Wild and Violent. You Had Too Much Freedom

The funniest thing was that, while receiving theoretical information, I was gaining one insight after another, for practicing exclusively by ear and initially copying hand positions and chord combinations on the guitar, I had no idea what pattern the music I was playing followed – I was guided only by intuition.

So that’s how it all works …!

And I also realized that, despite his confident demeanor, Erik found it difficult to explain anything to anyone – especially something he considered obvious. For me, having learned about musical scales from scratch, my whole world was turned upside down, and consonance no longer seemed like magic, but merely a rule. However, we both agreed that no matter how easy it was to calculate whether a particular combination was consonant or dissonant, the magic of music was still there.

I recognized his keen interest and involvement in what he was so enthusiastically talking about, even though toward the end I found his explanations difficult to understand.

At the very end, apparently taking pity on me, the amber-eyed man wrote a short fragment of some monophonic melody and asked me to play it, making sure I’d found the starting point on the keys. Without requiring proper hand positioning – just reproducing the rhythm, the duration, the legato – he deliberately tried to incorporate into the exercise much of what he’d managed to mention over the past couple of hours – and, of course, the notes. With just my right hand – biting my lip in concentration, I played his simple melody.

“Why did you lie about never having studied anywhere?” he suddenly asked, not angrily, but with disappointed suspicion, watching me, my hands already folded in my lap.

I flushed.

“No, I haven’t! I’ve never played the piano!”

I felt really offended that, instead of praising me, he was picking on me with weird questions because of my success.

“There’s no way you’ll get it all at first attempt. And your hands – you even hold your hand correctly, well, almost …”

He sighed, looking at me expectantly.

I shrugged – I was used to injustice. Unfortunately, I often got into trouble because I was much more capable than those around me.

Or maybe he’s just jealous: I suppose he had to spend years honing his skills and abilities, taking lessons from someone, and I came along and understood everything with ease!

“I just saw others doing it,” I said.

After a long pause, Erik finally uttered words of approval – they were difficult for him, but they meant much more to me than he realized.

“Not bad for a first attempt,” he said, smiling slightly with his thin lips, leaning his hip against the grand piano’s shiny side.

Of course not bad! Just don’t let him think that this is solely his merit.

“You haven’t changed your mind, will you keep learning?”

I raised an eyebrow in surprise – really …?

“We can start with practice tomorrow. Just don’t tell Stella if possible; let her see the finished result.”

I swallowed the phrase of unconditional agreement and suppressed the puppyish delight that was bursting to come out, and then only nodded restrainedly, albeit with a smile.

“Okay,” I breathed out. “Thank you.”

Still not believing what was happening, I tried to leave as calmly as possible, but judging by Erik’s reaction, he understood perfectly well how joyfully his promise to teach me music was taken.

14. Hairdryer

Before the stranger was back home, I washed my hair, but I miscalculated the timing, and so I met her with wet hair.

As I skipped down the stairs to the first floor, I realized too late that I hadn’t even bothered to hide my impatience. In her cream-colored coat trimmed with lynx fur, she lit up the corridor like a moon, and, smiling broadly, she greeted Erik, who had approached her before me, with a hearty kiss on the cheek, and then turned to me.

“Good evening, Victor,” she directed her gaze to me, and I readily broke into a smile.

Erik snorted good-humoredly, and Stella, completely naturally perceiving my behavior, took a couple of steps towards me, but stopped at arm’s length.

“Hi,” I bleated belatedly, hiding my sweaty palms behind my back.

“You know where the hairdryer is, right?”

I didn’t expect such a question, blinking in confusion.

“Oh, come on, no need,” I shrugged, already suspecting she wouldn’t leave me alone that easily.

“Yes, there is.”

“Nope,” I shook my head again, causing my hair to fall across my forehead, with a noticeable chill on my skin.

I had already learned this trick: I deliberately provoked her with my stubbornness, getting an inexplicable pleasure from persistent persuasion in response to my resistance. If only I’d gotten to know her well enough to know how to get even closer to her …

“What do you mean, ‘nope’?”

