The Orchestra - Sinfónia Lifsins - 54. Memories

I met Þorsteinn at the underground gay club where I used to do sex work. He looked like a Greek, or, well, Nordic god, with gleaming blond hair, scruffy beard, and chiselled arms. He had such energy, such a presence, that everyone turned to him when he walked into the room. He looked around the packed dance floor and chose me to be his partner. He held me close; he let me feel how his body was all muscle and no fat. He lifted me in the air like I was made of feathers. Between his beginner-level Russian, my awkward English, and tons of gestures, I learned he was from Iceland and came to Russia to explore the hidden gay scene. He only had one week left of his trip, and he wanted a guide to take him around Volgograd. I offered to be that guide. He took me to his hotel room to ‘consummate’ the agreement, and proved he was a god not just in looks, but in bed too.

I saw him every day after that. He was so perfect that, despite our language barrier, I feel in love with him by day three. He told me what a wonderful place Iceland was, how it was so accepting of gay people that they even had a lesbian Prime Minister. Iceland sounded like the perfect paradise, the sort of dream I didn’t dare imagine because it was so far from my reality. If only I could go there and be with the man I loved forever…

I told him about my feelings, and his reaction was everything I hoped for. “I love you too. I’ve been in love with you since I first saw you. I called you to dance so I could get to know you better.”

What lies those words were! But I believed them, because love made me blind, and because I yearned to live the perfect fairy tale with my godly lover.

We spent the next few days planning how to stay together. “Come with me to Iceland!” he said. “We’ll get married as soon as we arrive, and that will get you a visa to stay with me forever.”

I never thought I would marry anyone. Marriages, families… those were things straight people had, or at least men and women who pretended to be straight had. For me to fantasise about it was a waste of time. But when were counting down the days to leave Volgograd and start our life as a married couple, I realised how much I wanted that family life. I wanted children. I wanted to be the father of a lovely girl and a handsome boy, maybe twins. I would make sure my kids never had to hide who they were like I was still hiding from my parents. The four of us would be happy forever after.

The only person who wasn’t happy with my plans was my teacher. “Do you even know this man? You haven’t spoken two complete sentences to each other!” He put his hands on my shoulders, gently despite his harsh words. “Don’t throw your life away for a man you’ve known for less than a week. Can’t you see how foolish this is? Do you really want to give up everything you have because of a moment of passion?”

It wasn’t just a moment of passion. It was love, love I was sure Þorsteinn reciprocated. I introduced Þorsteinn to my teacher to prove my point, but he saw through my lover’s charm right away. He kept trying to make me stay until the last moment, when I hurled my suitcases though the front door while Þorsteinn waited in the car. “Please, Dmitri, listen to me. I’m more than twice your age, I’ve seen plenty of guys like him. He’ll show his true colours as soon as he knows you can’t escape him. That man doesn’t love you.”

Of course he did! How could my teacher be so blind to our love? I grabbed my suitcases and banged the door shut. For that moment, my anger made me forget the years my teacher had been my voice of reason. I hated him for daring to distrust Þorsteinn. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t thank him for being the person who turned my life around. I just left.

His last words stuck with me, though. And they would haunt me for the months to come.

I left Russia on 1^st April 2009, and entered Iceland on a three-month tourist visa. Þorsteinn had made me think we would get off the plane and rush into a church, but he took me to his flat instead. “I never said we would marry as soon as we arrived. Your excited mind is putting words in my mouth. If we marry too soon, the government will think we’re doing it just for your visa, and they won’t let you stay,” he said. “We have lots of time now. Let’s wait another month.” Did I misunderstand what he said about our marriage? As disappointing as it was, I agreed to wait.

“I don’t want you going out on your own. You don’t speak Icelandic, so it’s safer if you stay in the flat and only go out when I’m with you,” he told me as soon as he closed the door, before even showing me around. “You’ll be safe here. I love you so much I don’t know what I would do if anything bad happened to you.”

