We know that people sang at work since the birth of time; they cut grass and sang . . . milked cows and