There Were Two of Us at the Open Bus Stop

Waltz to the guitar.

“…Generally, any human soul is like a shaky flame, dragging to a mysterious divine abode, that it feels, tries to find, but can’t see.”

Andre Morua

There were two of us at the open bus stop.

Rare April twilights were struck by a cold light of a street’s torch. It distinguished a fourteen-year-old-boy out of grey mist. The boy was dressed in a slightly baggy puffy coat and a woolen knitted hat pulled up to the eyes. He had a guitar in his hands.

A coach drove to the bus station. The boy bought a ticket, stuck it carelessly into his side pocket and went up into the saloon. I followed him. There were a lot of vacant places but I had chosen the one next to him I don’t know why.

Why aren’t there any strings on your guitar? - I wondered.

He didn’t answer at once. He laid his silent “musical tool” on his knees, took off his hat setting free his blond careless curls and only then said:

- I went to the center. I thought it was possible to repair it. I’m going to finish a music school this year. I’ve learned to play the bayan and I’d like to play the guitar as well. Took somebody’s for a week, I was pretty good at playing it. This is my father’s guitar. He passed away when I was little. My mother doesn’t want to give me any money to buy a new guitar. Used to grumble, “Grow up and earn yourself. I can’t manage to do everything alone.”

He touched a finger-board with his fingers divided with thresholds on lads and turned his head to the misted window.

-That means you’re a real musician if you’re finishing a specialized school, aren’t you?

-Real or not, but I take part in so many concerts.

-When somebody has a talent – that’s amazing. You seem to have it.

My praise didn’t seem affected. He stopped being shy. Smiling sad and grateful he turned to me. His eyes were shining with kindness.

-Once I almost quit my music classes…

-Why?

- At the end of the previous school year I had a lot of problems. I was going to finish a term with many bad marks. My progress was so poor. I couldn’t understand anything. Tried to cram. Didn’t succeed. The same was with bayan. The teacher cried – didn’t matter. Mother was furious with me for bad marks and bayan.

I did take a knife, narrowed it to my arm but then gave up …

Once got up early. The first lesson was Russian. Haven’t done my homework. Gee! Gonna have a bad mark. Everybody will yell at me. Ouch… The same with the rest subjects. Only art may be OK. Going to practice bayan. Oh, my God. Will be back tired – have to do my homework. When will that day be over? It hasn’t already begun…

I’m sitting naked in the darkness on an unmade bed that is warm; I’m touching its wooden back, lacquer plywood, a familiar hollow. When is that nasty day going to be over? I’m touching again. I’m looking forward for the night to come. (He was telling it forgetting me. I repeated it after him mentally.)

Let the day fly away beside touching.

In order not to see anything.

In order not to hear anybody.

I wish a dream come soon – it’s my paradise.

I wish to be free.

Behind the touching is darkness … That’s good. It’s like a reward. But the day doesn’t give a chance to reach, it separates the beginning from the end. Why is there a gap between them?

It’s better to have always “darkness” than to have such a “light”.

Now every morning begins like this …

I haven’t told anybody about it. Why have I told you about it?

I was in my third year at the music school. Helena Stepanovna, my teacher in bayan, used to prick on me. It seemed to me that she shouted only at me and she pricked only on me.

Her wooden desk was filled with something rattled. When I play she gives me a correct rhyme by tapping on the table. Getting angry, she hits it severely that makes everything rattle insight. I play another tempo; she knocks hard as if trying to help but that makes me stumble.

Any time I come home in tears. When I come there is nobody at home. Mother is still at work. So, I sit alone and cry.

Once I came from school … we were practicing a new piece. I couldn’t succeed. Came home crying. Couldn’t calm down myself. I thought, “Why do I need it? These “solfeggio”, “intervals”, “ranges”, “major keys”, “minor keys” – everything. Why? I’ve got two more years to study and all these two years she will be shouting at me.

I tore a sheet of paper out of my algebra copy-book and started writing that I felt like leaving and asked to cross me out of the third form in the music school. I didn’t speak for my mum or for anybody else, I spoke for myself. I put the date and a signature. And as soon as I’d taken the decision I calmed down. I thought, “Well, that’s all”.

I have decided not to give an application now. I will attend my bayan lesson once again and if she shouts at me again then I will take out that sheet of paper.

The letter will be a sort of master-key against her.

I will be free. I’ll be walking along the streets like all the others . The buddies are laughing at me “Why do you need bayan classes? Just to carry such a heavy load? To play it? Let’s better play cards.” Bayan and accordion, only old men were playing before the war, are the same for them.

The lesson is the next day. There is too much snow outside. Nothing is melting. I am walking along the path in the evening. There are birches and poplars on each side stretching upwards. I’ve never been counting them, hadn’t time for that. I’ve been always shaking before my music lessons. But then I thought raising my head: “How many birches I’ll see – that will be my mark.”

I raised my head and saw not one or two but four birches. “Well”, I thought, “that’s fine!” I wasn’t sure that I’ll get this mark, but I wanted it so much.

Come to my class. Say “Good afternoon”. Take the instrument. Move the chair closely with my leg. Sit down.

She isn’t yelling at me at all…

I take my music book. Open the right page. An etude without a name. Only sixteen notes.