He must have known that as soon as he said the word ‘love’ I would agree to anything he wanted. His over-protectiveness was cute, made me think he really cared about me. So I stayed behind when he went to work, spent my days alone watching Icelandic television, playing oboe and drinking vodka. At least I learned some Icelandic this way. I tried to show off my new language skills to him when he came home, but he never shared my enthusiasm. “That’s all you got? It sucks. Don’t dare show it off in public. People will laugh at you and you’ll be disgraced. Now come suck something else.” He opened his fly, and I gladly did what he wanted. This ended up becoming our ritual for welcoming him home, and an appetiser for what we would do later in the bedroom. By the time I fell asleep in his arms, I was no longer hurt by his insults.

I only left the flat on weekends, when he took me sightseeing, held my hand in public and kissed me on the lips in full view of anyone passing by. We went to posh restaurants where he told me how much he loved me just as the waiter was bringing the most expensive wine. I felt so good about being able to have such an open relationship that the illusion of a perfect life clouded my vision.

I asked him about the wedding in May. “I’m taking care of everything. You don’t have to worry, it’s all going according to plan,” he said. I asked if I could go out more now that I knew some Icelandic, but he sent me a dirty look. “Your Icelandic is horrible. You’re not ready to brave the outside world. Stay home where it’s safe and where your loving husband takes care of everything for you.” I got so many butterflies of happiness at the ‘loving husband’ part that I wouldn’t have minded if he told me to jump off a cliff. Of course I would be a good partner to my loving husband and stay home all day like he wanted! Anything for my loving husband!

But the butterflies died after a few days. I was getting curious about my new home country, and I wanted to explore it. I wanted to show my Icelandic to others, even if Þorsteinn said it was horrible. I was glad he was being so zealous of my safety, ‘taking care of everything’ for me like he said, but if I went out and came back in one piece, surely he would be proud of me too, and let me get out more from then on.

So I took the spare keys and some change lying around the flat. The day was beautiful, the sun was shining, and I went for a walk, then into the first shop I saw. I greeted the cashier, made small talk, and bought a chocolate bar in Icelandic. The cashier praised my language skills and said that if I didn’t know how to say something in Icelandic, I could speak English and would still be understood. Þorsteinn had made it sound like Icelandic people only spoke Icelandic, but that cashier from a tiny shop made it clear most people understood English as well. My teacher’s words came back to me: ‘he’s going to show his true colours’. Þorsteinn lied to me about my ability to communicate with the outside world.

But did he, really? He didn’t say Icelandic people didn’t speak English. He said I couldn’t communicate with them. It wasn’t necessarily a lie, and my teacher could still be wrong. I told Þorsteinn about my little adventure when he got home, just to be sure. I thought he was going be so impressed that he would recognise his misjudgement and let me out of the house from then on, but I got angry shouting instead. “You disobeyed me! What did I tell you about going out? Why did you ignore my orders? Are you stupid or what? I work hard every day to keep you safe, but as soon as my back turns, you break my trust and run off with my money!”

I tried to explain that I just wanted to test my language skills, that I only got a small chocolate bar and it wasn’t expensive at all, and nothing bad happened. But he didn’t want to hear it. “You broke my trust. If you can’t follow a simple instruction, how can I be sure you love me as much as you say you do? I love you, Dmitri, and I would hate if anything bad happened to you. What I’m doing is for your own good. You need to trust me.”

He took the spare key with him when he left for work the next morning. “It’s for your own good.” I thought he was right, and I felt guilty that I had been so reckless and made him upset. He was questioning my love for him! I didn’t want him to think I didn’t love him anymore, have him call off the wedding, and send me back to Russia.

He was happy again after a few days of me doing my best to please him, but he never left a spare key behind again. I didn’t mind, because if that was what it took for him to trust me, then I was happy to do it. When we went out, he became jealous of any guy who looked at or tried to talk to me. “You’re mine, Dmitri. Those men can only hope they find a husband half as good as you.” That was all I wanted to hear. He still loved me, and he called me his husband. I couldn’t wait to make it official, so I asked him about our wedding again.

