You Don't Own Me (The Russian Don 1)

‘Every day you grow more and more beautiful,’ he says quietly.

I can feel myself trembling with pleasure even as I quip, ‘I was going to say that.’

He smiles.

‘Actually,’ I confess, ‘I really don’t know much about classical music. In fact, I’m not sure I’m going to enjoy tonight.’

He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. ‘All music is beautiful and good, but classical music alone is food for the soul, Dahlia.’

My eyes widen. There is nothing I can think to say to such a profound statement from a man who takes great pains to reveal as little as possible about himself.

The hall is very grand and lofty, and it is full of men and women dressed to the nines. We follow Noah up curving stairs. Noah opens a door and I enter a balcony box. There are only two chairs in it.

‘Would you like to have a drink before the concert starts?’ Zane asks.

I shake my head and sit down on the seat that Noah is holding out for me.

After we are both seated Noah goes out, presumably to wait outside the door.

I look around curiously. At the people down below, at those in the other balconies, and at the crowd where I would have sat if I had come on my own, the peanut gallery. The stage is empty and the background matt black.

Then a hush falls over the people. The lights dim in the theater and the orchestra pit begins to gently glow. The musicians are now faintly visible. Finally, Yo-Yo Ma himself arrives on stage. He is a small, bespectacled, nondescript Japanese man who carries a cello that is almost as big as himself. He bows politely towards the audience. The audience claps enthusiastically and the orchestra stands in reverence.

Yo-Yo Ma takes a seat.

There are a few seconds of silence as the musicians prepare to begin. In that expectant silence the conductor begins to move his hands and the first haunting notes fill the air. I realize immediately that I not only know that piece of music, I actually love it. It is Sayuri’s Theme from the movie, Memoires of a Geisha. I turn to tell Zane that and freeze in surprise.

Zane is leaning forward, his expression rapt as if he is not just listening to the music, but absorbing it in through his very pores. Feeling it inside him. Classical music is food for the soul.

I turn back to the stage and try to emulate him. Try to see if I can enjoy this kind of music with that kind of intensity. After a while I realize that indeed classical music does something to me that other music does not. Other music makes me want to move my body, but this kind of music makes my spirit soar. So much so I feel almost high as we leave the concert hall.

Zane takes me to a quiet restaurant. They know him well there and a table in a secluded corner has been reserved for us.

‘That was beautiful,’ I say to Zane.

‘Good. I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ he says, but something about him feels off and distant. The rest of our conversation is equally stilted and strange.

‘Is everything ok?’ I ask.

‘Yes, I’m preoccupied with some work. If you’ve finished we should go,’ he says.

We hardly speak in the car, and when we get back Zane turns to me in the hallway. ‘Go to bed and don’t wait up for me. I’ve a lot of work to catch up on.’

‘OK, goodnight,’ I say.

Before I can even kiss him goodnight he has turned away and is striding towards his study. I go up the stairs feeling dejected and confused. Once upstairs I change into my nightclothes and go down to his bedroom on the first floor. The bedside lamps are on and the maid has turned down the sheets for the night. I go to my side of the bed and lie down and stare at the ceiling. For at least an hour I lie there until eventually, I fall asleep.

I wake up suddenly, feeling cold and uneasy. It must have been a dream, but I cannot remember it. Immediately I turn my head and Zane isn’t there. He never came to bed.

I sit up and listen to the quiet house. Nothing. I get out of bed, pull my dressing gown around myself and go to the door. I open it and listen. Nothing. I walk down the corridor to the top of the stairs. I stand at the balustrade and look down into the hallway. It is in darkness, but I can hear the faint sounds of music.

My slippers are silent on the marble as I go down the stairs and walk towards the music. It’s coming from the small reception room that no one ever seems to use. The one with the grand piano.