Already barely holding back her laughter, she threw her coat off her shoulders, intending to hang it in the wardrobe, and Erik was right there, taking over her clothes.

“Let me help you,” he offered obligingly.

The stranger gently stroked his arm from wrist to elbow and thanked him with her eyes.

Erik decided to pretend that our disputes did not concern him, and only looked back when Stella approached me again.

“We’re not going anywhere until your hair dries,” she said, tilting her head slightly to the side and studying my face.

“What’s the big deal?” I protested. “What’s wrong with that …?”

It was a little more forced than it actually was.

“Better not argue, or she’ll forcefully dry your hair,” her husband responded, already closing the wardrobe door.

“That’s a good idea!”

I didn’t believe him, but I’d underestimated the stranger’s zeal. Already feeling soft fingers on my forearm, I glanced briefly at the man, as if asking for help, and he, apparently, was no less surprised – his joke had come true.

“Come with me,” she demanded gently but uncompromisingly, directing me toward the stairs to the second floor, and I moved my feet for a few seconds, and then looked back again.

Erik rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen, no longer interfering in our stupid game, and I had to admit: it was my own fault.

When she sat me down on the bed in the room reserved to me, and went into the bathroom, where the hairdryer lay in the cabinet, untouched since last time, I even felt uncomfortable.

“It’s all dry now,” I pleaded, unconvincingly, one last time. “Really. You’re not going to—”

But she had already plugged the hairdryer into the socket and returned to her submissive victim, holding the object at the ready, like a weapon, lowered along her body.

“I can do it myself—”

She leaned over me, carefully reaching out and running her hand through the hair at the edge of my forehead, pushing it back. She was merely checking the veracity of my words, but my throat instantly went dry, and an uncontrollable tremor began to spread through my body, from my stomach to my limbs, filling every cell with languor.

It’s me who’s the pervert. I’m the one who perceives her touch as sexual provocation, and all she wants to do is blow-dry my hair.

Oh my God …

I couldn’t help the sigh that escaped my lips and closed my eyes, tilting my head forward to hide my face. I tried to sit up in a way that would reduce the discomfort of my suddenly tight jeans.

My arms instantly broke out in goosebumps – thankfully, it wasn’t visible under my shirt – and I tried not to show it as the stranger ran her fingers deeper into my hair, massaging my skin.

“Relax and enjoy,” she whispered with a smile and turned on the hairdryer.

This will be my favorite erotic fantasy from now on.

By the time she finished, I had almost calmed down, but the blood was still boiling in my veins; Stella took my unnatural blush as the effect of the hot air from the hairdryer.

“Much better now, isn’t it?” she cheerfully praised the result of her labors, and I wanted to catch her hand, but didn’t dare.

“Uh-huh.”

I looked up at her, still sitting on the bed, while she coiled the long cord and pulled out the plug.

“I’ll change. Meet me downstairs,” she smiled, catching my still confused smile in return, and left me alone.

I didn’t go down to the first floor right away; I needed to come to my senses.

15. Family Dinner

Erik was driving – somehow nervously, unusually – though maybe I was just used to Stella’s smooth driving style – and I was hot in the back seat. I was wearing the jacket, albeit unbuttoned, and the puzzle pieces just weren’t coming together in my head.

I kept thinking that this was some kind of family trip.

I understood perfectly well that my sick mind was simply constructing a picture in a favorable environment, and my attachment was based solely on the events of the past three – well, four – days, not on objective reasons.

It was unusual for me to experience trust and other good feelings; I still couldn’t believe that a good streak had finally arrived in my life, and so for every positive moment I looked for a few spoiling details.

Just to keep my guard up.

However, nothing could dampen our spirits now, especially after we left Erik’s white crossover in the parking lot a block away and walked in a single line, heading to the restaurant.

A high table by the window overlooking a busy street, cozy twilight and subdued lighting, unobtrusive music, a relaxed, weekend-like atmosphere … And, of course, the very beautiful woman in front of us, brightening the evening.

