by Lee Winter
Natalya stared at the page and then slid her gaze back to the waiting blue eyes.
She never gave out her particulars. Not to strangers. Or colleagues. Employers perhaps, if absolutely required. This? This was unprecedented. She paused a beat too long, and Ryan suddenly seemed to realise what she’d asked of her.
“Oh,” she said. Shame filled her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was so forward.” She retracted the pad and pen.
Natalya sighed and reached forward, hesitated, then put a stilling hand on Ryan’s. She then extracted the pad and slid it to her own side of the table.
“For the record,” Natalya said as she wrote out her mobile number, “there is no such thing as perfection in music because the musician is always human. Therefore the piece will always be flawed.”
She shot her a Cheshire cat smile and slowly ripped off the part of the page with Ryan’s number on it. She pushed the notepad and pen back.
“Hmm,” Ryan mused. She returned the items to her bag. “I get that it’s hard for you, but please try,” she said with a grin. “To the very best of your flawed, human soul, find me perfection in purity. And I will find you perfection in impurity.”
She rose. “This has been really interesting, but I have to go. I look forward to your text message.” She leaned forward. “Don’t forget, okay?”
After a wave, she was gone.
Natalya stared at the scrap of paper and wondered what the hell had just happened. Had she inadvertently just made a friend? With a woman she was supposed to kill in two weeks’ time?
Before she could think too hard on that, the ear drum-destroying wailings of mutilated xylophones began again.
Chapter 5
The text messages, delivered with Ryan’s trademark, burbling enthusiasm, had been arriving regularly ever since that night. Natalya dispassionately noted she had not (yet) switched off her own phone.
Did you know Karlheinz Stockhausen composed a piece that had to be performed in three helicopters! No, that’s not my final answer. If you hated Partch, you’ll hate this, too. But doesn’t that blow your mind? Oh, right, I forgot, minds can’t be blown by musical rule breakers! Sacrilege!!!
Natalya shuddered. Yes, she’d heard the god-awful Helicopter String Quartet. It would have been marginally improved if the musicians had been ejected from said helicopters. Shrieks did have a certain musicality to them, as she well knew. She briefly contemplated sharing that factoid with Alison.
Instead, she wrote: A publicity stunt does not music make. Are you even trying?
Alison replied. Just warming up. Don’t make me send you John Cage’s amplified cacti and feathers.
The hitting of random objects doesn’t count as a composition, either, Natalya texted back. If it did, every toddler would be hailed a musical genius.
She hit send, briefly wondering what Alison would reply. Then she froze. With irritation, she tossed her phone aside and stalked into her rehearsal room, slid onto the stool, and reached for her bow. Her thumb ran along its smooth back, and focused on her breathing.
Her name was Ryan. Not Alison. She was a target, for god’s sake.
Christ. Natalya shook her head and began to play.
Within moments she was lost.
* * *
The next day a flurry of text messages arrived once more.
Have you ever been to Russia? With a surname like Tsvetnenko, I figured the odds are good.
Many times. Natalya texted back. My father was from St Petersburg. I have depped with the Moscow Symphony Orchestra.
Depped? Alison asked.
Filled in for an unavailable orchestra member. I have toured most of Europe depping with various orchestras.
That sounds amazing. But you didn’t answer my question. What’s Russia like?
What sort of a vague question was that? Natalya frowned at her phone and tapped out a reply.
Politically, socioeconomically, or personally?
Personally.
Natalya smiled and answered. Very beautiful. It’s lovely to visit. And St Petersburg in winter is like standing still in time. History is etched in every crevice of every building.
You write as well as you play, I see.
Almost as well as Amanda Marks plays, you mean?
Well, she couldn’t resist. Natalya had seen her with the woman’s gawping groupies, after all.
Hey, give me some credit. Did you HEAR her at the Tchaikovsky season opener? I felt like slipping her a stimulant. Her fingers were slow. Her timing was sloppy.
Natalya stared at her screen in surprise. Was she not actually a fan of Marks?
How did you see that? Most people think professional musicians are machines. Nuance and flaws are never noticed.
Ryan took an eternity to answer. Finally Natalya’s phone beeped and the answer was nothing she’d expected.
I don’t like to talk about it, but I used to play violin. Not at concert level, of course. But I had a scholarship at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music for two terms.
Why only two? Natalya asked in surprise.
My mother became unwell. I came home to be her carer.
Natalya could feel a lot of pain behind the reply. To give up such a renowned scholarship? Her stomach knotted at the very thought of it. And the selflessness involved? She hissed in a breath and typed back.
Do you still play?
Never.
Natalya winced. She couldn’t imagine a day without her music in it.
Why not? she asked.
It reminds me of what I’ve lost. And please don’t ask me about it anymore. Makes me so sad. Can’t we talk about you? Where’s the best place on earth you’ve ever played?
Natalya very much wanted to push for more. Instead she considered the unexpected question.
I did an outdoor concert under some white blossoms in Okayama in Japan. It was like it was snowing along the canals. We all got covered in blossom. I was plucking it out of my cello for days. It was worth it. It was so quiet and surreal; I could almost hear people breathing. I thought I was in Narnia.
