– Put it on the table, Kamnev.

Iosif gave me a pencil.

– Iosif Seraphimovich, what's that for?

I shouldn't have opened my mouth.

– Is everyone in your family as stupid as you?! – His face got filled with blood and cooled down as quick as it got hot. He stared into the floor and went silent for a few seconds, then exhaled calmly, – first you learn it on a pencil. This is an important step, Kamnev.

I grabbed the writing instrument.

– Here you put your thumb, your middle and ring finger here, you feel the weight with your pinky. – I obeyed. – Do you feel how heavy it is?

– I do, Iosif Seraphimovich.

I felt nothing.

Someone knocked at the door.

– Come in! – Iosif yelled cheerfully.

An angel came to us from the heavens. From the first glance I could say she was about fifteen. A light dress, rusty hair gathered into a ponytail, a pretty-looking hard case.

The teacher tapped on his little apprentice's shoulder and took a couple of sheets from underneath a pile of books.

– Hello, Iosif Seraphimovich. – She smiled.

– Hello. Would you like to play this today? It's just for your level.

While observing this gentle scene, I cursed myself inside and tried to give my pinky strength just to feel the weight of the pencil.

– Iosif Seraphimovich… Why is such a grown person learning to play?

He turned around to look at me.

– Don't worry, he isn't here for long.

I felt chills on my back. Iosif laughed again, then coughed and turned his eyes away. While he popped his knuckles in awkwardness, I noticed that they shivered frequently. How could I forget about his hands?

The heavenly creature opened her oblong box, and I heard magical double sounds again. Iosif put the sheets on a weird stand and let his apprentice make a beautiful song flow. Inside I moaned, dying; I knew I'd never play like this. I thought about just one thing – they're blessed, the children who wake up to copy scales.

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.