“I told you not to bother me about it!” he shouted in my face. “Stop putting pressure on me! I know what I’m doing. I’m already stressed because of work. Is it too much to ask to have a loving husband ready to pleasure me at home? Are you too incompetent to even do that? You have a very carefree life. The least you could do is trust me and do as I say.”

I apologised and promise I would never ask about the wedding again. He took me in his arms, kissed me. “Don’t forget I’m the only one who can keep you here. Without me, you’ll be sent back to that hellhole you came from. You’ll go back to hiding and living in fear.”

I begged him to never do that to me, but he laughed at my fear. “You think I’m being serious? You’re more of a gullible idiot than I thought.” He rolled his eyes. “I love you. If you really trust me, you should be able to tell when I’m messing with you.” He kissed me again. “You’re really fun to play with.”

He took me to the bedroom and fucked all the worries out of my mind. He placed gentle kisses all over my body until I felt safe and relaxed in his arms. “See, that’s how much I love you. Never forget. You trust me, don’t you?”

I said I did.

But June came along and I still knew nothing about our wedding. Everything else in the relationship was as perfect as it had ever been, and I did my best to do my husband duty and keep Þorsteinn happy. But my visa would expire at the end of the month. I wouldn’t stop worrying about it until we walked out of a church with wedding rings on our fingers. My teacher’s last words became an awful tune permanently stuck in my mind. Would he help me if I asked for advice? Þorsteinn made it clear that he didn’t want to hear my worries, so my teacher was the only other person I could turn to.

Þorsteinn’s flat had only one computer. I had never needed it until I thought of sending an email to my teacher, at which point I realised it was locked with a password I didn’t know, and Þorsteinn didn’t want to tell. “What do you want it for? To find other guys to fuck? You’re a cheap whore!” His words carried so much hatred they hit me like a punch in the face. The pain didn’t go away even as I told myself Þorsteinn knew nothing of my past, and so had no idea that this particular insult hurt more than others. “I’m the only one in your life now. I’m all you’ll ever need. Now come here and I’ll make sure you won’t think of other guys again.”

This was the first time I wasn’t keen on sex with him, but I couldn’t say ‘no’. He already thought I wanted to cheat on him, so what would he do if I said I wasn’t in the mood? Þorsteinn called me a cheap whore, and that was how I felt that night. I was back to being fourteen, to using my body to pleasure others regardless of how I felt. Only this time I wasn’t drunk enough to forget the worst parts.

Things changed after that. I still loved Þorsteinn, but a part of me began to fear him too. I needed to find a way to talk to my teacher. Even if I couldn’t use Þorsteinn’s computer, I could still call him on my phone. Or so I thought. I couldn’t find it in the flat. I had to ask Þorsteinn, even though I feared he would be angry again.

“What’s wrong with you? Of course your phone is with me, I thought it was obvious. You’re my husband. You have no business talking to other men.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m doing everything I can to give you a good life. I make love to you, I give you a safe house, food, and clean clothes. I don’t understand why you want to cheat on me, or why you question my love. I feel insulted that you doubt my dedication to you.” I felt sorry for him. He had done a lot for me. I should be grateful. He embraced me, made soothing motions on my back until I relaxed in his arms. “That’s better. You’re my husband, Dmitri. I’m the only one you need.”

We had another night of uncomfortable sex he called lovemaking. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I felt disgusting lying next to him. I was ashamed of my silence, of doubting him, of acting like the ‘cheap whore’ he despised. But what else could I do? I needed his love, if only to keep me in this country.

Those thoughts inevitably made me wonder about our wedding. My visa’s expiration loomed ever closer, but Þorsteinn didn’t give any signs that he cared. My last hope was that he was planning a surprise wedding and would take me to the church when I least expected. He loved me, after all. He turned out to be more jealous and possessive than I would’ve liked, but he loved me and I still loved him despite everything. My fear of him was nothing compared to my fear of returning to Russia. I could live with his flaws, I could work harder to make sure he didn’t get angry at me again, as long as I stayed in Iceland.

