But now that Tanya would be moving out for good, he definitely needed to do it. He and Tanya ‘owned’ the flat they shared, but by rights it belonged to Phil, his mother’s long-time partner. When she’d first got sick, she’d asked Phil to sign it over to Dmitri and Tanya, which he’d done, perfectly willingly. Phil owned lots of properties, had tons of money and connections. One flat more or less had made no difference to him. As a music teacher, Dmitri made very little money – he and Tanya would never have been able to afford to buy a flat on their own. Phil had always seen himself as a stepfather figure to Dmitri, even if the feeling was not always mutual. Now, the time was right to move on, do something else. A doctorate in choral music? Why not? He really did need to get his act together.
‘I will fill out the application.’ He said it forcefully, as much to convince himself as her. ‘It’s just really busy this time of year.’
‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘And if there’s anything I can do—’
‘You have done so much for me already,’ Dmitri said. ‘And I appreciate it. I really do.’
‘Yes, well…’ Carole-Ann blushed, and still she was there, hovering. ‘Take care of yourself, Dmitri.’
‘I will see you on Sunday for the soloist rehearsal,’ he reminded her. ‘Now, go down to the pub and enjoy yourself.’ He took out his wallet and peeled off a twenty-pound note. ‘Here’s a contribution.’
‘No, really, it’s not necessary.’
He waved his hand. ‘Please take it.’ And go.
Carole-Ann patted his arm in a motherly way. ‘Thanks.’
She went out the door – at last.
Alone in the silence of the great church, Dmitri felt unsettled. He went through the pews, checking to make sure that none of the choir members had left anything behind, ensuring that the hymn books were in their place. He paced up and down the aisle: thinking; trying not to think. Feeling; trying not to feel. Trying to get the music out of his head, but at the same time, longing for it to stay.
All he had to do was climb those steps. Up to the choir loft and the grand piano. Very simple, one foot in front of the other.
Occasionally over the years, he’d tried to play again – something other than the usual bread-and-butter work of choral songs, hymns and vocal music for his students. His technique was a little rusty, which was to be expected. Concert pianists practised six to eight hours a day throughout their entire careers. That road had ended a long time ago. But when he did get inspired, he felt that his playing had a depth to it that it hadn’t had back then. Experience, pain, life – those things meant more than just notes on a page, fingers on keys. And now, the music in his head, put there by an offhanded comment about a CD – the need to play – was battling against the fear of failure. This time, the music won out.
Steeling himself, Dmitri climbed the narrow wooden stairs. Before him, the golden pipes of the great organ rose up as high as the round, oriole window. The piano had been rolled to the far side of the loft. He took the cover off, opened the lid and propped it up. He sat down on the bench and adjusted it.
Taking a breath, he rested his fingers on the cool, smooth surface of the keys. Began by playing a few notes, then some slow scales and arpeggios to warm up. He’d played earlier in the day for music lessons at a school, but whenever he sat up here at the grand piano, alone with the music in his head and the pain tightening across his chest, it always seemed momentous and difficult.
Dmitri stopped playing and looked down at his hands. Hands that he had once trusted more than anything. His father had called them magic hands – able to call forth the spirits from the ether and tame them into something extraordinary and beautiful. So many hours spent in his youth practising; he couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t play. His father sitting listening, his eyes closed, smoking a cigarette. Off in a world of his own that Dmitri hadn’t understood the importance of. It had been a bond between them, he realised now. As much as the other good times: eating ice cream in the park in summer, skating and sledding in the winter, chopping wood, telling stories, picking wild strawberries…
Magic hands. He winced as he stretched his fingers beyond the point where the pain began. Had his father ever actually said that?
Dmitri picked out a few bars of the piece that had come into his mind earlier. A piece he had played hundreds of times in his youth. It reminded him of that day when the letter came, saying that he’d had been granted a place at the Moscow Tchaikovsky Conservatory, the most prestigious music school in Russia. The time when excitement had bubbled forth from his fingers and anything was possible.
He crashed a chord on the piano and stood up and paced again, wishing he could tear the notes out of his brain. This was madness. He had no business being here; doing this. The right thing to do would be to go home and start filling out the form. Get a doctorate in choral music and be fucking grateful for it.
Dmitri sat back down on the bench and breathed in deeply. He rubbed the tension from his neck. Then he took off the grey knit half-gloves and threw them to the side. He massaged the tight, mottled skin underneath.
The moon rising above the trees, sparkling on new fallen snow… eyes that glittered in the light of the fire…
He breathed in deeply, cleared his mind and began to play.
8
When Nicola entered the church, the sound nearly flattened her. The sheer force of that power, so low and deep; the melody echoing off wood and stone, almost to the edge of discord, sent her mind into freefall. To a dark, haunted place that she had glimpsed only in nightmares. And memories. The door shut behind her. All of a sudden, a starburst of fast, light notes flew above the dark bass. Uplifting and free, like a flock of birds taking flight. She felt quite literally like the sound might tear her in two.