Try to play. I am not shaking. Press the keys calmly. Fluently stretch my bayan. I heard completely another kind of music. I tried just to warm up at the first time. It was going well. Then I didn’t stop while I was playing it right from the beginning to the end.

I imagined ant’s run: “Ta-da-dam- ta-ta-da-dam”. It ran there like “Ta-da-da-da-dam- tam-tam”. It is running, running, running again. Took a straw, turned back and ran back to the ant hill. My fingers are like this ant’s paws. They are running with the same speed as it’s. If it runs faster, then your fingers will move faster as well. “Ta-da-dam- dam-tam.” That’s not a tarantula that creeps like “Tuuuum-poooom”.

Elena Stepanovna is looking at me, not saying a word and nods. That’s just a miracle… “Well done!”she said.

She put a nice good mark in my diary and in a music book. She seemed good…

Came out of the club. Can’t believe it. I am standing on a porch. Breathe easily. Look around. So shocked. Think “What if I saw two birches and not four? Would I be given a bad mark?”

Now I’m good at bayan. Now I want to learn how to play the guitar, like my dad. My mother loved him because of it. He was the best at playing the guitar. A party person.

Sometimes I think: “What a fool I would be if I gave the letter”. The birches helped me. I kissed them in my mind not once.

I want to choose music for myself and for my future life.

Well, if, for example, someone will be an agronomist, engineer or a military man. Who needs them?! And music - it’s everywhere. A car buzzes - it’s music. We talk –it’s music. And this, - he stamped mischievously, - this is music either.

-Are you sure it’s music?

-Yes, it’s music.

Right before my performance Elena Stepanovna said: “If there is somebody you know in the hall, your mother or anyone else, don’t look at them, don’t wave them, don’t smile. Otherwise, you’ll get out of the rhythm. Look at the point above. Say,” Look, the point, how I play”. Talk to it. Even if they light you up with a torch or throw something at you, or if you get out of the rhythm, play anyway”.

I come out on the stage. I am scared. Sat on the chair and started to play at once. My knees are shaking…I squeeze them really hard, but they are still shaking. Pressed on the keys and hear, “Dam-tam-dam”. Everybody hear that. Music and trembling. I look around. So many people…I saw my friends. They could laugh at me. And I’m alone, I’m so little. I am just playing, playing. Ah! Made a mistake. I am ready to run away and break out crying.

But then I remembered my teacher’s words. I raised my head and looked up. But I didn’t stare at the point. Suddenly I saw my dad. He was looking right at me. I started playing for him…Everyone’s faces became dim, invisible. Everything disappeared. Only my dad and I stayed there.

I felt I stopped shivering. I was playing for real. Not thoughtlessly press the keys and stretch the bayan. Thinking where my fingers are. I ‘m playing louder or quieter. I see to when I should play forte or piano.

I was playing a waltz “On Manchuria’s hills...” Have you heard it?

- A great waltz.

-There is a quiet beginning. I am playing for my dad and imagine as if he was not a lieutenant like in that old photo in his document. He is a general. Grey-haired He was sitting and heard that I started playing. Music started. I was playing it so quiet because he is in the main role. He stood up and started looking for a date. He has finally found! He has chosen my mom. That means I should play louder. That’s his happiness. One part is “Ta-dam-tam-tam-ta-da-da-dam.” They were dancing happily smiling. Then they looked into each other’s eyes – just a pause. Everything stopped for a second. Then they started spinning again. And I started playing even louder.

I’ve been learning this play for six months. And now all I’ve been working at so hard diminished to two minutes of the performance. Not everyone can do it like that. But I can.

I think my dad liked it.

That’s a pleasure and even an excitement.

I finished, bend my head and broke out crying from happiness. Then I ran away from the stage. I couldn’t see anyone in this moment. Everybody was applauding. Then they said that I’ve done a great job.

Once I took my friends’ guitar. Mom came in and saw that I was picking chords. She said, “Wait, I think I know it. Maybe dad played it.”

She went away. I put aside my friend’s guitar and took my dad’s one. I touch it, stroke it. Once my dad touched it. And one more idea came, when he didn’t shave he rubbed against my cheek with his bristle and my cheek became red. I got pleased even happy from that. I remember it. And now I touch his guitar that remembers his hands. I was eager to play a waltz “On Manchuria’s hills...” for my dad but to the guitar. That would make him proud of me and mum. If he were here with us, he would play for mum himself.

I asked to repair it in the city but they didn’t take it. “No”, they said, “it’s too old. The finger-board has cracked and new strings won’t help. There’s no miracle.”

The boy became silent. I also kept silent. We were silent up to the bus stop.

The main thing was said.

Just before leaving he shook my hand manly and said for farewell,

“We have a holiday concert in the club tomorrow. I will also perform. Come”.

The boy came out on the icy curb and pressing his sacred guitar to breast went into the darkness. I even didn’t know his name.

The door closed with a bang. The bus went further.

***

The concert at the club was over. Everybody liked bayan’s performance. He has played especially well today. The spectators began to break up. Only music was floating with invisible waves wide in the empty hall.

The boy went to get dressed. And a porter, a familiar old woman, brought from the side room wrapped into plastic a new acoustic guitar.

-  Somebody I don’t know who asked to give it to you.

The masters have made a mistake.

Miracles happen.

It was a sacred day of Jesus Resurrection.

Petrozavodsk, the 8th of April, 2007

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