You Don't Own Me 2 (The Russian Don 2)

Mama’s mouth opens in a gasp of surprise. ‘You did what?’

‘I wrote a piece of music for you,’ I repeat.

Mama stares at me curiously. ‘Since when have you wrote music?’

I shrug. ‘Writing music is easy, Mama.’

‘You wrote it for me?’ she asks, touching her chest with her right hand.

‘Yes,’ I say happily. Her blue eyes shine like stars and make me feel proud.

‘Let me see it,’ she says, wiping her hands hurriedly on her apron.

‘I’ve called it Crying Angel,’ I tell her as I hand the sheets over. She takes them as if they are something rare and precious. I see her eyes moving from side to side, and her head nodding slightly, as if she is listening to the music in her head. She reaches the end and looks up at me. ‘Oh Aleksandr, this is beautiful,’ she says excitedly.

‘Shall I play it for you?’

‘Yes, but quickly. Papa will be home soon.’

I sit at the piano and open the lid. The keys are yellow with age. Mama stands behind me. I lay my fingers on the ivory colored wood and begin to play. We are both so engrossed in the music we do not hear or see papa arrive.

‘What the fuck is going on here?’ he roars.

My fingers still, my mother jumps with fear. We turn towards my father guiltily. He is standing in the middle of the room and swaying on his feet, his head is tilted down, his eyebrows are raised and his eyes are wide open. He looks like a bull about to charge.

‘I thought I told you never to touch that fucking piano. How are you going to be a fighter if you play a sissy instrument like that?’ he rages.

I stare at him mutely.

‘What are you staring at you little fucker? Come here,’ he screams.

‘Wait. Wait. It’s all my fault,’ my mother says in a trembling voice and moves quickly so her body blocks mine.

‘Of course, it’s your fault, bitch. I should smash the motherfucking thing to pieces. Fucking piano. Turning my boy into a weak-willed fucking freak.’

‘Please, please don’t,’ mama begs desperately. ‘It’s my mother’s. I promise I will never let Aleksandr play the piano again.’

He crosses his massive arms over his chest and glares at me. ‘I want to hear him say it.’

My mother starts crying softly. I stand up and position myself in front of my mother. ‘I promise never to play the piano again,’ I say clearly.

‘Right. You better not be lying to me. I swear if I ever see you playing that fucking instrument again, I’ll smash it to bits,’ he says.

Twenty-four

Dahlia Fury

Purely by accident I find the sheets of music two days after we return from our holiday. I go into Zane’s bedroom to get the book I was reading the night before, and find them lying on the bed. One look at them and I immediately recognize them as Zane’s writing. Zane, I can hear, is in the shower. He must have brought them upstairs with him and left them there while he took a quick shower.

For a few seconds I do nothing. Simply stare at them. Then I move. I don’t think, I just pick up the notes and run upstairs to my room. There is a fax/copier machine up there that I sometimes use to copy stuff for work.

I switch it on and wait for the damn thing to warm up.

‘Come on, come on,’ I whisper, but it slowly takes it time making its bleeps and clicks. The light turns red.

‘Come on,’ I urge. My palms are starting to sweat.

Finally, after forever and a bit passes, the light turns green.

Immediately, I feed the first page. There is a whirling noise as it starts its slow journey. I never realized how freaking slow this machine is. The paper wheezes out at the other end and I feed it the second page. It goes through at a snail’s pace. I open my door and listen. There are no sounds from below.

I feed the next one, and the next one, but I am too nervous to finish. I have four pieces. That should be enough. I collect all the papers and rush downstairs. I don’t know what I will do or say if Zane is out of the bathroom, but thank God, he is still there. I replace the sheets on the bed exactly how I found them and run out of the room. My heart is in my throat, and there are patches of sweat on my T-shirt under my arms, but a small secret smile curves my lips.

‘Thank you, God,’ I whisper as I skip up the stairs back to my room.

I switch off the machine, and hide the photocopies under my pile of unread submissions. Then I call Stella.

‘What’re you doing?’ I ask her.

‘Painting my toenails yellow and waiting for the oven to ping,’ she says.