The Scarlet Thread

by D. S. Murphy

  The top page leaped into the air, followed by the others underneath it. About ten sheets of music flew up over my head, spinning around me in an invisible funnel. Luckily I had the piece memorized; I could play it with my eyes closed. So I continued. I didn’t falter or slow down—even when the conductor’s hand froze for a second, surprised by the spectacle. I hit the last note of my solo perfectly. When I stopped, the auditorium was silent, except for the sound of fluttering paper as the sheet music fell down around my feet, page by page. Then came the applause.

  I’d watched the video before, searching for supernatural clues or explanations—but there was nothing there. It just looked like a sudden gust of wind had blown my music off its stand. The music was impressive, for a high school student, but not extraordinary. Most of the comments just cheered me on for maintaining focus and not letting the distraction fluster me.

  There was nothing in the video to suggest what I’d been feeling; that my music seemed to be reaching out from me and moving the pages. I’d convinced myself that it was just a case of nerves or anxiety, or something. But now I couldn’t help wondering what Dobreva had seen in the video that caught his attention. Maybe he was just impressed that I had memorized the music? I felt it had to be something more.

  In his letter, Jeni mentioned my “untapped reserve of potential.” To be honest, after Juilliard’s rejection, it felt flattering just to have someone believe in me. To think I might be worth something. And he was offering free tuition, plus a living stipend? The thought of moving halfway across the world scared and thrilled me in equal measure. But the alternative, staying at home with mom and Tom, and going to state school with high school kids who called me Milkshake, was my worst nightmare.

  3

  Three weeks later I was on an international flight—my first—to Sofia. My mom had been skeptical, and started an email correspondence with Professor Dobreva. He won her over after telling her about all the successful musicians he’d worked with. She was even letting me skip graduation, which was kind of a big deal. I hadn’t been looking forward to it anyway, dressing up in a shiny robe and standing on stage as my name was called. Jeni wanted me to come as soon as possible. The Pipkov School was so small it didn’t even have semesters, because students and professors usually worked one-on-one or in group classes. Flexible enrollment, he’d called it.

  Part of me was sad about leaving my mom, but I knew Tom would take care of her. And Becky would be fine without me, she had lots of friends. It was me I was worried about. Would I be able to handle living abroad? Would I get homesick? What if I hated the food, or if nobody spoke English? But these concerns were superficial. Inside I was ecstatic. My life had gone from tedious monotony to epic adventure, practically overnight. I couldn’t sleep on the twelve hour flight to Sofia, so I watched all the movies that were available and ate all the peanuts and pretzels they would give me.

  Dobreva had sent a welcome package with arrival information; he’d also given me a number to call, and said he could send a private car for me. But I wanted to assert my independence early, so I took a public bus from the airport. It wasn’t that hard: they were selling sim cards right in the airport. I bought one for $15 and they put it in my Samsung Galaxy. I had internet in minutes. I used Google Map for directions, and it told me which bus to get on.

  The bus took me all over the city, and I marveled at the ornate buildings and churches we passed. Sofia was practically spilling over with statues and monuments. When we crossed the river over a bridge, I could see the panorama view of the city for the first time. I tried to take pictures through the window but they came out blurry.

  I got off the bus about ten blocks from the school, and navigated the narrow streets with my suitcase and phone, trying to get a sense of bearing. I was also carrying my violin case, but I had a strap for it so it hung from my shoulder like a bag. When I finally found the address, I thought I must have made a mistake. There was no sign, just an ancient wooden door with a weathered coat of green paint. I couldn’t even find a bell. I pulled up the emergency phone number I’d been given.

  “Alo! Dočuvane?”

  “Um, hi, this is Samantha Lewis, I’m outside the school but I can’t get in…”

  “Wait a second, I’ll be right down,” the voice said, switching to English.

  I waited for the door to open, hoping I was in the right place. I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard footsteps approaching, and then the door groaned open, revealing a little man in a blue suit with a yellow bowtie.

  “Milka Yotzov,” he said, with a small bow. “After me please.”

  I stepped inside after him, and followed him through a corridor with a low ceiling. With the front door closed behind us, it was so dark I could hardly see my own feet. We stopped in a small room on the right, with wide windows and tall bookshelves. He grabbed an envelope off the solid oak desk.

  “This is the main office,” he said, nodding at the room. “Not that we use it much. Haven’t had a new student in… some time.”

  “Sorry if my arrival is a bother,” I said.

  “It isn’t, Jeni told me you’d be coming today, I was just upstairs practicing.”

  “You’re… a student?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

  “Professor,” he said, smiling. “But everybody always needs practice. You’ll find the roles of student and professor at Pipkov are somewhat… fluid.”

  He slid a set of brass skeleton keys out of the envelope and continued forward. I gasped as the dim corridor opened into an enormous room with a double staircase. It looked like a five-star hotel, or at least what I’d seen of them from movies. The red carpet gave the room a feeling of opulence and luxury. Oil paintings in golden frames covered so much of the walls that I could hardly see the wallpaper behind it. Marble busts were bathed in warm yellow light from the standing lamps; although most of the light came from the skylight built into the ceiling. On the second floor of the room, to the sides of each stairway, were a set of Romanesque pillars. Even the ceiling was decorated, with ornate filigree molding.

