To the End Of Her Path
Published in Issue #22 Translated from Russian by the author subscribe to unlock the full storyUntil now, seeing her name on the posters, Frida was somewhat embarrassed. It seemed to her that these red, bright letters are not about her, and that part about the laureate is not. After all, she had grown up in a two-room apartment above a Russian shop, in that part of Brooklyn where retirees in woolen leggingsfeed the gulls on the wooden promenade.
Damp, nasty wind from the north was throwing the flakes of rainy snow on the poster. Breathing on her frozen fingers, Frida opened with an effort the heavy wooden door of the conservatory.
She was bending over the music stand, flipping through the yellowed notes, pressing the violin to her chin. As always, she thought that now she must raise the bow and touch the strings. As always, nothing was more difficult.
The relief will come later, when black, spidery notes will run from left to right, from top to bottom, when there will be nothing apart from these sticks and hooks, when her very body, starting from the tips of the fingers, will sound and respond to music. Then it will be easy, but not now.
There was a knock at the door. Frida winced. She did not like it when they interfered with rehearsing. She responded in a quarrelsome, grandmotherly voice: “Come in.”
“I am your accompanist. Here, I just wanted to be acquainted…” A man — Frida immediately identified with a trained eye, of her own age — in jeans, leaned against the doorframe. “I’m sorry if I interrupted.”
“Oh, nothing.” Putting down the violin, she has held out her hand, a cold hand with thin knuckles. The...
Damp, nasty wind from the north was throwing the flakes of rainy snow on the poster. Breathing on her frozen fingers, Frida opened with an effort the heavy wooden door of the conservatory.
She was bending over the music stand, flipping through the yellowed notes, pressing the violin to her chin. As always, she thought that now she must raise the bow and touch the strings. As always, nothing was more difficult.
The relief will come later, when black, spidery notes will run from left to right, from top to bottom, when there will be nothing apart from these sticks and hooks, when her very body, starting from the tips of the fingers, will sound and respond to music. Then it will be easy, but not now.
There was a knock at the door. Frida winced. She did not like it when they interfered with rehearsing. She responded in a quarrelsome, grandmotherly voice: “Come in.”
“I am your accompanist. Here, I just wanted to be acquainted…” A man — Frida immediately identified with a trained eye, of her own age — in jeans, leaned against the doorframe. “I’m sorry if I interrupted.”
“Oh, nothing.” Putting down the violin, she has held out her hand, a cold hand with thin knuckles. The...
Subscribe now to keep reading
Please enter your email to log in or create a new account.