Chapter Text
zoyas mahlerinas
lin.skv, genya.safin, zoyanzyky.vln
4:55 PM
G: omfg
G: omfg hes socute
G: zoya plsndont scare him away
Z: banned from scaring them
Z: juris orders
G: YESSS
A: who is this
A: send pics
G: sent a photo
A: nikolai?
G: yk him???
A: played together at a summer festival
A: do you remember i told u that story
A: the piano guy w the nice accent
A: that i punched
A: *kissed and then punched
G: THAT WAS HIM??????
G: THE BRIT???
Z: brit??
G: did you not notice
Z: notice what
G: wtf
G: Lsiten to him its so not
G: (sent a voice message)
G: thats too smooth to be fake
Z: im in the room genya
Z: yeah ik but barely there its like half an accent
Z: maybe hes faking it to sound hotter
G: wtff
G: ALINA TELL HER
A: hes not british his mom is
A: idk if he lived there he sounds it tho
A: like the tone and the phrases sometimes
G: hah
Z: i dont like him
A: hes not bad zoya esp his manner
A: like rehearsal manner
Z: thanks for clarifying
A: his bedside manner is fantastic
G: ALINAAAAAAAAAAAA
Z: ffs
Z: genya get off your phone its 2 mins to start
G: the only time I care about is the man at my 12 o’clock
G: omg hes walking here
Z: that didn’t even make sense
A: enjoy gen
G: oh trust me i am
Zoya tended to judge people within the first five minutes they stepped onstage. The first conductor they’d had attempted an authoritarian, falsely confident ‘Attention!’ that did absolutely nothing to that effect. The second had been so timid no one had realized he was on the podium for two minutes. The last, Kirigin, had made a trembling attempt at shaking her hand, and continued the act of shaking so badly that he’d dropped his baton before even starting. So when the Lantsov boy paused before he stepped on the podium, set his scores down, and turned to speak to each one of the players in turn, she was certainly paying attention.
He started at the back of the hall, with the percussionists, for a minute or two. Their laughter rang all the way to the front of the stage; the brightness of his lifting it over the sound of the rest. He took to the brass next, then the winds: the two first-year flute girls giggling like mad when he came to shake their hands and ask for their names. Nikolai appeared unfazed in his charming poise even when their handshakes were, to put it mildly, exceedingly long and exploratory, but Zoya couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Flutes (four minutes past start), clarinets (five minutes), bassoons, the entirety of the thirty or so tutti* strings (eleven minutes, half of which involved a selfie with Genya that was forwarded to the chat almost immediately). It took time, and that time was running almost as quickly as her patience.
She got the gist of him. He was the same in the hall, the same now. Fantastic PR, absolute charmer, and perpetrator of fantastic wastes of time. Half these names he was asking for, even she didn’t know and things went along fine, didn’t they? But.. well. His expression was inhuman in its warmth and unwavering steadiness, but people seemed to open to it: faces softening, introductions made. A thawing, a collective release of the tension they’d all held in the last few days of rehearsal.
Save Zoya, of course, who grit her teeth and bit her tongue and whose only consolation was to remind herself that the closer he got to her turn, the closer this madness was over and the actual work could begin. If he turned out to be nothing else, he was a master of an incredibly well-crafted facade. Even David Kotsyk, her typically unobtrusive stand partner**– who by some miracle had stopped fiddling with adjusting his instrument and taken Nikolai’s hand in a single measured shake– seemed pleased to do so. (Thirteen minutes.)
“David, good to meet you. Something the matter with your violin?” Nikolai asked.
David shook his head, peering closely at his strings. “New strings. I like to make my own."
He appeared genuinely impressed in David’s luthiery*** expeditions. “You do it yourself? Fascinating. You’ll have to tell me more.”
David gave a half-smile, which was about as far as David’s smiles tended to go. “It’s not so difficult, actually, once you understand the vibration of the top plate in relation to the sound is actually–”
After about twenty seconds of uninterrupted rambling from David, she decided enough was enough.
“Maestro*,” Zoya cut in. Loud, and sharp enough that the entire chattering hall fell into silence at the sound of her voice. She liked that. “Its been fifteen minutes. If you intend to make any decent headway, I suggest we start now.”
David paused, seemed to consider the validity of her statement, then gave a shrug of consent. This was why she liked working with David. If there was anyone she liked working with. Nikolai’s gaze flicked sideways to her. All this time and only now did a hint of tightness seem to seep into his face, and for a moment she saw annoyance, or caution, or curiosity. A twitch or some tiny motion, a little thing he covered up in an instant. A crack in the facade.
She enjoyed that, almost sadistically. But it unsettled her, how quickly it was gone. “Miss Zoya Nazyelensky,” he said, slowly. He did not offer, this time, to take her hand. “Of course.” He clapped once, and Zoya blinked hard. Smile in place, baton in hand. Like nothing had ever been there at all.