She hadn’t been sure this was the right place, or what she had hoped to find. Now, on some deep, unfathomable level, she knew.
The vestibule was heated and she took off her coat, folding it over her arm. The church was empty, the apse lit only by dim side lights near the altar. The only other light came from the choir loft above.
The music continued on, relentless. She couldn’t hear her heels on the tile floor. There was a small wooden staircase off to one side near the back of the church. She began to climb. The sound drew her onwards, each step taking her closer to the source. The black bass notes, the sparkling treble, the giant pipes of the organ rising above her head. And finally, when she reached the top, she saw him.
His back was to her, his body moving trance-like, as his fingers danced over the keys of the grand piano. He was tall, that much she had remembered, and was wearing a grey jumper and dark trousers. As he played, his shoulders rose and fell in exertion, like David wrestling Goliath.
She took another step forward, tentative and unsure.
He stopped abruptly, the echoes of the sound still crashing against the walls. Then, he turned around. His eyes were black and wild, and at first, she wasn’t sure if he’d even seen her. As reality dawned, his mouth fell open and then shut again.
‘Don’t stop,’ she blurted out.
But he just stared at her, his eyes narrow and hawk-like. She couldn’t read the expression in them.
‘I’m… sorry I disturbed you,’ Nicola stammered, unable to stand the silence as the last echoes died away. ‘That was the most incredible… I mean, I’ve never heard anything like it. What was it?’
Her voice seemed to bring him back to his senses. ‘It is a Prelude by Rachmaninov,’ he said, his voice a rich, accented baritone. ‘It is known as The Bells of Moscow. He raked back his dark hair and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘To be honest, I haven’t played it in years. But tonight, it just came to me.’
His frown still hadn’t wavered, but she could feel his eyes moving away from her face. Appraising all of her. She already felt stripped and raw from the music, and she was sure he could see right through her to the core of ugliness at her centre.
He turned back to the piano and p
ut on a pair of fingerless gloves that had been tossed to one side. This time they weren’t festive Christmas knit, but plain grey wool. He flexed his fingers and winced. It was as if the music had stolen something from him and he hadn’t quite regained his equilibrium.
When he finally turned back to her, he didn’t speak, and the silence seemed to pulse between them.
‘I’m Nicola Taylor,’ she said to break the tension. ‘You may not remember me but—’
‘I remember you,’ he said. The rest was unspoken but sent a jolt of electricity down her body.
‘I…’ Nicola suddenly felt at a loss for words. ‘I came to apologise for the way I acted the other night. It’s just, well… I was annoyed with the cancelled trains. It had been a really bad day – you know how it is…’ She laughed awkwardly.
He stood up from the piano and took a few steps towards her.
‘I mean, I’m sure that lots of people love Christmas and carolling.’ As he came closer, she felt unnerved and started to ramble again. ‘You probably made a lot of people happy that night at the station.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess Christmas isn’t really my thing. But I shouldn’t have spoiled it. I’m sorry.’
Her heart accelerated as he came up to her and, for a second, his arm brushed lightly against hers. But whether he noticed or not, intended it or not, she wasn’t sure. He went past her and sat down in the pew nearest the edge of the gallery, leaning his elbows forward on to the railing.
‘And why, Nicola, is Christmas “not your thing”?’
Direct to the heart of the matter – and none of his goddamn business. The walls she’d built up around herself had been battened down by the music, but instantly, they sprang up again.
‘I don’t see why everyone has to act like they’re so happy,’ she said, frowning. ‘I mean, don’t you think it’s all just commercialism? Get people to spend money – buy presents and food and alcohol? Overindulge and then spend the whole of January regretting it?’
He shrugged his shoulders, not broad, but lean and muscular. ‘I suppose that’s true – in a way. But isn’t it also about getting through a dark time of year? Taking time to focus on family, and friends, the things that matter. In this world of ours, is this such a bad thing?’
‘Maybe not, but why do we need all the trappings of Christmas for that?’
He didn’t answer for a long moment. Here she was, arguing with him, when, really, she had come to apologise. Her issues, such as they were, hadn’t given her licence to be rude.
‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I can see your point.’ He turned slowly to face her, his dark hair falling softly over his eyes. ‘You’re probably right. But what do you think is the answer? For the choir not to sing? For the people who want to meet other people – enjoy themselves – not to do so?’
She didn’t have an answer for that. Most of the men she interacted with on a daily basis would just have accepted her apology and then moved on to make small talk or flirt a little. Yet this conversation with this man seemed much more difficult – more intimate – than she ever would have expected.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Obviously you have a right to sing where you want. Spread joy, good cheer – whatever you want to call it.’
‘But you think you should have the right to walk away, is that it? Not listen if you don’t want to. What was the word you used? “Trapped”?’
She looked at him in surprise. He’d obviously remembered the details of the whole unfortunate encounter.
‘Actually,’ he added, ‘to me, that sounds reasonable.’
