Iosif's voice returned me from the oblivion.
– What are you looking at, Kamnev? You'll do it yourself now.
– Now?! Iosif Seraphimovich, are you sure?
– Don't worry, – he handed me the bow, – you'll stroke the open strings, then I'll show you a simple piece.
I was so ashamed to hold the thick end of the bow and obey my teacher. Iosif mocked me again, and I understood why. Then he gave me my colossus back and began naming notes one by one.
– D, D, A, A, now here with your index finger. No, Kamnev, that's too high. Yes, there we go. G, G, F, F, E, E, D.
I felt like a baby bird stolen from the nest. Like a child not knowing alphabet who got forced to read. The bow became my personal devil. Before this moment I never found myself in a situation where I had to hold my fingers this way, the way seemed terribly uncomfortable and ridiculous. I could compare Iosif to my executioner, myself to an unlucky throne heir, fallen under the revolution, waiting for his head to jump off his shoulders.
Iosif repeated himself over and over for a good ten minutes and pointed at certain places on the fingerboard. I felt I sweat from my efforts. The angel played in the background, waiting for me to go.
Iosif moved away, took a sheet from his pile and wrote four notes with their names on it.
– These are open strings. You'll learn them. On the back there's a description of the parts of the instrument. Here you go. The lesson is over. Practice the piece.
I gathered my stuff.
– Goodbye, Alexander Palych, – he quipped.
– Goodbye, Iosif Seraphimovich, – I threw at him and headed to the door.
The serenade flew over me, bidding farewell to me.
At home I slept, ate quickly and began practicing a piece that felt more like a mockery. Thank goodness that I remembered the approximate places where to put my left hand on. The bow rode to the left and to the right, producing screeches.
Kesha had a musical ear, that's me who wasn't lucky. I knew for sure that I was missing the spots, and I couldn't imagine how you can't miss them on a fingerboard with no frets. The guitar was much easier when I was a school student.
My mother entered the room with a glass in her hand.
– Sasha, is that you playing? I almost choked. Play in tune, – she hiccupped.
– I'm trying, mom, – I looked at her with sad eyes.