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I've been waiting for you my whole life

I've been waiting for you my whole life

By MELISSA NAGLEPublished 10 months ago 12 min read
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Altamonova only took the exam once, and was easily admitted to the music academy. During the entrance exam, she played Tchaikovsky and Chopin and performed some techniques. Kireyev took the exam with her, but failed. He scored three points in composition and missed the entrance by just one. Kireyev had a very good sense of music, but it was hard to make up for the fact that he played five notes wrong. Altamonova wanted to walk up to him and tell him he was the most talented of them all. But she was embarrassed: he might mistake sympathy for pity and feel humiliated.

When classes began in the fall, the class came together. Kireyev was in the class, apparently because he had pulled some strings. Music is God, school is the temple, and now suddenly came a backdoor person, what a stark contrast! In class they said nothing to Kireyev's face, but deliberately distanced themselves from him. Mr Kireyev also pretended not to care. But Artamonova saw and understood what was going on, and it pained her.

In the classroom, Altamonova and Kireyev usually sit in a row together. She stood in line for him at the restaurant, buying enemas and honey cookies. And every examination, always lend his outline to him in advance. If Kireyev said he couldn't read his notes, Artamonova would read them aloud to him.

It was the day after exams, and they were making breakfast in Ms. Altamonova's kitchen. The potatoes they fried were washed by Kireyev, as carefully as if that was what he had done all his life. They stew Bulgarian green chilies, scallions, sausages and potatoes, topped with eggs. Kireyev calls it a "country breakfast." Altamonova found the combination of food and words innovative and almost perfect.

To ward off drowsiness, Kireyev sat down to play the piano. His favorite composer was Prokofiev; Ms. Altamonova identified with Tchaikovsky. The Tchaikovsky music was so beautiful, the walls were so beautiful, life was so good, and Artamonova was in love.

Ms. Altamonova didn't know she was in love with Mr. Kireyev at first, but sometimes thought about him. Everyone knew, and Altamonova knew, that Kireyev had a wife named Rufina. He was only twenty when they got married, but Rufina was thirty. She was so beautiful beyond description that Kireyev went head over heels and stole her away from a great man. Rufina moved out of the five-bedroom house for pure love and started a life together with Kireyev. Then Rufina saw the difference: the beds, the placement of the table, and the food on the table were different.

Kireyev, who earned extra money at outdoor dances and weddings, handed Rufina his small salary in an envelope, along with a nagging sense of guilt. Rufina was not satisfied, and Kireyev could not lift his head. Artamonova knew all this, but knowing it made no difference. Everything was the same: she could hardly breathe without Kireyev.

Her best friend heard Altamonova talk for a long time and said, "If you can't help it, just tell him and you'll calm down."

To speak, or not to speak? Throughout April and May, Altamonova pondered this question.

Go ahead. What if he doesn't need it? Love is noble, Altamonova is afraid of hurting their self-esteem. Or he might reply, "I like another woman." That way, the two of them wouldn't be standing in line together in the school cafeteria, eating small enemas and drinking coffee together, as they used to; You can't go to the library together; She wouldn't be able to look up at him when they rode in the elevator together. No talking, no showing. It is also possible that everything is said and he agrees with reservations. As a result, she became his lover, he would often look at his watch, become a man in a hurry, in front of Rufina's guilt more heavy. This contradiction will not add to his happiness.

It's best not to say anything and leave everything as it is.

So Altamonova added the lock to Love and handed the key to her girlfriend.

One summer day, the doorbell rang, and Artamonova opened the door and saw Kireyev. He stood there with a serious, even solemn, expression that was a little unnatural. Altamonova waited for him to speak, but he said nothing.

"Do you have Music for Children?" "Kireyev finally asked.

"I guess so. What do you want it for?"

"I want to adapt it and make it into a modern piece."

"Why is it Tchaikovsky? It's better to adapt Prokoev."

Kireyev did not answer. Altamonova found him drunk.