  “The school is in this building?” I asked.

  “The Pipkov School owns the entire building, actually.” Milka chuckled, as I dragged my suitcase up the stairs after him. “Made possible by the generous donations of alumni, and our patrons and supporters.”

  At the top of the stairs, the main room split off into hallways leading in all directions. We took the first on the left, and then turned right at the next corner. I tried to memorize the artwork along the way so I wouldn’t get lost on my own. This place is a palace.

  “How many people actually live here?” I asked.

  “Including you... twelve.”

  We passed through another large room with red velvet chairs and several long couches. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and everything was decorated with gilded gold filigree. Natural light came through the large windows, which looked out over a square.

  “Common room,” Milka said. “A lot of students like to come here and read.” I felt like we were going in circles but then I realized Milka was giving me a full tour.

  “These three rooms are for classes,” he said, pointing to two doors and opening the third. It was small, and much simpler than what I’d seen so far. The wooden chairs were still antique but had straight, hard backs. There were music stands, heavy curtains and tapestries, and thick carpet.

  “Excellent acoustics,” he said, “and mostly soundproof. We begin lessons in this room at 10am. We’ll warm-up and have announcements, then generally split up into private lessons or small groups, and practice until 5pm. After that you’re free. You can practice in your own room, or in these rooms when they aren’t being used. You must never interrupt anybody playing music: always wait until they finish and knock before entering.”

  We rounded another corner and he stopped in front of a small door. Milka held up the set of keys, pointing them out to me in turn.

  “This key is for the main outside door, and this key is
for the secondary door to get into the school. This one,” he held up the third key, “is for your room, though whether or not you lock it is up to you.”

  He turned the key and pushed the door open. My jaw dropped as we entered. It was easily four times as big as my bedroom in Meridian. The ceiling was much higher than it had been outside in the hallway, and hanging from the center was a crystal chandelier. On one side of the room was an ornate four-post canopy bed with gold floral curtains. The bed came up to my waist. Next to the bed was a bookshelf, then a large window, with a chair and small reading table, and a standing lamp. On the other side of the room, opposite the bed, was an antique writing desk.

  “Well, I’ll just leave you to get settled in then,” Milka said. “See you in class tomorrow.”

  “Do you live here as well?” I asked.

  “All the teachers live off campus. You know how musicians are, shared spaces and all. We like to keep to ourselves. But don’t worry—while the building may feel spacious at first, you’re never completely alone.”

  “Is there anybody else here now?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure, actually, students come and go. But you’ll run into them later. If you aren’t too tired from your trip, I recommend taking a walk and seeing some of the city. And get some sleep. From tomorrow, you will be expected to work hard. You’ll never feel quite as relaxed as you do today.”

  I wasn’t afraid of hard work. And if it meant I got to stay here... I felt like a match girl who was suddenly told she got to live in the castle. After Milka left I let myself sink down into the bed. It felt like a giant marshmallow. I couldn’t resist taking some selfies and posting them on Facebook.

  My new room: can you believe I get to live here?

  I unpacked my laptop and put away some of my clothes and things. Then I pulled out my violin and tuned it. My window overlooked a cobblestone alley, with street lamps out of a Sherlock movie. It was still early afternoon, and the light coming in through the windows was golden and cheery. The blue sky was practically begging me to go outside and explore. But first—a shower.

  After bathing, I put on a new pair of jeans, a rock band tank top and my Taylor Swift Keds. They had polkadots on them but I’d drawn tiny musical notes in each white dot. As I brushed my hair, I could see hints of auburn in the afternoon light, which made my hazel green eyes stand out. Most people thought my hair and eyes were both a boring, dull brown. They just didn’t look closely enough.

  It took me awhile to find my way back to the center of the school, the room with the double staircase, and from there down the hallway to the main entrance. I marveled at the building from outside; it was a plain rectangle. There was no way to tell what it looked like on the inside. I wondered if that said anything about the Bulgarian people. They liked luxury, but didn’t want to be ostentatious about it.

  I opened the tourist brochure I’d grabbed at the airport and started reading.

  Rows of Soviet-era buildings—many in a state of disrepair—pepper the fringes of the city. Yet at the center, Ottoman mosques sit side by side with grand Stalinist architecture, and artists find spaces in the cracks in between. This is a proud city that has been sculpted over more than two millennia by Thracian, Roman, Ottoman and Russian influences.

  Using my phone, I marked The Pipkov School on the map with a pin. It was between two parks—Zaimov and Doktorska Gradina—which explained why I could see so many trees nearby. I was right in the historical district, surrounded by schools and museums. The National Library was just a block away, a massive square building with a pillared façade. Next to it was Sofia University, a sprawling baroque edifice with copper roofs that held a beautiful bright green patina. I turned right at the nearest metro stop, and walked straight for several blocks before hitting the National Theatre, a white building covered in neo-classical sculptures and accentuated with gold gilding.