My passport disappeared too, but this time I didn’t dare ask him anything.

The next few days after that were the worst I had ever felt since arriving in Iceland. Dark thoughts lurked at the back of my mind, speaking in my teacher’s voice. ‘That man doesn’t love you’. No. Þorsteinn did. He had to. Why drag me all the way to Iceland otherwise? But then, why weren’t we married yet? Why wouldn’t he let me out of the house? Why hide my documents and take away my phone? He said it was because he liked me so much he was jealous of others. But that… that wasn’t right.

I couldn’t deal with all these doubts, with the growing terror in my heart. After Þorsteinn left that morning, I played oboe until my lips gave out, then drank myself into oblivion. He found me passed out on the couch. I had hoped he would get angry at me for being so irresponsible and demand I take better care of myself. I needed him to do that as proof that he cared. Instead, I woke up with Þorsteinn on top of me. I wore nothing but my shirt, and he was already making use of my naked lower body. “You’re finally awake. I thought I would have to finish up by myself.” He didn’t ask how I was. He didn’t ask why I had been unconscious. He just kept going, grunting and panting, but acting like I might as well still be asleep. His mess leaked out of me when he was done, but I was in too much pain to move or speak. My head exploded from the hangover, and his rough handling of my body meant I wouldn’t be sitting right for days. “You weren’t awake to do your husbandly duty when I got home, so I went ahead and got my stress relief anyway. You don’t mind that, do you? I know how much you like to pleasure me.” I couldn’t answer, but he took it to mean I agreed. He leaned over my body again, crashed his lips against mine, and pressed his hand on my neck. “You’re the perfect husband even in your sleep. I’m really glad you’re mine.” His hand pressed harder, until I couldn’t breathe, then let go.

The same thing happened every day for the rest of the week. I played the most complicated oboe pieces I knew to get my mind focused on something other than real life, and when that was no longer possible, I drank so much vodka the bottles piled up around the couch. I realised that the scene in front of me looked a lot like what I watched my father do every day of my childhood, but by that point I was so close to losing consciousness that I didn’t care. I woke up naked with Þorsteinn nearly finished with me. It always hurt. I never said anything. The next morning, the alcohol cabinet would be full again, and the cycle restarted.

I got used to it after a while. At the height of my drunkenness I even thought I wouldn’t mind living the rest of my days like this. As long as I didn’t have to face my fears, I could love Þorsteinn and be his perfect husband forever after.

But someone knocked on our door one evening when Þorsteinn had just finished his business with my semi-conscious body. He hid me in the bedroom, but I could still hear the conversation through the thin wall separating me from the entrance hall. “Hi, my name is Karen, nice to meet you. My grandma lives in the flat below yours.” I was too drunk to move, but not too wasted to understand her. “Grandma has been ill for the last few days, so I’ve been coming to take care of her. I always hear someone playing the oboe from here. Grandma said it’s only been a thing for the last few months, though. Is it you who plays it?” Karen’s voice was like heavenly music. I hadn’t heard a voice other than Þorsteinn’s in ages. And she was talking about my oboe playing. Somehow that gave me strength to get off the bed and find a decent pair of trousers. I came into the entrance hall with my head exploding in pain and the world spinning around me.

Þorsteinn didn’t notice me at first, though. “Is this something that bothers you?”

“No, not at all!” Karen’s eyes met mine, and she whistled. I wasn’t wearing a shirt. “It’s beautiful!” Was she talking about the music or me?

Þorsteinn turned around. “What are you doing here? Go back to bed!”

I told Karen I was the oboe player. Þorsteinn tried to force me back in the bedroom, but Karen asked me about the music, and we got a conversation going. He had to invite her in, and sat next to me on the couch with a possessive arm over my shoulder. He smiled pleasantly at Karen, but the more she spoke and praised me, the more that arm dug into my body.

