Page 40 of If I Were Yours

Markus cuts me off. “I want you to give it a try. Tomorrow and each day for the rest of the week—except Sunday, when Grigory comes. Four hours a day.”

I protest, wanting to take Saturday off like I usually do, but Markus won’t relent. So this is how it will be for the rest of the week.

***

I spend the next few days trying to get into the routine Markus mandated. Being at the library helps me focus a little, and I do get through more material than usual. But it’s still far from enough. What’s more, is that I’m already exhausted when I leave the library in the early afternoons.

At least, I don’t have any lectures afterward since Markus made this decree Wednesday night and I get all nine hours of classes over with at the beginning of the week. So after a lunch break, I head straight for the rehearsal rooms, hoping the piano will help me recharge. But it’s a lost cause. One hour is all I manage before packing up my things and heading home. And it’s a struggle to manage the three final hours later in the day.

On the second night of this routine, I’m lying in bed, fighting the tempting pull of sleep after a quick but unappealing dinner of frozen pizza. The piano keeps mocking me in my peripheral vision, urging me back to finish the last of the four hours of practice. I try to turn my back to the instrument, but then my mind keeps nagging me with the knowledge that I haven’t met Grigory’s daily requirement.

So I finally pull myself together and move my ass to the piano, but my playing is sloppy and uninspired.

I pick up my phone and press Grigory’s name in the messaging app. For several minutes, I stare back and forth between the empty text box and the piano keys, contemplating whether I should ask permission to play an hour less today.

No, I can do this,I finally decide, putting the phone away to touch the keys. I love playing.

But no, I really can’t. Even a simple scale takes tremendous concentration.

With frustration swirling in my body, I grab the phone with a grunt and write out the words.

Can I skip the last hour of piano today?

Five minutes later, the phone vibrates with an incoming call, and Grigory’s name flashes on the screen.

“Hi,” I say tentatively as I put the phone to my ear. It’s the first time we talk on the phone, so I’m a little jittery.

“Why do you need to skip the last hour?” he says in a serious voice, and I immediately regret having asked.

“I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing a lump in my throat. I hate disappointing him. “I’ll manage. It’s just one hour. Sorry I bothered you. I’ll go now.”

“Devochka.” Grigory’s sharp tone makes me freeze as I was just about to hang up. A quiet moment passes, and then his voice softens. “Talk to me. Why do you need a reprieve?”

I sigh. “Markus has me doing this new reading routine…”

“I know. He’s told me. How is it going?”

“Not good.” I press my lips together, feeling like a failure. I can’t even manage four hours of studying a day when I’m supposed to do even more.

Grigory’s tone is grave when he says, “I don’t like this reading routine—nor this master’s program. It’s not the right thing for you.”

I remember him saying the exact same thing when I told him about the master’s program back in the summer. I was so angry, thinking he tried to shove his arrogant opinion upon me, not caring about what I wanted. But really, it was the exact opposite.He saw who I was already back then and knew I wouldn’t thrive with the purely academic approach.

But I can’t bring myself to admit I chose wrong. I’m in this now and have to finish.

“I’ll talk to Markus,” he continues. “See what we can figure out. But until I do, you need to follow this routine he’s laid out. Play as much as you can. If you don’t make it four hours, it’s okay, but I want an update every night before you go to sleep. Are we clear?”

“I’ll text you,” I agree, more than relieved about this temporary reprieve. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Now, go to bed and get some sleep.”

***

Despite Grigory having lowered his demands, I aim for four hours anyway, badly wanting to please him—badly wanting to touch the keys. But I only manage two hours the next day, and when he comes Sunday afternoon, I’ve only spent one hour at the piano.

“I’m sorry,” I say when I meet him in the hall.

He must know what I’m apologizing for because he wraps me up in a warm hug and says, “Don’t worry about it,devochka. We’ll figure something out.”

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