‘‘Family is everything! They are the few people who know you better than anyone and are the only ones you can really trust. It is quite difficult for me to trust someone I don’t know. Human relationships are very fragile, and I need a lot of time build an initial level of trust. Emotions are ephemeral. I only pay attention to people who have proven their worth to me over time.’’
The composer nods his head positively, giving another confirmation to the subconscious that is still resisting, because this is how it is trained. ‘‘I should not have left, Ildar… Julia had shown me her love and I hurt her. My mother…’’ he says, leaning on the edge of the bench. ‘‘…my mother always believed in me. She always supported me in everything and what did I do? I left without telling her anything about my illness and I didn’t even say goodbye to her! Do you hear me?’’ he sneers. ‘‘There’d come a day she would just pick up the phone and…’’
‘‘Don’t think about it now. I'm sure she has already forgiven you. My mother is also my support. She is everything for me. She is by my side even when I don’t need her. Every mother understands her child better than anyone. Surely your mother also understood exactly how you felt…’’
‘‘I know you're right… Come on, let's go!’’ he says, and they pass together in the corridor.
Don’t forget my name. This is the title of the show that aroused the Russian art lovers, who hurried to get a ticket to watch the new creations of the distinguished composer.
Zero hour. The stage welcomes the talented dancers. One image follows another in a spectacle that seems to present a story. Dima's new compositions paint musically every dance performance of the theater’s artists, making the audience follow a light that pulsates in the invisible spectrum. This is the story the composer prepared for them tonight; the revelation of the life force which moves in the realm of the impossible.
Dima watches the performance hidden in the red curtain behind the scenes. In a few minutes, he will also go on stage and come face to face with everything he loves. He feels happy and grateful for it, even though he knows it is for the last time.
The piano has already been placed on the edge of the stage and is waiting patiently for its guide. The moment that everyone was waiting for has come. Dima comes forward in his black suit and looks at the illuminated sea of emotions which is reflected in the tiny flashes of the spectators’s mobiles. Absolute silence. His eyes begin to shine and his lips flicker. No. He will not cry. He is not going to miss this unique moment. The subconscious needs re-routing again.
His gaze scans the first row. His mother looks at him with her chin raised, expressing her pride and satisfaction, while she crosses the palms on her heart. She has exactly the same expression she had in Dima's first appearance in a children's show.
In the next seat, he sees Julia. She caresses her slightly swollen belly and smiles, giving him the feeling that the baby she is expecting applauds him mentally and looks forward to meeting him. She has the same smile as the night he met her at the first composition award he received three years ago.
Next to Julia is Ioannis. The persistence of the young singer is the reason that his symptoms have subsided a lot lately, thanks to the new treatment Ioannis convinced him to try. Ioannis is the reason he stands here tonight.
He brings the microphone close to his lips and wraps his fingers around it. "Good evening everyone! This night is especially important for me since as most of you know, I came back from death. From mental death. From that place where you lose your soul… Yourself… Physical death no longer scares me. Life has more value. Thank you so much all of you who have always believed in me and my creations. Tonight, everything looks like it’s completing a cycle. Beginning and ending. Top and fall. Past and present. I'm Dima Vladimirov and this is my best performance…" he says in an intimate voice as his gaze falls to the top of the hall. An elderly man with a beret stands on the aisle, resting his weight on a walking stick. Even from this great distance, Dima can see the smile hidden behind his mentor’s glasses. Yonshi shakes his head, sending him a smirk of satisfaction, and leaves the hall.
Lights out. Ildar comes forward holding a long, black silk mantle and Dima sits down at the piano. A foggy red light spreads across the stage. The dancer follows the first note and bends down, resting his weight on his knees. He is covered by the black mantle and on the next note he is released from its shackles.
Success. Glory. Win. Confirmation.
The four words cross the stage of the theater, as they are expressed by Ildar’s each and every movement. The mantle gives its own battle that seems disproportionate to the dancer's passion. Passion for life. Dima touches the last key on the piano and the red light is transmuted into a colorless darkness, through which the figure of Ildar disappears.
The mirror
I push the door inwards. The man at the reception welcomes me and takes my black coat. The burgundy tapestry on the walls in combination with the similar shade of the floor gives to the narrow space a shade of red light, which emerges as a flash of hidden lightning from the wall lights. The man awaiting for me on the upper floor gave me strict dress code orders, so I chose the most formal dress I had in my wardrobe.
I carefully climb the stairs, balancing on my black twelve inch heels. The music reaching my ears belongs to the retro-jazz category. Dark wallpapers hosting paintings as well as male and female portraits in black and white dominate on the floor.
I examine the place trying to locate him. More than half of the tables are full. Two chairs for every square table. I see straight in front of me the man who left the invitation for me. I walk towards him with steady steps, straightening my overly short black dress. The soft light is playing with the sequins present at its end high above the knee.
I stand in front of his table and he looks at me from head to toe, making me smile out of embarrassment. His eyes go up and meet mine. He does not make any comment, but he is staring at me with this penetrating look that is making me shiver. I hate the effect it is having on my body. Pure power.