Natalya peered at her message the moment she’d sent it, wishing she could recall it. She sounded ridiculous mentioning Narnia.
Sounds heavenly. I’d have given every cent to see that.
Natalya snorted and wrote back. That would have been a bargain.
You saying you think I’m poor? :)
Natalya laughed aloud at that. Hell, she’d seen where she lived and knew exactly how much she earned. Doubtlessly the sick mother didn’t help her bottom line.
She typed back: I’m saying the moment was priceless.
Ah. So is there anywhere you really want to play?
No. I have played them all. It wasn’t boasting if it was true, Natalya decided, as she hit send.
Well that’s depressing.
Why?
You always have to have something to look forward to. What about on top of Uluru?
Natalya blinked. The woman could not be serious! She typed furiously. Given the wind gusts known to sweep people to their deaths, how would you propose I get my cello up there?
Helicopter with a winch?
Natalya stared at her phone incredulously. Are you insane?
No imagination, lady.
If only she knew. Natalya decided it was time to dig into the little mouse’s psyche. So if everyone has to have something to look forward to, what is it you dream about?
The reply took a few moments to arrive. To be noticed.
Natalya paused at the agony buried in those three stark words. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to answer that. She stared at the message for a good two minutes, when her phone lit up again.
I know that sounds weird. You’d never get it. You’re not the invisible woman. You’re the opposite of me. You’re powerful, confident and I’m just…not. I’m the woman living with her mother who her colleagues treat as a joke. I’m great at my job but they don’t see it. They don’t see me at all. No one does.
The
phone beeped almost immediately afterwards. OK, have to go. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day. Thanks for the chat.
Natalya considered Ryan’s words. It was true, she didn’t understand how women like her even existed. How could they not confront the world boldly, with confidence, head on? And how could she ever give up her music?
She glanced at her watch.
I have to go as well. I’m prepping for the 6th. We’re playing it Friday.
Her phone beeped quickly. Wish I could be there. That’s my fave Tchaikovsky. I have to work back late at the office Friday. I’m getting close to tying up some loose ends.
What do you do exactly? Natalya was curious as to how she’d answer. Would she talk herself up? Lie to impress her?
Officially? Or in reality?
Titles meant nothing, so Natalya wrote: Reality.
OK—I check the veracity of reports written by people from years ago. If there are errors I make them right. So many reports are incomplete or just plain wrong. It’s crazy!
Natalya frowned. That sounded like much more than admin assistant work. Although the Victorian Government had been merging public servant jobs of late to save money. She wondered just how many jobs Ryan was stuck doing. No wonder she seemed so tired.
You’re a fact checker? she asked.
Sort of. Either way it’s a mountain of work. Let’s just say an office grunt’s in-box is never empty! But you’d never know about that.
Sounds like hell. Natalya had never meant anything more in her life.
It can be. But I’m good at it, despite my colleagues’ views. It was sort of an accidental career when I had to give up music. And it suits my detail-oriented brain. So…here I am. One foot after the other.
Natalya shook her head. This was absurd. It can’t possibly be better than the career you almost had, though. Not even close to the dream you gave up.
There was no question in Natalya’s message, just the bald statement. She truly couldn’t understand this career move. Not in the slightest. To go from musician to paper pusher was unthinkable.
The phone didn’t beep again. No usual farewells, nothing.
Natalya gave the device the evil eye. Had she somehow offended her little mouse? Natalya’s opinion was entirely right, of course, and she was simply pointing that out, nothing more, nothing less.
She threw her phone down. Well. She didn’t have time to psychoanalyse Ryan. She had a concert to prepare for.
Chapter 6
Natalya was disgruntled. It was two days later, Friday morning, and still nothing from Ryan. She decided she was not pleased. It’s not that the woman had anything to offer her, per se. Not like she was enriching Natalya’s life in the least. Natalya needed no one for that. Well, to be exact, she needed no one for anything. She was the most self-sufficient person she’d ever known.
However, she mused, the little mouse probably felt judged and found lacking over her career choices.
Natalya sniffed. So what? A songbird caging itself? Such self-destruction shouldn’t be overlooked or, worse, endorsed by her. Natalya was doing her a favour, pointing out the error in her thinking.
Why couldn’t she see that?
Her lips thinned. This was getting absurd. Natalya should not care in the slightest about any of this. She certainly shouldn’t be picturing big, sad eyes hurt over a throwaway text that stated a fact. And it was a fact. She returned to her sheet music with an angry slap.
By eleven that morning, still unable to properly practise, Natalya became irritated to find Ryan could invade her thoughts in this way. What was she to her? Nothing but a helpless target who wouldn’t make old bones.
Natalya’s nostrils flared as a stab of regret hit her again. She was starting to feel it a little more each day—a curling tendril of doubt about agreeing to do this job. She hadn’t agreed to a “double the money, no questions asked” job in many years. For good reason. Although not essential, Natalya preferred to have all the answers. If one knows why and by whom someone is being targeted, one could anticipate complications.