‘I don’t know,’ she countered. ‘Maybe if it had been another night, another place…’ She shook her head. ‘But, as it was, all I wanted to do was get on that train and go home for a few hours. Pretend I didn’t have to get up for work the next morning and do it all over again.’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘If that’s how you feel, then why do you do it?’
‘I don’t know!’ His calm poise was making her angry, just like it had the other night. ‘Why does anyone do what they do? I mean, not all of us can play – what was it again? – Rachmaninov?’
‘No, that’s true.’
Nicola paced back and forth a few steps by the edge of the gallery. She hadn’t come here to have a discussion with this man about the meaning of life and the joys of Christmas. She’d come here to apologise, and she’d done that. So why was she still here?
‘Anyway, for the record, I wanted to say I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I came here to tell you that. I thought I could make a donation. For… mince pies or something.’
He laughed, and that irritated her. Standing up, he came back over to her. Once again she felt that growing sense of tension as he stood in front of her, close enough that she could smell his scent: wool, sweat, an undernote of musky aftershave. He must be about her age, she thought – mid to late thirties. But the mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes reminded her more of a boy.
‘For mince pies?’ he asked.
‘Or something…’
That look in his eye. This ridiculous situation. Actually, she had to keep herself from laughing too. Mince pies – God, had she actually said that?
‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I don’t actually like mince pies.’
‘No?’
‘But the choir loves them.’
‘Well then…’ she shrugged.
‘And Nicola,’ he continued, drawing out the syllables of her name, ‘I appreciate your coming to find me.’
Her pulse sped up and she felt a tightening in her abdomen as he leaned in closer to her, his face near enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. And just like in that one previous encounter she’d had with him, she was unsure whether his next action would be to slap her across the face or… reach for her and kiss her. She felt even more disconcerted when he did neither, instead turning away and walking a few steps, staring out at the expanse of the church below.
‘You say that you are sorry for what you did. Then you argue your right to reject Christmas – which I accept, by the way. It can be… difficult.’ Just for a second he turned back to her and she saw a shadow cross his face. But then, he smiled again, warily. ‘You say you wish to make a donation – for mince pies.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do your penance, make yourself feel better. Is that correct?’
‘Yes…’ Nicola said through her teeth. ‘So where can I make the donation?’
‘Take an envelope from the collection box. On your way out.’ The words slammed into her. He wasn’t smiling now.
‘OK.’ The instructions were clear enough. And yet, she didn’t move.
Once again he moved past her and went back to the piano. He picked up some music that was stacked on the side and shoved it into his shoulder bag. Nicola noted that there was no music on the stand. He’d been playing The Bells of Moscow, or whatever it was, from memory.
For the hundredth time, she willed herself to go. And yet, she just stood there watching him. Aware of him. And he was aware of her too. Yes, as soon as the thought came into her head, she knew she was right. He was aware of her, and now, he was playing with her. A shiver wracked her body.
‘But if you really wish to atone, Nicola – to me,’ he turned and looked at her, giving her the full benefit of his dark eyes and sharp classical features, ‘then tell me – what are you doing tomorrow?’
*
Dmitri watched Nicola Taylor walk down the steps of the church, her high heels clicking on the stone as she reached the street without looking back. She got into the taxi that was waiting for her. And then, she was gone.
What the fuck was he doing? He closed the heavy wooden door and collapsed against it. Why had she come here? Shattering his fragile equilibrium. Making him feel something; want something.
He thought of Tanya, so well-meaning, so loved up and happy herself, telling him that it was time to ‘try again’. When she knew perfectly well why that wasn’t going to happen. He felt angry with
her. Angry at himself.
He’d deliberately not taken Nicola’s phone number, or given out his. The stupid part of him even wanted to go ahead with this crazy idea that had formed in his mind.
Dmitri took out his phone. It was time to call in a few favours. He dialled the first number as he went back up to the choir loft to collect his things. Right now the only consolation was that, almost certainly, Nicola wouldn’t turn up. He would never see her again, and all would be well.
Part II
‘Ivan rode through the dark forest, as the howling pack of wolves drew nearer. This was madness. She was a creature of flight; how would he ever find her? Suddenly, in the blackness before him, two great yellow eyes appeared. Ivan was thrown to the icy ground. The horse bolted and ran away. Before he could rise, the wolf stepped out.
“You are foolish to venture here, young Ivan,” the wolf said, licking its jaws.
“Maybe so. But I seek the Firebird.”
“The Firebird!” The wolf laughed. “You will never find her. For she is under a spell of enchantment. Trapped in a golden cage. And it is far from here.”
“I will find her,” Ivan said. “At the ends of the earth, if I must.”
“You may be foolish, but you are brave too,” the wolf acknowledged. It lowered itself down on to its giant paws. “Come,” he said. “Climb on to my back. I will take you to see things that you cannot imagine.”’
– ‘The Firebird’, The Anthology of Russian Tales
9
5th December
This was a bad idea. How could it be anything else? It was Saturday, and she never went into London on a Saturday, if she could help it. And yet, here she was on the train. She’d agreed to meet Dmitri at Waterloo Station.
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