3. Ofelia #2
“Perhaps.” Breathe, Ofelia. “He was invited. But he rarely makes it to family events.”
“Hm.” Seline gives me a skeptical look, then switches back to English, as she often does when she wishes to make a critical point. “You leave this part out until we are finished, I notice.”
“I’m trying to stay focused on my playing, as you suggested.” I avoid her eyes and change the subject. “At least Dittorio chose Beethoven and not Rachmaninov. I wouldn’t have put it past him to put me through that.”
“Dittorio.” She waves the conductor away for the second time. “Your father. Alexei. So many men you allow to have power over you, yes? You think they are torturing you, but it is you who does this to yourself. Mais vraiment, we learn through hardship. Torture, I’m afraid, is how we grow.”
Torture.
I just manage to swallow a semi-hysterical burst of laughter as we say goodbye and I descend the stairs onto the street.
I’ve told Seline a lot about my past over the past two years, including the fact that Mikhail, the man I grew up believing to be my father, was killed in a car bomb and that Inger, my biological mother, was shot to death.
I’ve told her that Inger was a narcissist who helped the Orlovs kidnap Masha and me for her own financial gain and about the bloody battle that happened when my sister and I were finally rescued.
I told her that Alexei risked his own life to keep us safe during that time and helped my father and his men rescue us.
I’ve never mentioned the fact that Alexei used his knife on me.
Torture.
Even after all these years, that experience remains locked inside me, so deep I don’t even know if I could find the words to talk about it.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why my feelings for Alexei have deepened into this obsessive compulsion, this limerence.
And I don’t care if it’s a pop psychology term; limerence is still the most accurate way I’ve found to describe how it feels, to obsess over someone who might as well not exist, given the nearly two years of radio silence between our last conversation and now.
I meant what I said to him the last time we met. That the real torture was never the thin, almost elegant lines his blade made on the most intimate parts of my body, but the fact that he left me alone with that experience.
What I didn’t say is that I don’t want to talk to anyone else about what happened between us.
I hoard the memories of Alexei’s blade on my skin, his lone eye blazing into mine, like a dragon hoarding gold in a cave.
The memories are my secret treasure, dark and illicit thrills in which I only rarely allow myself to indulge.
I pack them away now with the discipline of long practice and turn down the wide tree-lined street that leads to my flat.
After a full twelve months in Paris, I still feel like a tourist in the city.
I’d never admit it to my family, who are constantly begging me to move back to Spain, but I miss everything about the country in which I’ve spent at least half of my life.
Paris has none of Spain’s warmth and heart, its chaotic fiestas and laughter.
I miss the whitewashed walls and twisted cobblestoned alleyways, the sound of flamenco, and the rich scents of orange and jasmine that linger on every Andalucian corner.
Pushing away the ever-present sense of nostalgia, I switch my phone off Do Not Disturb as I walk. It rings immediately, and when I answer, I’m greeted by very loud background music and Lourdes’s voice speaking loudly enough to make me pull the phone away from my ear.
“You do know that we’re both already here?” she says indignantly. “With multiple bottles already open?”
“I know, I know.” I pick up my pace. “I’m sorry. I’m running a little late.” I don’t mention Seline.
In some ways, these two years in Paris have been a breather for me.
Time away from everyone, including my two closest friends.
Even though we video call regularly, exchange funny videos daily, and catch up in person often, my time here has given me some detachment.
Space to consider my past and my future alone.
I needed it more than I knew, and I definitely feel more settled for the experience.
That said, I can’t wait to see them both here, together.
I let myself into the bottom door of my apartment building then climb the narrow triangular staircase three flights up because the ancient elevator is, as ever, broken.
As I near my floor, the door to my apartment bursts open in an explosion of the latest Taylor Swift album.
Lourdes leans her flushed face over the railing, waving a bottle of red wine in my direction.
“Dance with us, chica!”
“Oh, I’m coming, I’m coming!” I bound up the last few stairs, my heart almost exploding with happiness, and throw my arms around Benny and Lourdes. We leap around in a circle of tears, laughter, and bad singing for a full five minutes before Lourdes breaks away to get me a glass.
“How much are you loving this album.” She beams, handing me a tumbler and clinking her glass to mine. “I swear I’ve listened, like, over a hundred times already.”
“Can not get enough of it,” Benny enthuses, lighting a cigarette. “I’m so happy we’re all finally listening to it together, instead of by video call. And why are you so late, anyway? Surely not still more practice?”
“I had an appointment with Seline,” I say apologetically.
He rolls his eyes. “You’re not still seeing that witch?”
“I like Seline,” I protest.
“Hm.” Benny gives me an extremely skeptical look. “Not a fan.”
Seline read for Benny at the start of the year. Whatever she told him clearly didn’t hit, because he’s disliked her ever since.
“Oh, leave her alone.” Lourdes throws a drink coaster at him. “In Spain, everyone consults las tarotistas.”
“Far better to just fuck and take your chances, if you ask me.” Benny shrugs. “But each to their own. Now, back to the important things—this song is my favorite so far. Thoughts, ladies?”
“Oh my goodness. Me too, me too!” I do a little seated dance on my sofa as he props himself on my windowsill and blows smoke out the window. “This reminds me so much of the day we all first met, back in London.”
“Three classical musicians,” Lourdes says dreamily, “all skipping class to download the new Taylor Swift album in secret. Oh, the shame.”