I sit on the carved chair - opposite him - while he remains motionless and speechless in his place. The rhythm of an erotic tango enters between us and I would like more than anything else to dance with him, looking only at his eyes. Of course, this is not going to happen, because he is a geek and he doesn’t dance.
He grabs the glass filled with red wine and drinks a little from the content cooling his lips. He is staring at me with such sensuality that I am sure I have turned crimson. Strict. Silent. He is playing with his Adam’s apple and he keeps looking at me. His fingers go up on his chin.
My imagination rages.
‘‘Why are you looking at me and not saying anything?’’ I say making air on my face.
Too hot.
‘‘Is it necessary?’’ His index starts from his nose and ends at his lips.
I choke.
‘‘Good evening.’’
A young man in a black and white uniform interrupts the visual battle the man sitting opposite me has started and gives us a catalog each, which will probably turn into my weapon if he continues looking at me like that.
‘‘I will come back in a while.’’
The waiter leaves. I open the menu as well and find out that it contains only blank pages, in the centre of which is a sentence is written:
Go to the last page
I raise my eyes without receiving a visual response from him and smile. One more of his games. Curiosity is burning my skin. I reach the end of the menu. In the middle, three words are written:
Смотри на меня
I smile again. If I am not mistaken the sentence is written in Russian. Apart from spacibo I do not know any other word in this language, so it is practically impossible for me to understand what it says. I sigh. I do not want to surrender so easily. The first thought that comes to mind is to ask for the translation from the waiter. I raise my eyes and look for him in the space.
‘‘You always choose the e
asy way, Mrs. Iliopoulou...’’ he emphasizes without raising his look from the menu.
I set the waiter solution aside and look around me. I feel his ironic gaze on the menu, and I get angry. I sigh. I am giving time to myself. Calmness always offers me the best choice.
I open my little bag and take my mobile phone. A playful smile lands on my lips. I browse Google translate and choose the Russian keyboard. I type the letters I see on the page and wait for the translation:
Look at me
I raise my eyes.
‘‘I love you.’’
I remain silent for several seconds, not because I do not know what to say, but because I am trying to realize that I am married to the smartest, sexiest, and ego-centered man who added some shades of romanticism to the canvas of his dark colours for me.
He did it only for me.
‘‘Let’s order now…’’ he says and makes a gesture to the waiter, but I lower his hand. ‘‘What do you want, Magda? Don’t wait for me to bring you flowers as well!’’
I smile from crazy happiness. ‘‘First, I want us to make a toast…’’ I take the bottle of wine and fill my glass. ‘‘I wish you to be the winner of every battle, Mr. Deligiannis.’’
He raises his right eyebrow. ‘‘You should wish for me to be present in every battle…’’ he corrects me, and I have difficulty in recognizing the stigmata of moderation in his proposal. ‘‘My victory is a given, Magda…’’ he supplements, reassuring me.
‘‘To my winner!’’ Our glasses join and our gazes synchronize. A violin melody catches our attention.
The main screen supported on the ceiling is turned on and I watch a young man in a full-length, sleeveless, red tracksuit. He is lying on his back on ice. He opens his eyes. Around him there is a white light playing with black shadows. He slowly raises his legs. He throws his head backwards and his blonde hair touch the ice. He rocks his lower limbs. He grabs his neck with his hands, as if he is trying to restrict it. He throws his body sharply forward, shifting the weight to his knees. He wraps his body. He blinks and a man in a grey gabardine appears next to him.
He is dressed in the shades of ice. He is wearing a grey shirt with a same-colored pair of trousers and his grey gabardine has scattered laces that look like ribbons. His hair is blonde, in the colour of platinum, combed in a perfect parting. His hands are vertically intertwined between them. The left one supports the right and the fingers of the former point to his chin. His index is moving along his neck and stops at Adam’s apple. He half closes the eyes and looks at the young man in the red tracksuit. After observing a little more carefully, I realize that he is the same person.
The young man steps back. He keeps throwing the weight on the knees until he reaches a white wall. He stands up. The man unzips the gabardine, takes it off with airy movements, as if he is following the rhythm of a dance, and holds it out in front of him. He tosses it in the void and pushes the young man down. Fiery flames are created around him, but instead of melting the ice, they stabilize it and trap it. The young man is forced to move between them. He continues fighting until the fire subsides.
The man in the gabardine brings a full-length mirror and places it in front of the young man in the red tracksuit. He gets up and approaches him. His reflection is wearing black jeans with a white shirt and is leaning his back against another white wall. The gabardine rotates masterfully in the air and lands accurately on its owner’s fingers. Simultaneously the young man starts a new battle.
He spreads his legs wide, falls on the ice, and forms a perfectly straight line. He faces his reflection in the mirror. He himself does not achieve it. His legs are trying to align but remain several inches above the floor. A perfect turn of the man around his axis, makes the young man get up.
He keeps trying. He supports his weight on the left leg and lifts up the right. He throws a peek at the man, before looking in the mirror. He has raised his right leg, lowers it bending the knee, and stretching it high again. The reflection behind the mirror has begun to give up, after many unsuccessful attempts.