Kireyev entered and stood in the middle of the hall. Where, Altamonova wondered, could she find Tchaikovsky's "Music for Children"? Altamonova brought a stool and tried to climb up to the attic to find it. Suddenly Kireyev put his arms around Artamonova, lifted her quietly from her chair, and went into the bedroom. Artamonova could not say a word. He held her like a child. Artamonova's mind was in a whirl: Yes or no? He knew that he loved him, very much, and had loved him for a long time, and this was an opportunity. But he didn't say a word, and he was drunk...

The next day, Altamonova bought him a small enema and coffee as usual. Kireyev ate and looked out into the open. He didn't remember, Altamonova thought. How about asking him? But how? Ask him, do you remember? He'll be like, what's up? Altamonova asked no questions.

2

The community doctor asked her if she wanted to have the baby.

"I don't know." "Artamonova replied.

"Think about it, but not too long." "Suggested the doctor.

Altamonova has two weeks to think about it. To speak or not to speak? Go ahead. Kireyev probably doesn't remember, because he was drunk. If he does, but where to begin? If he's not going to change his life, that means he doesn't want the baby. She, on the other hand, could have a son of her own if she wanted one, and ultimately that was her own business. For some reason, Artamonova kept believing it would be a boy, Kireyev Jr. But how was he going to live? All children have a father, but her children don't have a mother and a grandmother. Little Kireyev doesn't even have a last name, only his mother's.

Altamonova arrived at school the day the scholarship was awarded. At the cashier's office she suddenly met Kireyev, and because of the unexpected encounter, she froze as if her foot had been nailed. Kireyev was standing there counting the money. "Tell me now... Just ask... Just tell..." Artamonova made up her mind, but in the end she didn't say it.

In the operating room, Altamonova looked back at the door. She kept expecting Kireyev in his coat and hat to run in and grab her hand and say, "It's almost too late!" But Kireyev did not know where she was or why she had come to the place.

Altamonova didn't go to school for two weeks. She didn't want to go. She didn't even answer her phone. She wouldn't move even if there was a nuclear war on the radio. She sat at the piano all day pounding the keys and playing the Music for Children.

April 1st was Altamonova's birthday, twenty years old, another decade. The whole class came, and so did Kireyev, who gave her a small clay statue of a camel as a gift.

Thirty is ten years away. The major, defining events of life take place at this stage -- between twenty and thirty -- and then they begin to repeat themselves.

After graduating from the Conservatory, Altamonova enrolled in the choral conducting class at the Gonechin Academy. After graduating from university, she began to conduct the Children's Palace choir. Kireyev, who dropped out of school in the third grade, is said to work for a vocal troupe.

It was between the ages of twenty and thirty, nearly thirty, that Altamonova married Serzhko. Serzhko, like all orthodox men, was a conventional and dull man. Altamonova had no love for him like she had for Kireyev, nor did she need it. That kind of love had broken her heart. Life should have been peaceful. Three hundred and sixty days later they divorced, and as one of Lemontov's poems put it, "There is no joy in love, nor sorrow in parting."

3

Forty is an age when women lose their youth, but at forty Artamonova looked more beautiful than at twenty: once thin, but now handsome; What was once a timid character has become more peaceful, more confident in his career, and even a little bit of so-called personal superiority. She was looking forward to something, just as she had in her youth. Perhaps in anticipation of Kireyev's presence, she showed no initiative herself, and even when she met people she and Kireyev knew, she never asked...

Mr. Kireyev was in his 40s, old for the chorus. By this time, Kireyev's wife Rufina had reached retirement age and remained barren. They still live in a medieval two-story house that the government manages but does not maintain. They rented out the second floor to employees at a partner store, hoping they would restore the house and install a telephone. Rufina, who counted on earning money from the cooperative workers, had given up hope for Kireyev.

The son she didn't have was a constant presence in her life, like music through the wall, audible though low. And as time goes on, the missing becomes more and more intense. For her, life on her own was a little empty.

