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It eventually died around two in the morning, and while I would have loved to have screamed and raged at the inconsiderate asshole who’d kept me up, sleep claimed me with a force I was unused to.
My head hit the pillow, and I was out.
Now a headache was pounding behind my eyes, and I had to do whatever I could to get rid of it before my afternoon sessions.
I started with coffee and savored one of the crumpets from the packet Raymond had left in my fridge. They’d been a staple back in London, and now it felt like the world’s biggest luxury. It also felt like ages since my stomach had been full, so it sat heavy in my gut as I finished getting dressed, then did a lap around the small apartment, trying to find places I could primp because according to the email, I wouldn’t have much of a choice regarding the students coming to me.
I had a vision of the parents looking around, then turning right back and requesting someone else, but I wasn’t ready to be completely defeatist just yet. Once they got to know me and saw how capable I was, well…
Actually, I had no idea what they’d think.
It was harder being Julius Adamos than it was being Nicolai’s boyfriend.
Rummaging through the closets, I found an afghan that didn’t smell too awful, so I draped it over the back of the worn sofa, then I used a drizzle of dish soap on a wet paper towel and gave the place a once-over.
It still smelled like moldy walls and rusted pipes, but in a way, it sort of fit with the rest of the neighborhood. At any rate, I’d eventually make it look a bit more like mine rather than some place I was crashing, and I hoped the students would at least find a way to be comfortable there during their single scheduled hour.
By the time I was finished, I had four hours left before the first student was due to arrive, so I set my music on the table and worked through some of the places I was having doubts. It had been years since I believed I was capable of creating, but now that I was trying again, it almost felt like relearning to breathe on my own.
I felt the press of the strings along my fingers, and while the music didn’t come as readily as it had when I was younger and full of promise, every day felt a bit easier.
Time seemed to pass quickly, and it was hunger that drew me out of my work. I felt a small pang, unsure if I should ration the food or not, but I needed a clear head if I was going to impress these parents. My uncle had left some cans of soup, so I added one to a pot, then put a piece of bread in the toaster oven and watched it slowly brown as the broth boiled.
It was strangely comforting, and for the first time since I’d set foot back in my home country, I felt something other than pain or regret. It wasn’t contentment, but it sparked like hope that I could get there one day.
Sitting at the table, I propped one foot up on the second chair and ate, lost somewhere between composing in my head and the longing to play. The moment felt soft. The neighbor was quiet, the city streets were buffered by being below ground, and the only thing I had to accompany my thoughts was the sound of water moving through the pipes.
As I finished my lunch, I realized the last thing I wanted was to put my pen back to my music sheets. Instead, I walked the chair back into the center of the room and pulled my cello from the case. Setting the stopper between my feet, I closed my eyes and recalled the music I had just written and laid the bow to the strings.
The sound rushed through me, imperfect and unfinished, but it was still mine. The notes rose and fell, my bow pulling against the strings, my fingers flying through the scales as I pulled deep within me, drawing from a dark place I hadn’t touched in far too long.
It felt strange. I wasn’t sure if the music was wrong or if I was. Was I still trying to recover what Nicolai had attempted to steal? Or had he been right all along? Maybe there wasn’t a composer inside me after all.
Maybe there was…
The sound of the saw ripped me from my thoughts, and my bow clattered to the floor. It sounded almost as if the neighbor had shoved it right against the wall so the sound went directly through the nonexistent insulation, reverberating against brick and drywall.
With a snarl, I set the cello against the chair, then stormed into the bedroom and slammed my fist against the wall. “I’m allowed to practice my own instrument in my own home!”
“And I’m allowed to work on my projects in my own home!” came the answer.
It was the first time I’d really heard his voice with any sort of clarity longer than a few muffled curses. He must have been standing right there.
I closed my eyes and breathed through my frustration. “This is my job!”
“So is this!”
My hands curled into fists, and I glanced up. There, at the very top near the ceiling was a vent, and I realized it likely connected between our apartments. It wasn’t just thin walls that disrupted our spaces. It was that too.
Storming away, I threw myself back down to the table and huffed. It felt as effective as a toddler throwing a tantrum about vegetables, knowing full well whatever I did wouldn’t matter to that man.
The moment I started playing, he’d start “working.”
It went on like that for the next two hours before I heard his door slam and the silence that followed. It wasn’t really a relief, however. My nerves were shot, and it would be a miracle if I got to keep any of my upcoming clients.
* * *
The first appointmentwent off without a hitch. Or, well, mostly. I saw the way the mother’s eyes looked around my apartment as I set two chairs in the center of the living room. The student played violin, which was perfectly fine as I had training in each of the strings, but she twice mentioned she was surprised I didn’t have a piano to accompany her daughter, and I wasn’t sure I’d be seeing them again when I saw them out.