The gabardine rotates up, around, and down from the man’s perfect body. As the absolute ruler, he wraps it like a mantle and brings it forward, always retaining complete control of every move. The young man is trying some rotational movements with his hands, while raising his left leg high. The answer of the mirror is repetitive turns around an imaginary axis, making the shirt spin around the waist of the reflection. He fails again.
The man in the red tracksuit falls on the floor, lowering his head. The man is dancing on the tips of his feet. He is flying in the air, forming a perfect angle of one hundred and eighty degrees. He is supporting his weight on his right hand and pushing the gabardine. The young man is observing him carefully. The man gets up, grabs the gabardine from the air with one hand and smiles sardonically.
The reflection takes steps backwards. The young man is holding his head and pulling his hair. He is bending down. He is holding his body. His reflection collapses on the white wall. The fingers wrap around his neck.
With a subtle movement of the fingers, the man points to the mirror, conveying a hint to the young man in the red uniform. His eyes go up and down, turn red like two fiery flames. The young man looks at his collapsed reflection on the white wall and then approaches the mirror.
The man is looking at him with burning anticipation. The young man touches the mirror and tries to rotate it. He looks inside it and sees his reflection wearing the red tracksuit. He takes steps backwards. He touches his body and tries the movements again. He is dancing on the tips of his toes, flying in the air, forming a perfect angle of one hundred and eighty degrees.
The man in the gabardine falls on the floor, as he is blinded by the light emitted by the turned mirror. He is holding his head and pulling his hair. He is bending down. He is stumbling backwards and collapsing on the white wall, the moment the young man is rotating in the air.
An angry fire surrounds the man. The young man approaches him. He walks among the fiery flames, without being burnt. He sits on one knee and observes the man who has surrendered to the battle. He throws a look in the mirror behind him. He only sees himself. There is no one else. Neither the man. Nor the fire. Not even the ice under his bare feet. He returns the gaze to the man and meets the absolute void.
He approaches the mirror. He looks at his reflection and closes his eyes in satisfaction.
When we seek perfection, we run the risk of losing ourselves. We may be blinded chasing glory. We need to understand that we are unique. We have to chase our own top.
A simple movement is enough to see reality.
A simple movement is enough to understand who we really are.
It is simply enough to turn the mirror.
Thanks
At this point I would like to thank some people who helped me during the writing of this book with their recommendations or their work.
Thanks to the doctor and author, Ilias Karampelas, for his excellent work in translation editing and for his philological and medical remarks. I also thank him for being always by my side, advising me on every choice of mine. You can find his work on Instagram: @iliasdkarampelas
Thanks to the dancer and choreographer, Ildar Gaynutdinov, who inspired me to write one of the most special heroes of this book. The way he perceives art, made me turn images into words, creating emotions hidden in the secret language of dance. Through this hero, I highlighted the value of the emotional and psychological equilibrium, when someone is on the top. I also thank him for taking part in the book’s trailer. You can find his work on Instagram: @ildaryoung
Thanks to the medical student and composer, Konstantinos Bistas, for his support and assistance with his ideas and targeted corrections on the fields of composition and lyricism. You can find his work on Instagram: @jijifionkos
Thanks to the publisher in Greece, Nikolaos Ioannidis, for our excellent collaboration in Lexitypon Publications and for his trust in my work.
Thanks to t
he professor of English literature, Spyros Paraskevopoulos, for his amazing work in the translation of this book.
A huge thank you to these beta readers who helped me with their recommendations:
The author, poet and economics student, Vasiliki Nikiforidou (@vasilikinikiforidou)
The author, poet, blogger, literary and video game translator, Catherine Girald-Veilleux (@catherinegv)
The author and gamer, Steven Thomas (@the_writers_central)
The Booktuber-Instagrammer, Evgnossia Sofianidou (@evgnossia_ohara)
The teacher of French literature, Despoina Damvergi (@despoina_dam)
The author and poet, Stefania Chrysafidou (@stefania_xrysafidou)
Finally, I want to thank every reader who will choose to read my book. I would be delighted if you share your impressions with me and add a review on Amazon and on Goodreads. You can contact me on my page: www.tonialalousi.weebly.com
About the author
Tonia Lalousi was born in 1993 in Greece and studied Biology at the University of Patras. In 2017, she started writing romantic stories and she published her first romance novel on Amazon, entitled ''Follow your heartbeat''. Her gradual transition from the sphere of romantic reading to the mysteries and adventures of crime fiction led her to write a crime book series, starring the criminologist Peter Deligiannis. The first book of the series, entitled "The Fall", is published in Greece by Pigi Publications. It is an alloy of crime and romance, and it express the effects of our choices between right and wrong. The second book, entitled '’The Last Symphony'' is also published in greek language, by Lexitipon Publications. It is an entirely crime story which deals with the value of perfection, as a reference point for the conquest of the top and the social recognition. In 2020, she gave a master class about creative writing to Greek writers.
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