  In front of the theatre was a large pool with teal blue water and fountains. There were benches all around the pool, and a small market on the edge of the open square. Tented booths sold souvenirs, local produce and handicrafts. It was bright, so I bought a pair of cheap red sunglasses. Then I sat down, taking it all in.

  I could hardly believe I was here. Everyone looked so happy, it was like something out of a movie. Kids with balloons, girls eating ice-cream, sons on their fathers’ shoulders. I couldn’t remember ever being somewhere so perfect. That’s when I heard the music. It was so light at first I thought it was just a bird chirping, but then I realized it had order. Design. I looked around until I saw the player. A young man was standing in the center of the square playing a simple instrument. When I got closer I could see it was an antique wooden flute, with copper and brass keys. I don’t know much about flutes, but I’d guess it was late 18th century. He was good, in a way that contrasted with his appearance.

  At first glance, he looked like a bum. He had long blond hair that fell in heavy tangles around his face, and a soft golden beard that hung like an inversed halo around his chin. He was wearing a light jean shirt, unbuttoned enough to show a single black leather necklace hanging against his chest, and a thick knitted cardigan. He looked like he’d been backpacking through Europe for several months, but his music hinted otherwise.

  I’ve heard buskers play before. A lot of music students perform in public for practice, hoping to earn a little extra money. But this music… I’d never heard music like this. It seemed tangible. I could almost sense the notes flitting around me, playing in the breeze, dancing with the laughter from a nearby couple, charging the square with an ethereal quality of joy. I felt it bubble up inside of me, tickling me deep inside, until I was wearing a stupid grin on my face. Others were noticing too, and had started to form a circle around him. He danced around, interacting with the crowd, making the music playful and fun—but I knew better. This wasn’t a hobbyist. I watched his fingers flutter over the keys, picking up speed until the tempo thumped like the hooves of a galloping horse. This was hard music, and he made it look effortless.

  When he stopped, I clapped along with the crowd. He did a little bow, then snapped up, pushed the hair away from his face, and looked right at me. I felt my breath catch. His light green eyes were as clear as the pool behind me.

  “And this one goes out to the adorable girl in the red sunglasses,” he said. I looked around before realizing he was talking about me. He did not just say that. I was tempted to leave, but he was playing this song just for me, and the music was really good. He came closer and sank onto his knees, playing his flute up at me. Then he spun in a circle around me. People clapped and laughed at the show. After the song he picked up a hat and held it out to the crowd.

  “Music to lift your spirits. Money to brighten mine!” People went up to him, filling the hat with cash and coins. I hadn’t figured out the Bulgarian money yet—the Lev—so I pulled out a few Euros and tossed them in the hat. I was about to beat a quick retreat when he caught my eye and winked.

  “Thanks for your help with that,” he grinned.

  “I didn’t do anything besides stand there,” I said, taking off my sunglasses.

  “Without a pretty girl like you to inspire the music, I wouldn’t have made half this much money. I think it’s only fair that we use it to buy some drinks and get to know each other.” He pushed up his sleeves and a patch of green on his forearm caught my eye. He had tattoos on each arm, a vine of ivy crawling up his wrists to his elbows.

  “It’s a little early for drinking,” I said. Not to mention I’m only seventeen.

  “Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know,” he said. I stared at him blankly.

  “Don’t like Keats? How about this one, ‘One should always be drunk. That’s all that matters...But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk.’”

  I laughed at the quote.

  “You memorized a bunch of poetry about alcohol so you can convince girls to drin
k with you in the afternoon? Does that usually work?”

  “To be honest, I don’t usually have to work this hard.” The corners of his lips turned up in a smug expression. Underneath his beard and long hair, his face was young and beautiful. And he was asking me out. My pulse raced at this realization. But I was here for music, not boys. Plus, he probably thought I was just a tourist, and wanted a quick fling. He’d lose interest once he learned I’d be living here for a while.

  “Maybe some other time,” I said.

  “If you change your mind, there’s a great little piano bar around the corner called Dream Notes. Ask for Denzi—if I’m not there, you can leave me message and I’ll get it.”

  I walked away grinning to myself. I’d had more luck with the opposite sex on my first day here than I’d had my whole life in America. I think I was going to like Bulgaria.

  I explored a little more, and stopped to eat at a restaurant near the school. I got a kebapche, which was kind of like a hotdog, but with black pepper and cumin, and a salad with diced tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and peppers, with grated cheese and parsley on top. Then I bought a Kit Kat bar and a diet Coke for later, and headed home as the sun was setting.

  As I was going through the common room on the second floor, I heard the sound of music and laughter, and followed it to the opposite side of the building. I entered a long room with floor to ceiling windows I hadn’t been in before. On one side was a small kitchen, with a built-in bar and barstools. In the far back there was a pool table and some dart boards. In the middle, a round table with eight chairs, then a set of leather couches. On these sat three people playing cards. One of them looked up and squealed, throwing down her cards.

  “Samantha!” she greeted me, pulling me into a hug. She had short, curly hair and brown eyes. Her body was curvy, and she had a cute little nose, like a pixie.