I noticed Erik leading her by the arm with a proud ‘she’s with me’ look, and how both men and women in the hall held their eyes on the stranger; and it certainly wasn’t the long, silky black dress, discreet and concealing, or the chestnut curls falling naturally over her shoulders – she looked reasonably casual.

Her husband, with great pleasure, helped her with the chair, casually touching her bare shoulder, and then sat down next to me on the left, so he could see the queen in all her manifestations.

Or so he wouldn’t bump anyone with his left elbow.

Soon Erik was deep in studying the wine list, occasionally glancing over the brochure at the stranger, while I tried to concentrate on my food choices. All the previous times I visited the dining establishments, I ordered the same thing as Stella, but this time I wanted to show my individuality.

Individuality in steaks is, of course, childish, but it’s also a chance to show independence.

When I realized the choice would be trivial, I wasn’t at all upset – this way I would have time for something more important.

“While no one has noticed us,” the stranger said, leaning forward slightly, meaning the waiter, “tell me how your day went.”

Erik put the wine list down, picked up the menu, and answered in the tone of a perfect liar, “I’m doing the usual. I was working on the project, forgot to eat lunch, and spent a long time ironing my shirt.”

The shirt really did look perfect … But how could he not mention the music!

“He taught me to play the piano,” I blew his cover. “He taught me music theory.”

“Oh!” Stella gasped, her dark eyes widening in amazement.

“But I asked you!” Erik hissed, rolling his eyes. “How can I trust you after that?”

He wasn’t angry, he just didn’t expect me to blurt out too much.

“I can’t keep something like that to myself! It’s too … significant.”

My interlocutor hemmed, but said nothing.

“I’m happy,” Stella supported me, for her part. “That’s very good news. Really.”

And again, the sincere and warm feeling glistened in the stranger’s affectionate gaze, which made me feel both pleasant and thrilled – after moments like these, I wanted to tell her everything in the world, just to receive that dose of attention in return every time.

“And how’s your day going?” Erik decided to change the subject. “You promised to tell us about the bar.”

“Yes,” she clasped her hands. “Everything’s great – the most interesting part is about to begin.”

It turned out that all the commotion in recent days was caused by the intention to open the bar, and she was solving a bunch of issues and getting to know the internal processes.

Interestingly, she seemed to have a keen understanding of what she was dealing with, especially when it came to entertainment establishments.

“The funniest thing is, the previous owners also have a nightclub in northern Brooklyn, and they’re trying to run it from the last forces …” the woman continued after we’d ordered the meals, leaning across the table again and unable to hold her laughter. “Kaftz keeps trying to get me to do business, and you know why …?”

We stared at her questioningly, fascinated by the gestures of her graceful hands.

“Do you remember the club where he and his devils perform?” she asked her husband, who nodded, raising an eyebrow. Then she explained to me, adding, “Kaftzefoni and five other musicians play their extreme metal there, regularly packing three-hundred-person crowds.”

“Not bad,” I responded.

Indeed, any success in music earned my respect, even if I had no idea what kind of music these, as the stranger put it, devils could play in clubs.

“So this is that very club. Well, he’s got ambitions,” she concluded with a smile.

“I’m not surprised he wants you,” Erik said. “All he seems capable of is jumping around the stage. Just so you understand,” he turned his head in my direction, “what they’re doing is primal savagery.”

“It’s for shock value!” Stella objected.

“Don’t make excuses for them.”

“They’re creating the performance!”

“To a low-frequency sound mess!”

“He’s just jealous,” the woman winked at me, and Erik snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Not at all! Performing in front of a crowd of junkies is no fun. Thanks, I’ll pass.”

The waiter meanwhile poured wine, and I watched thoughtfully as the burgundy liquid filled the round, sparkling glasses a third of the way.

As if it were a given, I sipped the tart drink from my glass, following the example of my dining companions, and the bittersweet taste made my jaw clench.

