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Tatiana
I stare out of the car window, sitting in the back, feeling like a child again. Mom fumbles with the radio while Dad bemoans, taking the wrong route. "Te l'avevo detto che avremmo dovuto prendere l'autostrada," –I told you we should have taken the highway– Dad tells Mom.
"Mama Mia, Tesoro. Siamo quasi arrivati." – Good heavens, we're almost there – she chides him.
I smile to myself in the back. Moments like these remind me just how blessed I am. It was four a.m., and both my parents insisted on dropping me at the airport. They refused point-blank to let me use a cab. I think of Philippe and my heart wrenches. His forlorn expression from the day of the funeral crosses my mind.
I can't imagine how he must feel right now, with not a single person to call his own. No parents, no siblings. I wish I could bethere with him through these dark days, but he insisted I leave for Russia. His mafiosi needed him to focus on setting up his reign, and he didn’t need any distraction- or so he said.
I wonder if that was the truth or just an excuse so I wouldn’t feel guilty about deserting him. He's unlike other men I've previously dated. In the short time I've spent with him, I've noticed that he pushes me to focus on my career first and foremost. He’d never expect me to make sacrifices for his sole pleasure.
We finally reached the airport, and the departure terminal was a hive of activity. Suitcases roll, footsteps echo, and murmurs of a hundred languages hum in the air. Mom squeezes me tight, her floral perfume enveloping me.
"Be safe, my songbird," she says, eyes glistening. "Make your mother proud," she whispers in my ear. Tears well in my eyes as I realize she's not talking about herself, but in a rare twist of character, about my birth mother, the woman from whom I inherited my talent to sing.
"Oh, Mom," I pull her into a hug. "Mi mancherai,"–I'll miss you.
Dad ruffles my hair like he used to do when I was small. "Show them what it means to be an Amante," he says with a wink.
I grin, heart swelling, as we share this moment. My parents wave a last goodbye; then they’re swallowed by the crowd.
Martin calls just as the plane taxis to the runway, wishing me a safe trip. He makes me promise that I’ll get the contact number of my coordinator in Russia back to him so he can check in on my progress without having to bother me. I thank him, bid my manager goodbye, and turn off the phone.
I settle into the window seat, watching the tarmac slip past below. The engines rumble as we prepare for takeoff.
This is it, I’m finally Russia-bound.
The day I've dreamt of ever since the childhood lullabies started visiting me in my sleep. Now it's my turn to visit. My turn to honor my biological mother’s legacy on the very same soil where she gave me life.
My fingers find the locket under my scarf. I opened it to a portrait of Mother. Next to it is a picture of me as a baby. "Wish me luck," I whisper, closing the locket gently and rubbing my thumb over the engraved floral pattern.
In my dreams, I see a little girl with pigtails sitting on a woman’s lap while she plays the piano. They're both looking at the camera, smiling.
"Spin, little songbird!" she cries right after, if I remember correctly. My therapist told me some of my memories could be conjecture. I don't know what's real and what's not. So, I choose to believe in the happy ones.
And then there are the nightmarish memories. I shrug them off as childhood dread, but I don’t know what caused them. There’s always fire. Lots and lots of fire. And I smell ash and burning flesh. My skin shows no burn marks, so my therapist believed that, as a child, it was my way of expressing the loneliness I felt at being abandoned.
With a quiet pinging sound, the seatbelt warning lights switch off. I turn away from the window and from my darker thoughts. The flight attendant comes by with a blanket, and I smile with my appreciation. Snuggling into the cozy blanket, I try to imagine my childish giggles filling the air as I pirouette wildly, collapsing into a dizzy heap on the floor.
Mother sweeps me into her arms, kissing my flushed cheeks. "My talented Tatiana," she says, eyes shining with joy. "You will sing on the great stages one day, just like your Mum."
Soon, I’ll be in the land of my mother, standing on the soil where she rests. I wonder how I could find out where she's buried. Unexpectedly, a deep sense of loss overcomes me. I clutch the locket tighter, blinking back tears. Her spirit flies with me, giving me strength.
The flight attendant offers champagne. I decline, lost in bittersweet nostalgia. Mum, I will make you proud. Your songbird has finally spread her wings.
The plane touches down with a jolt, stirring me from restless dreams. I gaze out the window as we taxi to the gate, taking in the unfamiliar Cyrillic signs.
Saint Petersburg, Russia. I have arrived.
Stepping off the plane, the frigid air kisses my cheeks. I wrap my coat tighter against the chill. Philippe's face flashes in my mind. I wish he could be here to share this moment with me. The thought of him warms my heart.
In the airport shop, my eyes land on a bottle of fine-aged scotch. Philippe's favorite, from what I observed that night at his casino. I add it to my basket, just in case I'm too tired to pick it up on my way back. I’m already imagining the toast we'll share on my return home.
Outside the airport building, the city bustles with honking cars and shouting drivers. The tang of diesel mingles with wafting spices from a nearby cafe.
I spot a billboard showcasing a striking man with icy blue eyes. Vladimir Mikhailov, it proclaims, with stirring Russian text I can't quite decipher. He’s waving in the picture, with the Russian flag hanging high above his head. His steely gaze seems to follow me as I walk towards the rows of people waiting for passengers to arrive.
A driver holds up a sign with my name in crisp English font. I make my way over, lugging my suitcase behind me. He gives me a nod, takes my bag, and leads me to a sleek black sedan.