“Let’s begin, shall we? Mozart?”
Alina was right. About the conducting, that was, she wouldn’t know about the rest of it. He wasn't bad. He was less than not bad, in all honesty, but Zoya still couldn't bring herself to say the words ‘good’ even as Nikolai Lantsov stood on the podium and marked every mind-boggling rhythm and signature switch like it was nothing. Less than nothing. In Presto*. They’d finished the Mozart overture in thirty minutes and he was conducting the postmodern student piece in perfect time without breaking a sweat. Any idea she had that nepotism was what landed him on the podium had vanished about five minutes into rehearsal, replaced with an ever growing annoyance.
Everything about his manner appeared effortless, so effortless, in fact, that she was certain it was not. The conducting, the tenor like voice, the charm, even the way he dressed: Half unbuttoned white linen, khaki, deep blonde hair styled to look falsely windswept. It was an image, carefully calibrated, exactly the kind of thing she’d expect from a corporate legacy. But he was not a bad conductor. And that’s why Zoya couldn’t comprehend the way his crisp pseudo-British accent made her want to claw her skin off.
“Right!” Nikolai cued a cut and the orchestra fell into silence. She lowered her violin. From her seat onstage she could see Juris in the audience, nodding in what was absolutely unmistakable approval. Unmistakable approval. From Juris. Fucking hell.
“Good. Good. Thank you, fantastic start–” he turned to the stage wings, grinning brightly. “Tolya, my friend, this may actually be readable!”
The orchestra hummed with laughter. Tolya gave a weary thumbs up from the wings.
“Our composer approves. Right.” Nikolai rolled up his sleeves and thumbed through the score, baton in his teeth to free both hands when the pages stuck together. At least three of the girls behind her giggled, and one of them was definitely Genya. God.
“Mnh-kay.” He grabbed the baton. “Bar 24, first flute! Hi. Hello, Melissa, right?”
More giggling. “Yes, maestro.” the flautist managed to squeak out. She was redder in the face than usual. From her flute solo, which has been rather questionable. Or from staring too long at Nikolai Lantov’s sculpted forearms. Perhaps both.
“Please, call me Nikolai, Melissa. Beautiful solo. Excellent dynamics. I just need you to follow more through the ritardando in 25, if you could keep the pulse, or look at me then–“ Oh, could she look at him, Zoya thought, more like could she look away from him and count her actual notes— “Yes. Thank you. Can we approach that for Melissa, tutti, from– sorry, let's say, three bars before 24. One, two–”
They finish the Bataar fugue in an hour. An hour, for an eight minute modernization from hell that read just about as easily as hieroglyphics. She wouldn’t have faulted it taking up double the time. But he’d made it work, somehow, even after the fifteen minute talk show of an introduction. He was really, very good, and so incredibly annoying that when he’d gone ‘Alright, Scheherazade,’, she’d pulled out the piece so quickly she nearly hit her stand partner in the face.
“Sorry, David,” she muttered, but the violinist seemed too engrossed in studying the angle of his fingerboard to hear. The man on the podium had, of course, noticed, and thrown her a little half smile that only pissed her off further.
She didn’t know what she wanted, but whatever it was, she would find it in her solo**. Another crack in the charm, a misstep for her to catch. Or just the held air of the orchestra waiting for her to play, her space to command, her own brand of perfection. Zoya shifted impatiently as the Lantsov boy flipped leisurely through the score. He looked up. “To my understanding, the orchestra hasn't played this in its entirety ever before?”
A few nodded heads. He half smiled, half grimaced. “Okay. Thank you. Please, from the beginning, then. Just some things, uh– strings, please keep the atmosphere. Not too harsh, if we can aim for a true piano dynamic, thanks, and–”
Zoya straightened, lifted her violin sharply under her chin. Nikolai, still skimming the score, glanced at her briefly.
“-- Let's skip the solo for today, please, Miss Nazyelensky. If you don't mind. Rehearsal may fare better for it.”
Someone in the wind section snorted. The hall rang with quiet laughter.
She felt stiff, suddenly. “I’m sorry?”
He meant something, or nothing, by that remark, but she damn well could hear that the orchestra didn't take it that way. And yet Nikolai Lantsov prattled on like he hadn't heard her at all. Beside her, David Kotsyk pointed helpfully at her solo entrance.
“He says you are not going to be playing that,” David informed her. “And that it will make rehearsal better, when you don’t.”
“I heard,” she grit out. “Thank you, David.”
“You’re welcome, Zoya.”
And on and on it went. She hardly registered the half of what the Lantsov boy was saying, all of it clever, no doubt; musical and right and delivered with the air of an earl con stand-up comedian. Though she was too focused on breathing and sitting straight and biting her own tongue to notice more than the end of it.
