While Iosif hurried at the speed of snails, I had time to finish the book.

– Good afternoon, Kamnev. Are you performing Brahms with your mouth? Where did you learn about him?

– I don't need to live under a rock.

– That's also right. – He unlocked the class door. – Today's topic is very interesting – note duration.

– Duration? I know about it already.

He showed his teeth in disgust.

– But how?

– My brother had a music notebook. It's written about everything in there.

Iosif lowered his eyelids.

– I don't think his teacher explained the quarter notes very well.

Now it was my time to ask him, "but how."

– I'll show you. Let's tune first.

I took my device out of the case. The A wasn't an A.

– Give me that.

– I can tune already. I will.

– You can't.

– Are you sure?

I grabbed the peg and began pinching the A, gradually pushing the peg into the pegbox.

– Can't you hear that? It's an A flat. More.

– I don't know about you but I have no desire to break the string. It's an A natural.

He exhaled quickly.

– Where are you from, so smart?

I smiled.

– Okay, nevermind. Durations.

While we were looking at the new subject, Sasha arrived.

– Hello, Alexandra Sergeievna! – Iosif rolled around to see the newcomer. – Look, Kamnev, Sasha can say right now how many thirty-second notes there are in a whole note.

– No, Iosif Seraphimovich, I can't, – she looked at the floor.

– But I can! – A voice could be heard behind their backs. – Thirty-two thirty-second notes.

– You're some kind of unrecognized genius, Kamnev.

– I could say the same but without being sarcastic, – Sasha opened her case.

– Shush. Let's continue.

While we were looking through not-so-new information for me, I noticed a small piece on the table, a one-page piece. Stealthily, while Iosif was distracted with Sasha's tarantella, I picked up my diva and began playing in the silent moment.

– Get this, thitry-second notes – they're light, quick… Kamnev, what are you doing?

I continued performing the piece, not looking at him, even when he put his trembling chicken leg upon my shoulder.

– Kamnev, respond, goddammit!

I stopped.

– What should I tell you? Here we mostly have eighth notes. Eighth and quarter pauses. Everything's just too simple.

– We're done for today. You know the durations, I don't need anything else from you today.

– But we still have some times left. Maybe you could show me something new?

– Get out, Kamnev.

I didn't say anything.

While I was getting dressed in the hallway, my ears caught a funny conversation.

– …It's impossible. No. I refuse to believe in it. He studied before me, somewhere.

– Iosif Seraphimovich, don't worry.

– Alexander Pavlovich! – Sasha rushed from behind the corner.

– What's up, Sasha? You had to leave too?

She only smiled.

– There's a concert in the school soon. Unfortunately, despite all your talent, you won't be performing. I've been getting ready for this my whole life. Do you know Vittorio Monti?

– I think I do. He wrote something similar to your tarantella.

Sasha laughed out loud and began making a parody of Monti's fast part of the piece.

– The entrance is free. Come to the concert! It's going to happen right in the concert hall. I'll be looking for you in the seats.

– I'm sold. I'll come.

– Good luck, Alexander Pavlovich! God loves you.

How kind she is. If she isn't the purest creature on this earth then I don't know who is.

-

Today was a warm sunny day. I learned this when I went to smoke on the balcony.

Mom said she needed to do something, asked me to lock the door after her and left.

I was sleeping when Sasha called. She invited me to the park. I got ready instantly.

Sasha sat on a bench, swinging her legs while reading some notebook. She was so deep into the words she didn't raise her eyes.

– Hi, Sasha.

– Oh! Good afternoon, Alexander Pavlovich. – She shut the notebook. – I would like to share something special with you.

– And what is it?

– Something special, that's what I'm saying. At home, mom would laugh. She doesn't like it when I read them or compose new ones.

– Poems, right?

– No, arias! – A thousand tiny bells blessed my ears.

– Could you read me one of them?

Sasha opened her thick notebook and began reading:

Us both, we will die on the sunrise,

Me, you, on this sad, sinful earth.

The dusk, it will shine ever brighter,

The days didn't give us this girth.

She went silent.

– And what comes next, Sasha?

– I haven't composed it yet. – She turned the page quickly. – I also have an idea for a waltz.

We will be born, we won't be the same, no,

We wlll be close to the ones who will care for,

If you're not certain – look to the skies up above.

There you will see what Lord sees when he's sleeping.

Birds, they come back to be gone from their keeping.

But nothing could fill the hole in me where once was love.

– And what's the melody? Sasha, why won't you sing?

– I'll try to make up one now.

Sasha began singing the lyrics in a 3/4 time signature, in the waltz rhythm. Her magic took me where there isn't any pain or tears.

I almost fell off the bench.

– How was that? – Her face frowned. – Alexander Pavlovich, why are you silent? I did think it would be pathetic.

– No, don't say that. – I got out of coma. – It's beautiful…

– Don't lie to me if it isn't so. – She got an over-the-top sad expression. – Ha-ha! Bought that? Thank you very much, – she closed the notebook. – And you, have you ever written poems?

– I only wrote one stupid poem when I was little. I don't even know what it means.

– Can you tell me it?

– Okay, – I showed my teeth.

Time has passed, mur bears still sleep,

Day has long been done.

In the morn, they'll see a film,

But they sleep for now.

It seemed Sasha was ready to pop from laughter. So was I.

– And now, let's get serious. Try to compose a good poem, at least two lines.

– Sasha, I can't…

– Pretend that you can.

– This curse of mine, you'll be beside me, – I got still, – my fate, it wears a ball and chain…

– Yeah, with Iosif Seraphimovich it won't be pleasant at all.

High heels walked behind us and stopped.

– Oh, I forgot! Czardas. Alexander Pavlovich, dad's going to kill me. I have to go.

– See you, Sasha.

Sasha ran as fact as she could, almost losing the notebook. The stranger took her place.

– What a wonderful beginning! You're talented.

She looked like a marigold bud that didn't have time to see the sun and died under the snow. Her hazelnut hair wasn't long, and her shape wasn't too attractive, but she didn't lose any charisma from that.

– H-hello.

– Isn't your name Alexander Pavlovich? – The woman smiled. – I'm Marina Vasilievna. You shouldn't be called by your name and your patronymic at your age.

– You seem familiar. I saw you on our town's TV channel.

– That's because my last name is Zlatokrylova.

– That's right! – I jumped. – You sing!

– I do, my dear. And I respect any youth that begins its way. Tell me, are you a musician? – You have a very good size of your poem.

– Well…

I didn't hide anything and told her my story in all its honesty.

– I see. My condolences. It's always hard to lose one's loved ones. But you're doing good – you didn't leave your brother's instrument to get covered with dust and now you're using it well.

– My mom wanted to exchange it to pinot grigio.

– What tastes. Your mom doesn't know what's being brewed at Abrau Durso.