She tapped her bow absentmindedly, thinking. Perhaps she could ask her associate to reduce the fee in exchange for further information? She paused. But that would make her seem weak. Her associate would seize on that, she had no doubt. Questions would follow, and Natalya had no answers for this situation. She didn’t understand it herself.
Indecision was not something Natalya generally indulged in. Her path was usually so simple. Music was clear-cut like that. Clean. A note was either being played or it wasn’t. Even if some people liked to pretend the musical wheel could be reinvented in more aurally destructive ways and rebadged as “creativity.”
She tapped her bow again. She loathed indecision even more than she hated the flesh traders such as Ken Lee. People who robbed others of choice.
She was aware of the irony. She robbed others of their life. But this was different.
It just was.
A thought flitted back into her mind—Ryan didn’t think she had any choice but to give up music. And instead of understanding her position, which Natalya didn’t and never would, she had criticised her choice. It was always so easy to fix other people’s lives. And the little mouse, who didn’t walk the tallest among her peers to begin with, had felt Natalya’s judgment keenly.
She sighed, laid down her bow, picked up her phone, and did something she hadn’t done in years. Against all her internal protests, she apologised.
In her own way. Which was to say, she didn’t actually say the exact words.
Forget work tonight, she tapped out to Ryan. I’ll have a ticket for the 6th left for you at the door. You will come. Be transported. We will confer afterwards at the café across from the VPO, and you can tell me all the ways experimental ear-bleeding wailing is somehow impressive compared to such perfection. I will, of course, offer a contrary—and superior—opinion. N.”
She waited. She waited for twenty minutes, her attention divided between the swaying trees outside her window and the phone in her lap.
Annoyed at hearing nothing but silence, she dropped the device to the floor and began to play. And this time, come hell or high water, she would focus.
* * *
That evening, as Natalya’s performance was about to start, she reached for her phone to turn it off. She had one missed text. Her heart rate picked up for no damned reason, a condition she found odd and unsettling.
She flicked to the new message.
Well, who can refuse such a request? Expect to have your elitist opinions whumped, though. A.
Natalya stared at the message in relief.
“Why, Natalya,” came a sultry, goading voice beside her that made her want to seriously rethink her unwritten rule of not killing colleagues. “Smiling before a performance? Smiling at all? Is it end times, dear?” Amanda Marks leaned over to pat her arm, laughing shrilly.
“Amanda.” Natalya greeted the lead violinist coolly and glared at the invading arm. She did know how to rip that appendage off. “It’s always end times. Most people just don’t notice.”
She gave her a cat-like grin and took pleasure in the confusion on Marks’s face. Marks gave her a supercilious laugh, obviously aimed at disguising how confounded she felt, and walked off.
People were so shallow. Some were more insular and lacking in mental acuity than others. And others, such as Amanda Marks, were so utterly devoid of substance one could hold them up to the light and see right through them. It was a sad indictment of the human race that Natalya generally found most people duller than an Amish fashion show.
When was the last time anyone caught her attention and held it? Or properly challenged her? Held her interest for longer than a minute? She pushed away an image that immediately came to mind.
For God’s sake, anyone but her. Alison Ryan made vanilla look edgy.
Despite her internal protestations, Natalya found herself looking forward to the concert’s end so she could pick apart the other woman’s arg
uments with gusto. She knew Ryan’s claims would be illogical, maddening, eccentric, and heartily expressed.
Something akin to anticipation shot through her, and Natalya couldn’t resist smiling again.
She stopped herself immediately. Dear God. This was getting habit forming.
Chapter 7
Maestros café was intimate and small, and soft classical music murmured in the background. At least it no longer played the elevator version of masterpieces. Natalya had retrained the management about the correct classical repertoire to pipe through a cafe when you’re frequented by musicians.
On the walls, pinned like unfortunate insects, were old violins and other musical instruments. It was a sad end for them.
Natalya glanced around at the candles in red glass jars on tables and realised, with a sinking feeling, that she hadn’t actually thought this through. The setting could be construed as intimate.
Alison’s eyebrow had risen as she took in the surroundings. Clearly the same thought had crossed her mind.
“Oh,” she whispered. “This place is really nice. Is this, um, I mean—”
“It’s the closest café,” Natalya said quickly, summoning the waiter with a wave. “All the orchestra members come here sooner or later to deconstruct.”
“Oh, right.” Alison nodded once and shot her a shy look. “So that’s what we’re doing? Deconstructing?”
“Of course,” Natalya said as the waiter neared. “What else?”
“Ahh, Ms Tsvetnenko. A pleasure to see you again. it’s been too long. How was your performance this evening?”
“Acceptable,” she replied. Anton, while more familiar with her than she would prefer, had served her for years. He also made an adequate Russian Roulette which enabled her to tolerate his intrusions.
Anton’s eyes flicked curiously to Alison. “And you have a guest this evening,” he said brightly. “Ms Tsvetnenko usually graces us with her presence alone. I am Anton.”
“Hey,” she said. “I’m Alison. And her performance wasn’t just acceptable, it was amazing.”
He rocked back onto his heels and regarded them both for a moment, as though trying to figure them out against the backdrop of such a cosy setting.