“…Right, then at about rehearsal D, on the– well, the famous bit. You all see– right, if everyone could mark the decrescendo, circle it or something. I find that with other orchestras it tends not to happen. But that's other orchestras, of course. Not this one, I'm certain. Yes. That's all! From the top please, tutti, minus solo. Thank you, everyone. We'll run and then I'll end early and we'll all go for a break. Ah, you approve! I knew that sounded good. Please? One, and–”
“So,” Juris said, sounding unfairly amused, once the Scheherazade was finished and she found him waiting at the outdoor exit with an unlit cigar in hand. She could have sworn he was smirking.
“I don’t like him.”
“Oh for Chrissake, Zoya. Who do you want, Leonard Bernstein? Karajan’s reanimated corpse?”
“He wastes time. I sat there. Thirty minutes, playing nothing–”
“The fugue is performance ready. In an hour. That’s wasted time?”
“Would have been thirty if he didn’t spend half of it flirting and kissing ass.”
Juris pinched at the space between his brows. “Building rapport is not flirting.”
“He’s good,” she clarified, despite the prick at her pride, and Juris raised a brow. “He is. Prepared. But he entirely skipped the solo, whatever that meant, and excuse me if I prefer my rehearsals without wasted time and dramatics and sugar coated bul—Lantsov.”
His smile was perfectly unreadable. She suspected it would have been the same smile whether he'd heard her or not, and so she had no clue if he'd heard her or not. Not that she minded, either way, given she was halfway ready to say it to his face in front of the entire orchestra. “Miss Nazyelensky. I've been looking for you. Its about the Scheherazade.”
“Decent tempo,” Juris noted, in his usual offering of unsolicited feedback. “A little weak in the development but otherwise fair.”
Nikolai nodded , the picture of studious humility. “I’ll work on it, Professor.”
She bit down so hard she could hear her teeth.
His eyes were expressive, bright and crinkled ever so slightly with that manufactured smile. It read warm, open, but she knew better. It was an expression built to be read. He may not be the clueless fool she thought he was, but this crafting, this ridiculous curation that everyone else fell for headfirst— she knew men like that. If she had learned anything it was control like a knife: how to wield it, how to see it, how to watch it wielded and spare yourself from being cut. So she spoke now from that razor’s edge, a warning, if he knew to read it. That she knew this game and wouldn’t play it.
“You were looking for me,” she said, tart, trying to cut to the chase. “What for?”
“I’ve heard much about you,” said Nikolai, expression unchanging. “Stuff of legend, really, and I’m very grateful. To work with you.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I’m meandering. I think we’d both like to keep from wasting time, yes?”
Zoya stiffened, but Nikolai’s tone betrayed nothing, no intention of jest or ridicule, only a light chuckle that was as calculatedly natural as could be.
“I’m sorry to ask this, knowing the busy schedule, but given the state of things, I'd like to go over the part with you before tomorrow's rehearsal. Just us. I think we should come to an… agreement, musically. On the solo lines. Before we involve the rest of the orchestra.”
Compliments, propositions. A sugared bouquet and a dagger up a sleeve. Or something. Or nothing.
Zoya blinked. “Tomorrow. On the concert day.”
He shrugged. “Desperate times, as you know. I was only hired about... twelve hours ago.”
It wasn’t a bad idea. It was something she herself might have proposed. Much less civilly, likely, but nonetheless. But after that rehearsal, sitting in a practice room arguing her musical case to hell with Alina’s nepo genius Ken doll…
Zoya could see Juris out the corner of her eye, feigning deafness where he’d walked a few paces away as he held an unlit cigar to his mouth. She could practically hear his telepathic sermon through the air.
Saint’s sake.
“Fine.”
Nikolai blinked, and there it was: a hint of genuine surprise. A crack, a falter. So he hadn’t expected her to agree?
But it’s gone, as quickly as it had come, and he smiled wide and offered his hand to her once more. For the first time today, she took it. His palms, to her surprise, were rough: callouses and scars lay scattered over his hands. Not the musician’s kind on the fingertips, but the marks of use and hard labor. For the life of her, every new thing she learned of this unlikely maestro was as utterly befuddling as the last. “I’m grateful, truly, Miss Nazyelensky. 10 in the morning, if it suits you?”
“Actually, I have a lesson—“
“Cancelled,” called Juris as he walked back, looking very pleased and apparently tired of eavesdropping. “We’ll reschedule, Zoya. I hate to inform you so late—“
“Do you?” She muttered.
“— but seeing this is a good idea... well, thank you, Lantsov. For taking the time.”
“My honor, Professor. Miss—“
“Zoya.” She cut, tightly. Half the syllables. The less time he stood talking to her, the better. “Just Zoya.”
He seemed pleased. Though he always did, it was rather hard to tell. “As practical as they say. Zoya. Looking forward.”
He turned away, whistling the Mozart overture into the air, and Zoya was struck with the very distinct thought that one way or another, she was most certainly going to regret this.