Karen spoke to me in a mixture of English and Icelandic that I could follow even in my drunken state. She was impressed at how much Icelandic I knew, and thought I had been in the country for much longer than two-and-a-half months. Þorsteinn was nice and polite to her, but tried to keep control of the conversation and didn’t let me speak more than a few words at a time.

“I can’t believe how lucky I am to find you here,” Karen said after another round of praise. “I play flute for the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra, and we happen to be looking for a new Principal Oboe. We’ve already had two rounds of auditions, but none of the candidates were what we were looking for. So we’re kind of on the lookout for any good players we can find. Would you be interested in having an audition with us?”

I was going to say something about my lack of formal qualifications, but Þorsteinn beat me to it. “Dmitri isn’t a professional. He doesn’t have a degree or any music qualifications other than getting a few lessons with a guy in Russia. I don’t think he would be up for the job.”

“We won’t know until we try. We believe in hiring players who have potential, even if they haven’t got a fancy CV. I’ve been listening to Dmitri for a week, and I think he has a chance.”

Þorsteinn’s arm squeezed me until it hurt. “We’ll see about that.”

“Great! I’ll have our admin people send you a letter with information about the audition and a date. I look forward to seeing you there!”

The moment Karen mentioned the audition, my mind cleared in a way that hadn’t happened since before I met Þorsteinn. Industrial lightbulbs turned on above my head, gigantic gears clicked into place. All metaphors together weren’t enough to describe the moment I realised I could have a future beyond this flat. A career as a musician would give me money, social contacts, independence. I wouldn’t even need to marry Þorsteinn anymore if the work gave me a visa. Not that I didn’t want to get married, but at least I wouldn’t depend on Þorsteinn’s secret plans in order to stay in the country.

As soon as Karen was gone, though, Þorsteinn burst my enthusiasm. “You’re not going to any auditions. You’re not good enough, so it’s going to be a waste of their time and yours.”

I couldn’t argue with that. It hurt to say he was right.

But my mind refused to give up its excitement. I dreamed about my new future as a professional musician and I woke up convinced I should persuade Þorsteinn to let me have a shot at it. If he really loved me and wanted the best for me, he would realise that me getting a job here would be good for both of us. I spoke to him over breakfast, after a surprise blowjob to put him in a good mood.

“Audition? What are you talking about? Are you sure you didn’t dream it?”

How could that have been a dream? I reminded him of Karen’s visit, of her offer to get me a job at the ISO. Þorsteinn shook his head. “No, no, I don’t remember any of that. You were so wasted yesterday that you must have imagined it.”

Could he be right? I was so drunk I had passed out. It could’ve been a dream. I didn’t want to believe it, but Þorsteinn wasn’t going to lie to me. My eyes filled with water, and he enveloped me in his arms. “I know you were looking forward to it, but let’s be honest; you don’t have the talent for that job. You would get your hopes up and see them crushed by your own lack of skills. I don’t want you to suffer that kind of defeat. You don’t need a job as long as you have me. Come, my love, let me make you feel better.”

Þorsteinn and I had a quickie before he left for work.

I kept playing in Þorsteinn’s absence, but switched to sad tunes instead of the complicated ones. It was hard to believe I had dreamed everything about the audition. My mind had been so clear, I felt so optimistic… But Þorsteinn had a point. What professional orchestra would hire someone like me? I had only been playing for six years. Proper musicians would’ve been going for more than twice that at my age. I had never been to a music school, never had any kind of exam. I didn’t even know what auditions were supposed to be like.