At the Children's Palace, Altamonova and Vakhdano made friends. Wahdano was a regular actor in a regular theater, but the leaders wouldn't let him play the part he wanted to play. Wahdano was depressed and saw no way out. His love is also ups and downs, although he is a handsome man, but no money, no house. Altamonova listened and handed him some slices of bread. She ended up falling in love with her because of all his misfortunes.

They married, but never had children. Altamonova went to the doctor, where a female doctor told her: "It's impossible to get pregnant." This was what Kireyev's visit had done to her. What did he want again? I think I'm looking for Tchaikovsky's Music for Children.

Wakhdano calls his mother in Kutahi once a month and whispers, "Not pregnant." The mother was displeased with her daughter-in-law.

They still don't have children, but to Altamonova, Vakhdano is like a child. He takes the place of a son. She cooks and washes for him, comforts him and gives him pocket money.

It was all over, all over on a fine day, just as Vakhdano felt, in an empty place. "Not pregnant yet," Wahdano said in a routine phone call to his mother. Artamonova snatched the microphone from his hand and said some rude things to her mother-in-law that she shouldn't have said. Vahdango's mother understood nothing, but Vahdango understood that they could not live.

4

While Ms. Altamonova's marriage faltered, the choir thrived and grew, performing in Bulgaria, China and the United States. There were many performances, sometimes two concerts a day. Altamonova's songs were sung on stage and off, and the money in the bank book filled up like spring water in a swamp. How nice, money! It is a symbol of freedom and independence. People can eat delicacies, wear beautiful clothes, and travel by car. One fine day she came to the conclusion that she had her own career and did not need the most wonderful husband. Career can feed her, dress her, enjoy her, travel her, make her friends, give her social status... What modern man could give her so much? Altamonova drove down the driveway, and on the sidewalk, men who earned only two hundred roubles, one hundred of which they had to buy wine, filed by. It was nice of her to drive proudly past.

A famous organist was on tour in Moscow. After the concert, Altamonova took the subway home. As she went down the escalator, she was lost in thought, and when she saw Kireyev standing in front of her, she was not surprised at all, but felt obliged to say something.

"Ah, here you are! Artamonova said in a brisk voice. Kireyev had not changed much, but in a different form, like an old comrade from the provinces. Ms. Altamonova knew that in recent years Mr. Kireyev had played piano at the restaurant and was heard to drink heavily. They stood looking at each other.

"How are you? "Artamonova asked.

"Just fine."

"My God," said Altamonova, a little frightened, "I almost ruined my life because of this man!"

"How are you going?" 'he asked.

"I'll turn right." Altamonova said.

"I'll turn left."

No way. As usual, they went their separate ways.

Altamonova suddenly wanted to say, "You know what? We could have had a baby once." But she doesn't say what's the point of something that can't be undone.

"Well, good-bye." Altamonova said goodbye to him.

"Goodbye." Kireyev replied.

Here comes the train. But Altamonova panicked inside, as if this was the last train of her life. Kireyev was still standing on the platform, jostled by the crowd, but he did not notice it. Altamonova watched him for a moment, and then the train went into the tunnel. The carriage swayed gently, and her heart was empty.

Suddenly she realized that by hesitating -- to say or not to say, to ask or not to ask -- she had ruined his life. She would have said to Kireyev, "Meet me, this is your son," if the doctor had not advised against having the baby and the son was in his late twenties. Even so, what could happen? He stood on the platform, as embarrassed as he had been thirty years earlier when he had not been accepted to the conservatory.

Altamonova agonized over his lost talent. She wanted to ride back and tell him, "Of all the students, you are the most talented. Your talent is not completely lost."

"The next stop is Belarus." A female announcer's voice.

Artamonova looked up and thought, "That's strange. I got on the train at Belarus station. That is to say, the train came full circle and came back to the same starting point."

Kireyev was still standing where he had been. When the doors opened and people got on and off, Altamonova saw him. Altamonova jumped out at the last second, went up to him and asked:

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you." Kireyev said curtly.

'Why?

"I've been waiting for you my whole life."

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