by D. S. Murphy
“I’m so excited you’re here! We haven’t had a new student for ages. And you’re the first from America, ever—did you know that? I mean the first real student. We’ve had guests and short term students. But I heard you got chosen by Dobreva himself. That never happens. You must be amazing.” She said all this without taking a breath, and then waited for me to respond.
“Boje Gospodi, you have no idea who I am,” she said, holding a hand to her mouth.
“Sorry, no…”
“Iskra Georgieva,” she said, linking her arm in mine. “And let me introduce you to the other violinists at Pipkov. Petrov Zlatev,” she said, pointing to the boy with dark hair, “and Stolina Savova.”
They looked up and nodded, but neither of them smiled. Petrov was wearing a black dress shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and dark jeans. His hair was cropped short and combed to one side. His lips were full and brooding. With the dark stubble on his chin, it made him look like he was pouting. He was gorgeous, but he looked like the kind of guy who knew it.
Stolina was a knockout as well. Her face and skin were so flawless I wanted to believe it had been photoshopped. And I don’t think she was even wearing makeup—her skin just glowed with a youthful radiance.
Iskra ushered me down onto the sofa and then ran back to the kitchen for a glass, which she held up to Petrov. He filled it with a bottle he grabbed from a small table behind the couch.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Mastika,” he said, in a low, drawling voice. He had more of an accent than Iskra did. He must not be as comfortable speaking in English. Maybe that’s why Stolina and him were so quiet.
“It’s anise flavored, like ouzo,” Iskra said, holding up her glass. She raised her eyebrows at Petrov and Stolina, and they grudgingly lifted their glasses as well. “Nazdráve. In Bulgaria, you must make eye contact when the glasses touch,” she told me. One by one, I looked my new classmates in the eyes. Stolina’s were jade green, and matched her sandy brown hair. Her eyelashes were long and graceful, and I noticed that her eyebrows were a little too full for her face—like they needed plucking but she just didn’t give a damn. Petrov’s eyes were dark brown, so dark I couldn’t see his pupils. He looked at me with a smirk that was almost a sneer. Compared to their American counterparts, they seemed so polished and refined, so sophisticated. For the first time I felt out of my depth. At least Iskra seemed nice. I shot back the liqueur, and grimaced as it burned down my throat. I tasted cucumber, pine and anise.
Petrov said something in Bulgarian and Stolina burst out laughing. From the look Iskra shot them, I guessed it hadn’t been a friendly comment.
“So, should we keep playing,” Iskra said, trying to turn the conversation back to English. She picked up her cards and fanned them out so I could see them.
“It will take too long to explain it to her,” Petrov said, putting down his cards and pouring himself another drink.
“I can learn,” I said, defiantly.
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “This is a challenging game. Of risk and chance. And you will just make us all lose.”
He gave me an intense look, his eyes burning into mine, and I knew he wasn’t just talking about the cards.
4
In the morning, I found a simple breakfast in the room we were in last night, with orange juice, some pastries and strong coffee. The room was even more impressive in the daylight. It looked like a fancy New York bar, with polished wood and leather sofas. But I was too nervous to eat much. I clung to my cheap violin case, feeling self-conscious. I so don’t belong here.
I got to the classroom ten minutes early, but Iskra, Petrov and Stolina were already inside warming up their instruments. I wished I’d asked Iskra what to wear. Not that it would have mattered. I brought a couple performance gowns with me, but I would look silly wearing them every day. Stolina and Petrov’s idea of casual meant designer brands that were sleek and elegant. I had a feeling their underwear cost more than my whole wardrobe.
I felt underdressed in black pants and a baggy yellow sweater. And after last night, I was more worried than ever about fitting in. Although I still didn’t know why Professor Dobreva had invited me here, it was clear that not everybody was happy about it.
Precisely at ten, someone else came in the room. Someone with long blond hair and a golden beard. I froze in place, watching Denzi’s expression go from surprise to embarrassment. He composed himself quickly and reached out a hand.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” he said.
“You’re a student here?” I whispered.
Stolina snorted, and I saw Petrov conceal a smirk.
“Associate professor Denzi-balus, at your service,” he said loudly, cutting off our private conversation and turning toward the other students.
“You’re the teacher?” I asked.
“You don’t have to look so shocked about it,” he said, grinning.
My cheeks burned and I knew I was turning red. I wasn’t sure why I was so embarrassed. He couldn’t be much older than twenty, twenty-five tops. How was he already an associate professor?
“Have you had a chance to meet Iskra, Petrov and Stolina?” he asked.
I nodded. Iskra beamed at me while the other two ignored me completely.
“We warm up together in the mornings,” he said. “I thought it’d be fun to play a violin quartet. It’s been some time since there were four of us…” Denzi trailed off and I saw a flash of anger come across Petrov’s face. There was a story there. I wondered what happened to the other violinist, or whose shoes I would be trying to fill.
The piece was difficult but manageable. I played the sheet music in front of me, sight-reading it for the first time. There were a couple tricky bits where I got the tempo wrong, but I felt pretty good about it. They couldn’t expect me to be perfect on my first day, could they?
