9. Ofelia #4
“Some pianists, they are clumsy with their fingers, their timing, yes? They must practice, practice, all the time, make the fingers find the keys. But you, this is not the problem. The problem is here.” He taps his temple.
“And here.” He thumps his heart. “All the music, she is inside you. But you do not let her out. You try alvays to control her, to make her do your vork. So long as you hold her so tight, she vill never become all she can be. Last night, your father, he tells me you grew up in Spain. I almost do not believe it.” He throws his hands in the air, rolling his eyes.
“Spain? I say. The country vhere music flows from every corner? How can this be? A Russian who lives in Spain—but who plays the piano like it is a machine? Paris is not for her, I tell your father. Find your Russian passion. Your Spanish soul. Go somewhere you are feeling the music instead of practicing it. And vhen you haf done this, you come back, and ve play again.”
Clearly disinterested in any answer I might have to his pronouncement, he turns back to my father.
“I vill send you the cognac ve spoke of,” he says, gripping Papa’s hand.
“And please tell Sergei I shall look forward to our next battle on the chessboard.” To my astonishment, he actually smiles.
“It has been a long time since I haf enjoyed a game so much.”
Nodding briskly, he leaves the room without any further words. I stare at the closed elevator doors, my head spinning.
Unfortunately, much as I’d love to believe that Dittorio was bribed to say what he did, I know he meant every word.
Even worse, I know he’s right.
My tutor has said something similar, more than once. That my playing is technically perfect but lacks that special something that would make it superlative.
That doesn’t mean I’m any happier about being told what to do.
“I’m not going back to the finca.” I say it flatly, meeting my father’s eyes without flinching. “I love the boys, but that house is mayhem. I can’t practice there.”
“Fine.” My father folds his arms, his eyes narrowing. “You can move back into your old apartment, beneath the penthouse in Malaga—”
“No way.” I fold my own arms, shaking my head. The Malaga apartment has cameras in every corner and my father’s security watching every single movement.
He fixes me with a very stern eye. “You’re coming back to Spain, Ofelia. I have good relations with the authorities there, unlike here.”
“You mean you own the Spanish authorities,” I say, “unlike the French ones.”
Papa grinds his teeth. “You’re coming home. It’s not negotiable.”
“Then I’m going to Granada.” Taking advantage of my father’s momentary look of surprise, I press on.
“It’s only a hundred kilometers from the finca.
You do business there all the time. It’s far safer than Madrid or Seville.
Definitely safer than Barcelona. It has a vibrant music scene.
And Lourdes lives there, so I won’t be alone. ”
He frowns. “The university in Granada doesn’t have a classical music program—”
“You heard Dittorio. I don’t need one.” I use his own argument against him. “And Granada has the International Music Festival. It’s a major date on the classical calendar.”
“But what would you do there?”
I shrug. “Teach. Play. Go to different kinds of performances. Immerse myself in other styles for a while. Do exactly what Dittorio told you I should do.”
Be somewhere Alexei can come and visit me.
“You can approve where I live,” I compromise, “and put as many security measures in place as you like.”
Papa’s expression lifts marginally.
“Granada is close enough for me to visit you guys, or you to come to me, whenever you want.”
He’s starting to nod.
“I only have one condition.”
He glares again.
“I want to choose my own security detail. No offense, you guys,” I say, smiling at Bryce and Luis. “But I’ve had the same security guards since I was a teenager. I think I’ve earned the right to choose my own. With your approval, obviously,” I add, turning back to Papa, who looks unconvinced.
“That’s fair, Roman.” To my surprise, it’s Mickey who stands up for me. “Ofelia should get to choose her security, same as I do.”
Bryce and Luis actually nod in agreement. I guess it hasn’t been easy for them either, trying to find the right balance.
“Granada.” Papa stares at the wall behind me, still clearly trying to find an argument. Finally, to my vast relief, he nods. “Fine. Granada. But I get final say on the house and security.”
I nod, feeling an unexpected sense of excitement steal through my body, especially when Lourdes squeals and races over to hug me. “We’ll be together again!”
I return her hug as Papa pulls out his phone and starts making arrangements.
I’m going home.
The thought is almost absurdly comforting.
And I’m going back to the place where Alexei first kissed me.
Maybe that isn’t what I should remember about my twenty-first birthday. Maybe I should remember the way he rejected me, his face as he pushed me away.
But somewhere in my mind, Granada will always hold the magic of that kiss, of the realization that whatever lies between us is more than simply fantasy.
And now we can be there again. Together.
Because as Lars said: Alexei can’t go back to Miami, at least not for a while.
Which means he can come and find me.
And finish what we started last night.
“I’m so excited,” Lourdes says, her eyes shining.
I grip her arms, my heart thudding. “Me too,” I say breathlessly. “Me too.”