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“Play something for me. I played for you.”
He sighs and sits at the piano.
“Play the piece that breaks your heart,” I say.
He smiles, wistfully, and I sit beside him on the bench and admire his hands as he holds them above the keyboard. He starts to play and it’s familiar but I can’t remember the name.
“I know that,” I say. “I can’t remember the title.”
“Nocturne in E Minor,” he says. “Chopin wrote it when he was seventeen.”
I listen to him play and he plays so well, with such feeling. It brings tears to my eyes for some reason and I have to bite my lip to fight them, covering my mouth with a hand.
When he finishes, he turns to me and I can’t hide my tears. I don’t know why I’m so sad. He inhales and runs his finger through my tears, and then slips his finger into his mouth, closing his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I say, shaking my head, wiping my cheeks. "I don't know why I'm crying. It happens sometimes, when I see certain things, pictures, hear certain songs. Must be from the brain damage."
"It's okay." He pulls me into an embrace. I let him hug me. We were lovers. My foster parents told me.
He breaks the embrace and wipes my cheeks with his fingers.
"Another bad memory?"
I shake my head, unable to speak for a moment. "No memory at all. Just sadness."
Just then, the door opens to reveal an older man with a salt-and-pepper brush cut and a pale blue button-down shirt and jeans. His face is weathered, with deep lines above his eyes, beside his nose. He has piercing blue eyes.
The man just stares at me for a moment.
"Sorry," he says to Michel. "I have bad timing."
"No," Michel says and motions to the man. "Come in and say hello to Eve."
The man hobbles over, using a cane. "I am Vasily," he says, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ballerina Girl.”
"Ballerina Girl?”
“Was my name for you.”
“I knew you before, too?”
He nods.
“Nice to meet you." I take his hand and shake it, a smile on my face.
Vasily covers his eyes with a hand. He turns away and goes back to the kitchen and stands with his back to the room. I look at Michel.
"Did I say something?" I ask, keeping my voice down.
"Vasily's an old softie," Michel says and shakes his head, his voice quiet. "He was so worried about you because of the bombing. Play something for him. Play something Russian."
I sit at the piano and play a piece, but I don't remember how I know it.
“Rachmaninoff,” Michel says. When I look up at the kitchen, Vasily stands with a tissue at his eyes.
I stop playing. "It's upsetting you."
He looks at me over the tissue, and waves a hand. "No, I am just silly old Russian who loves music. Please don't stop."