After we played, Petrov darted out. I was hoping I’d get a chance to speak with Denzi alone, but Stolina stayed after and chatted with him in Bulgarian. When she laughed and put her hand on his arm, my stomach turned sour. I’d assumed she was with Petrov, but I may have jumped to that conclusion prematurely. Denzi and Stolina seemed way too intimate for a normal student-teacher relationship.
I don’t know why it bothered me so much. Yesterday had just been some harmless flirting. Denzi probably said similar things to all the tourists. Maybe it increased his earnings. And against Stolina, I didn’t stand a chance. He’d have to be insane or blind to pick me over her.
I grabbed my case and was outside before I realized I had no idea where I was going next. I stood there stupidly for a minute before Iskra came out behind me.
“You’re with Professor Paleva,” she said. “Two doors down.”
“Thanks,” I said, shooting her a grateful look.
Milena Paleva wore a black dress, pearl earrings and bright red lipstick. She had the elegance of a classic movie star, with the body of a pinup girl. What was with all the attractive people around here? Living at Pipkov was going to destroy my self-esteem. For the next three hours, Professor Paleva put down piece after piece in front of me. At first I played well. Many of the pieces I was familiar with, at least in the beginning, but then she began throwing obscure pieces at me with irregular notes and pacing. My fingers began to ache, and my butt fell asleep from sitting so long without moving.
I expected us to break for lunch, but we didn’t, even when I heard the other students laughing in the hall. In the afternoon, I heard them playing together again. Why did they get to practice together while I was stuck in here? I played a wrong note and it clashed harshly. The noise felt like sandpaper on my skin. I corrected quickly and glanced up at Professor Paleva just in time to see the corners of her mouth lift in a tight smile.
She wanted me to screw up.
I started sweating, and got more and more flustered, until I was hitting a wrong note every few minutes. But I kept playing, until I was practically butchering the music, my eyes stinging and dry, my
fingers raw.
“That’s enough,” she said finally, with a satisfied smile. “Now that I know what you’re capable of, tomorrow we’ll start practicing for real.” I clenched my mouth shut so I wouldn’t say something I regretted.
“You may take a break. Professor Dobreva wants to see you in his office in an hour.”
Petrov was leaning up against the wall outside, eating an apple. “I haven’t heard music that bad since we hosted the elementary school orchestra,” he said with a smirk, fixing me with his dark eyes.
“Nobody forced you to listen,” I snapped back at him, heading down the hall. But I knew what he was getting at. I didn’t belong here. And part of me suspected he was right. I’d always been so far ahead of everybody else in America, I felt special. Gifted even. But after the pummeling I took from Professor Paleva, my confidence was undermined. Maybe that was her intention all along. She hadn’t been teaching me how to play, she was showing me how much I had to learn. Petrov, for some reason, seemed eager to get rid of me. But there was no way I was going back to America; back to working at BurgerJoint and being ridiculed. Not unless they threw me out. I needed some fresh air, so I left school and went down the street for an iced tea and a slice of raspberry cheesecake at a small café. It made me feel a little better.
An hour later I knocked on the door to Professor Dobreva’s office. We’d had a brief telephone conversation before I came, but this was our first face-to-face meeting. He stood up when I came in. He was wearing slim, wire-rimmed glasses with oval frames, a white shirt and tie, a green sweater and a wool jacket. I noticed his gray hair and goatee were well trimmed.
“Welcome, Samantha. I can’t tell you how much it pleases me to see you here.”
I realized my palms were sweating. I wiped them on my jeans.
“Thanks,” I said. “Everything is amazing. The school, my room. It’s unbelievable.” The office smelled like old books, dried orange peels and cloves.
“And your classmates?” he asked. I faltered.
“Well, that’s to be expected,” he said. “It’s a very close group, they’ve known each other for some time. The events we play can be very, competitive. They’re worried that you’ll let them down.”
“And you aren’t?” I asked, wondering again why he’d brought me here.
“Professor Paleva tells me you’re a very competent player.” He saw the skepticism on my face and laughed. “Don’t worry, the first day is always like that. She feels personally disappointed if she can’t make new students crack under pressure. But it’s necessary, you know. You’ll soon realize that the methods at this school are… unusual. You may not always understand what the teachers are asking of you. It may feel like, at times, the things we do here stretch credibility. But I want you to trust that all of your teachers, and even your classmates, have only one purpose: to make you a stronger, more masterful musician.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promised.
I only hoped it would be enough.
Iskra had said something about dinner earlier, but I didn’t feel like seeing anyone else. My fingers were aching so much I could hardly hold a fork. I went out and grabbed a sandwich, then retreated into my room to check email. I fell asleep watching funny cat videos and loving my new bed. It wasn’t until the next morning that I discovered the knife under my pillow.
I was jolted awake as I felt the cold metal against my bare arm. My heart started pounding when I pulled it out and saw what it was—an antique dagger, with a jade hilt and gold filigree set into the curved blade. Underneath the knife was a note, with three handwritten lines.
All is not what it seems.
Carry this with you for protection.
Trust no one.
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