The five mistakes I’ve supposedly made in my practice earlier? I never listened, and thankfully, he doesn’t ask. Maybe I’ll tell him tomorrow that I had no intention of listening for them, and maybe he’ll punish me once again.
Chapter 9
Tuesday, March 5
I’ve spent the entire night in Nikolai’s bed, ensconced in his arms. It is absolutely lovely. When daylight peeks through the curtains, I don’t want to wake up.
I have to leave today. Last night, I looked up shuttle bus times on my phone, and decided to catch the bus that leaves Boston at two in the afternoon. I want to make sure I have enough time to get to my apartment and rest before my audition, which has been scheduled at nine tomorrow morning.
“Good morning myshka,” Nikolai mumbles sleepily into my shoulder. “Any chance you can get up and make coffee?”
I laugh. “What? No ordering me around today?”
His lips form a smile, but his eyes remain closed. “I’ve learned that I should always be nice to the goddess who is making me coffee.”
“Flatterer,” I say accusingly.
“Guilty as charged.” He smacks my ass. “Go make coffee.”
I can’t contain my giggles. “That’s much more like it.”
***
When we are done with breakfast, I go through my program once more, and Nikolai listens carefully. He has a pleased smile on his face when I’m done, and he kisses me. “That was good.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “Is this some kind of ego-boosting tactic ahead of my audition?” I demand.
Nikolai snorts his disdain of such feel-good tactics. “Stop fishing for compliments, Allie. It was good. You’ve improved greatly in the last few days.”
I know I have. I can hear it in my playing, and I hope I have done enough.
When it is time to leave, I cling to Nikolai. I don’t want to go. “Will I see you again?” I ask him at the bus terminal, realizing how silly that sounds as the words leave my mouth.
“Of course, myshka,” he says soothingly. He kisses me, before he turns me around by the shoulder so that I face the open door of the Chinatown shuttle. “You have an audition tomorrow. Go. Be the best pianist you know to be. Do me proud. Oh, and Allie?” He extends his hand towards me, and he’s holding a little ceramic cat in it. My eyes tear up. This cat sat on my mother’s piano all through my childhood years. My mother had given it to him ahead of his own audition to the Philharmonic, so many years ago. The fact that he has kept the keepsake? The fact that he’s handing it to me? I can’t keep my emotions in check.
I turn unbidden and I hug him. I put everything into it, my gratitude for the way he saved me. My still desperate need for him. As much as I want to get into Juilliard, I realize I also don’t want our little interlude to end.
“Poka, myshka.”
I learned a handful of Russian words from Nikolai. Zdrastvuyte. Hello. Spasibo. Thank you. When he called my myshka, I looked it up. Little mouse. And when he says poka, I take comfort in his words, because poka is like the French ‘au revoir’. Though it’s used to say goodbye, a more accurate translation is ‘until we meet again.’
***
Wednesday, March 6
The entire four hour trip on the Chinatown shuttle yesterday, I entertained wild schemes of throwing the audition. I could make mistakes; I could forget key notes. In my head, I’ve constructed fanciful scenarios where I go back to Boston and live as Nikolai’s submissive, naked and obedient, curled up in the cage in his dungeon.
But these are the desperate schemes of a hopeful mind, and I know I cannot allow myself this kind of indulgence. My fantasies are creepy and borderline stalkerish.
I miss everything. I miss the cage. I miss the spotlight on the piano in the dungeon. I miss kneeling obediently in the kitchen while Nikolai pets me and feeds me morsels from his plate. I miss curling up in Nikolai’s arms. I even miss the stupid Samurai movie that he watched. I found it on Netflix and watched it again, as if that act would draw me back to Boston, where I sat next to Nikolai on the couch, and played at normalcy, and clung to the illusion that I belonged with him.
The last time I saw her, Mara, the professor who had interceded for my second chance had been wearing a printed dress and dangly earrings. Today, her dress is an eye-popping orange, and her arms are covered with bangles that clink together every time she moves. I follow her into the audition space. The same one as before, with the piano in exactly the same spot.
Everything is exactly as it was a few days ago, but I feel entirely different. I have changed in the last week. The version of me that died when my mother did, six years ago – she is reborn again.