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The opening notes on the piano are melancholy, evoking vague memories of my childhood in a small, shabby room. My mother's face appears in my mind as I recall it from the photo on my locket, tired but loving as she smoothed my hair and sang me to sleep. Her voice was so sweet and pure.
As I stand on the grand stage, bathed in the soft glow of the spotlight, the hush of anticipation settles over the audience. The orchestra begins to weave a delicate tapestry of notes, and I take a deep breath, immersing myself in the timeless melody of Eremushka's lullaby.
The first few notes, like a gentle breeze, emanate from within me, resonating through the vast auditorium. The lullaby, a whispered secret passed through generations, escapes my lips with a tenderness that mirrors the cradle's gentle sway.
Each phrase, a delicate brushstroke, paints a vivid picture of a moonlit night, cradling dreams in its silver glow.
"Eremushka, un nome nel vento, Porta racconti attraverso i secoli,"
– Eremushka, a name on the breeze, Carries tales through the centuries.
These specific lyrics haunt me, as in this moment, this is a song being carried through the ages, from mother to daughter. How do I even begin to explain to a gathering of spectators the significance it holds for me?
I pour all those complex emotions into my performance, letting the bittersweet nostalgia infuse each note.
Tears prick my eyes as I reach the final verse. The audience is completely silent, hanging on every word. I close my eyes, imagining my mother here with me. This one was for you, Mum.
As the last note fades, I open my eyes. The theater erupts into thunderous applause, some audience members dabbing their eyes. I smile through my tears and curtsy deeply. This was my tribute to the woman who made me who I am today without ever having been a part of my significant life. I hope I made you proud, Mum.
I make my way backstage after my performance, holding in a tumult of emotions. Singing that lullaby was my way of reconnecting with my mother's spirit, but it also left me feeling melancholy. I need some time alone to process it all.
I change in private and decide to skip the cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, wanting a little time to rest before I leave for the airport within the hour.
Exiting the theater, I’m startled when a man steps in front of me, blocking my path. It's so cold out that he’s wearing his cap hanging low over his forehead, and his chin and lips are hidden behind his thick scarf. All I can see is his proud nose and those haunting green eyes.
"Excuse me, I don't mean to bother, but I must speak with you," he says in accented English. His voice is smooth yet authoritative.
My heart pounds. Who is this stranger? I try to step around him, but he moves to block me again.
"Please, Ms. Amante, it will only take a moment," he insists.
Against my better judgment, I decided to hear him out - I can always make a scene if needed. "What is this about?" I ask warily.
"My name is Viktor. I'm here on behalf of the future president of Russia," he explains. "He requests an audience with you."
The future president wants to meet me? I'm momentarily stunned. Viktor takes advantage of the situation and doesn't wait for a response. "Come, we shouldn't keep him waiting." He turns and strides down the corridor. Hesitantly, I follow him deeper into the theater.
Viktor opens the door to an ornate, private reception room. A group of well-dressed men and women mingle with drinks in hand. They turn to look at me as I enter. My gaze lands on a familiar face - the striking man from the billboard at the airport. "The future president," Viktor whispers.
Vladimir Mikhailov, as I remember from his larger-than-life portraits on the streets, stares at me intently as Viktor leadsme over. I fight to keep my nerves in check. He's even more imposing up close, his gaze intense and searching.
"Miss Amante, what an honor to make your acquaintance," he says smoothly. "My name is Vladimir Mikhailov. Please, have a seat." He gestures to a plush chair nearby and signals for a waiter who brings over a tray with champagne. I take a flute and perch on the edge of the seat, back rigid.
"That was quite a performance tonight," he continues. "You have a rare gift. It reminds me of someone I once knew... Another singer in another lifetime," he murmurs. His voice trails off, blue eyes clouding with memory. I shift in my seat and nip at my champagne to hide my unease.
“Tell me. Did your mother sing too? You dedicated that song to her, did you not?”
Having the future presidential candidate of Russia enquiring about my mother’s past singing career is utterly bewildering. Was my mother so famous that he would have known of her? Impossible.
Suddenly, my parents in New York came to mind. How scared they were for me to come here. Russia isn’t safe, they told me over the years. My father’s voice enters my thoughts, barraging me with stories of people going missing and families wiped out.
What if those stories were not exaggerated? A chill runs through me. Could my mother have been mixed up with the wrong lot,with dangerous, power-hungry politicians? Even though there is no plausible explanation for why, my instincts are on fire.
I clear my throat. "I am humbled by your compliment, sir. It is a true honor to perform in this magnificent theater and a great surprise to have made your acquaintance. I’m sure, over the years, a man like you has met with hundreds of talented singers; it would be natural to confuse me with someone else."
Vladimir’s eyes narrowed, and a small frown creased his brow. “What do you mean, a man like myself?” His voice has become a whisper as he steps into my personal space.
My heart is pounding. “Well, a patron of the arts, of course.” I make a vague movement with my champagne glass, indicating the structure that houses one of the greatest opera theaters in the world.