No, I clearly shouldn’t go too far – it’s unlikely a fourteen-year-old, even under supervision and in adult clothing, would look appropriately drunk.

I’ve been acting out of control lately anyway; even without wine, I can blurt out too much or be cheeky where I shouldn’t.

I wanted to leave a good impression of the evening, not only in my own mind, but also in the minds of Stella and Erik.

While we were waiting for the food, the conversation gradually turned to travel and European capitals, and then, for some reason, we began discussing cyclists in Germany and Ulm Cathedral.

When Erik asked me how I knew so much, as if from personal experience, and why I got Stella’s joke about currywurst, I had to answer that I lived in Germany for a while – well, not exactly lived – but survived, moving from place to place – hitchhiking from Vienna to the Netherlands.

I said all this in German, jokingly, and then added that I was actually from Austria, and so I had to see a lot to live their American dream.

The stranger looked at me strangely at that moment – as she did every time I managed to surprise her with something.

“Considering we have an Austrian last name, it seems symbolic,” Stella said thoughtfully, also in German, smiling timidly.

My jaw felt pulled toward the floor, and I involuntarily opened my mouth in amazement.

“Her last name,” Erik clarified, now in English, half-jokingly pointing a finger at his wife. “Our last name is hers.”

“What is it?” I breathed, curiosity overcoming the urge to go with the flow, not asking too many questions.

And anyway – I know, of course, that taking his wife’s last name is also possible, but more often than not, it’s the other way around … But that’s none of my business.

“Reichenberg,” the stranger replied. “And in Germany it would have been von Reichenberg – since we’re talking about them.”

She chuckled, but I didn’t quite get the ‘von’ part, looking confusedly at the woman in front of me.

“Austrian titles were abolished at the beginning of the last century, and now I’m not the countess,” she explained with a chuckle, and, annoyed at my own slowness, I nodded eagerly. “And what’s your last name?”

“Myer. I don’t think that’s my parents’ last name: I grew up in an orphanage, and they gave everyone random names there,” I shrugged, noticing that strange, but now sad, look again.

Just don’t feel sorry for me!

Yes, some are born a countess, albeit without the title, while others, like me, make do with a simple and common name.

Then dinner was brought, and the conversation moved in a different direction, leaving behind questions of family names and pasts. I enjoyed the company, eating ribeye with grilled vegetables and listening to Erik’s fascinating stories about Asian culture and, in particular, its vibrant national music.

“This is a completely different paradigm – it’s no wonder that quarter-tone melodies seem like something wild to European ears,” he reasoned.

I, in turn, tried to imagine half of a half tone, based on the information received this afternoon, and quite quickly understood what the peculiarity was that he spoke of.

“Yep, but this paradigm has just as many fans as the underground.” Stella cut off a piece of steak, but her hand never quite made it to her mouth, frozen with the fork suspended. “One of them told me, ‘Your Bach killed music with his equal-tempered piano!’ The one who plays a fretless guitar the size of a ukulele and smokes some kind of stinking weed.”

Erik laughed, taking a sip of wine.

“I’ve been advising you to change your social circle for a long time,” he said, probably alluding to those very devils whose creativity so irritated the head of the family.

By the way, as Stella mentioned earlier, two of them have academic training – one is a professional cellist, the other a pianist, and also has a qualification in sound engineering. But Erik was apparently judging by the way they chose to present their skills.

I couldn’t say anything to justify either side of the argument – I sympathized with heavy music, even if I knew a limited number of genres and artists; I didn’t have, like today’s youth, a music library on my phone and unlimited access to everything the World Wide Web offers.

I’ll have to ask Stella to let me hear what her devils are playing.

The rest of the evening went flawlessly: we chatted, smiled, and exchanged lines that, while meaningless, nevertheless determined the interaction. I relaxed and was myself, completely forgetting all my backstory; they seemed to see me, too – the real me, not at all disgusting.

And from the soft look that the stranger gave me every now and then, I was ready to become even better.