I wanted to drink enough vodka to leave me asleep for the rest of the month, but I was so depressed I couldn’t muster the energy to open the first bottle. I lay on the couch as if I was drunk and closed my eyes. Images of a dreamy future with me playing for an orchestra and Þorsteinn going to all my concerts rolled like a cheesy movie. My eyes swelled with tears, but remained shut. After a while I heard the front door open and the sound of glass bottles clunking on the floor. “You didn’t drink today?” Þorsteinn sat next to me. I pretended to be asleep. I didn’t want to open my eyes and face reality. Þorsteinn took my clothes off. I kept my body limp, let him do as he pleased. I was there to pleasure him, after all. His body was heavy on top of me, and the zipper on his jacket hurt my bare skin. He didn’t bother to dress me again or cover me up when he was done. He didn’t even care that I hadn’t ‘woken up’ in the middle of it.

And yet, I still dreamed of him standing proudly at my concerts, telling everyone next to him that his partner was the best oboe player in the world.

Someone knocked on the door a few days later. I dropped the vodka bottle I was trying to open. How was I going to get the door if I didn’t have a key? Was I allowed to? I couldn’t even pretend to not be home because I had just finished playing for the day, so whoever knocked would’ve heard me.

I shouted that I was having problems with the key and tried to open the door with a paperclip. It took so long that I expected the person to get bored and give up, but Karen was still there, smiling and holding a pile of music books. “I got your audition letter!” she said, and let herself in. “I convinced the admin people to let me deliver it personally because it would be quicker than via post.” She dropped the music books on the table next to my four bottles of vodka. “That’s a lot of booze! Are you having a party later?” She didn’t give me time to answer. “Anyway, I figured you wouldn’t know where to get the music for your audition since you’re so new to the country, so I brought them too. Read the letter, see if you understand everything, and if you can make it on the date we gave you.”

Karen handed me a letter in English. The ISO offered me an audition next Monday, two days before my visa expired. I could make it. She smiled, thanked me, and explained the whole audition process. “We haven’t had a Principal Oboe for so long that we’ll do anything to help you give it your best shot.” Karen raised her eyebrows in the same way I did when I wanted someone to join me in bed within the next five minutes. “Also, I really like you. I would love to have you sitting next to me every day for the next thirty years.” She winked. I laughed and told her it would be my pleasure too. Her hand brushed my ass as she made her way out of the flat.

Once Karen left, I stood in the living room looking at my new pile of books. I still held the audition letter in my hands, though it had become damp from sweat where I touched it. I hadn’t had anything to drink yet, so I couldn’t be dreaming this. Karen was real. The audition was real.

Þorsteinn lied to me. Why would he want to make me think I had imagined the whole thing? He said he wanted to protect me from disappointment. But I hadn’t yearned for something this much since I learned I could get married in Iceland. I needed to go to this audition. If Þorsteinn was right about me not being good enough, I would at least have given it my best shot. And if I got the job… He would be happy for me, wouldn’t he?

I hid the music books and the letter before Þorsteinn got home. If he lied about the audition’s existence, he would never let me go to it. But I worried so much about keeping the music out of sight that I forgot the front door was still unlocked. I heard Þorsteinn’s angry shouting before I saw him come into the living room. “What’s the meaning of this? Where did you go? Who did you fuck? Give me the fucker’s name and I’ll make sure he never gets near you again!”

I tried to tell him I hadn’t gone anywhere, but he didn’t believe me. “Was it more than one guy, then? You’re a fucking whore!” He grabbed a bottle from the table. I thought he was going to hit me with it, but he took a long gulp instead. “Strip now. I want to see proof of what these men did to you.”

I swore to him that I hadn’t done anything as I took my clothes off. My whole body shook under his angry stare. Þorsteinn made me get on all fours on the couch, his cold hands spread my ass cheeks, and he slid two fingers in without lubrication. He examined every bit of my body for marks, but not finding them made him even angrier.

“So you were the top? Are you tired of being the bottom? Is that your problem?” His hand grabbed the back my neck. “My husband doesn’t top anyone. You’re my fuck-toy. Only I have a say on what you do with your body. Otherwise, how can I make sure you’re taking care of it properly?” His other hand fingered my arsehole again. “I’m going to teach you a lesson you better not forget. If I catch you slipping out again, the next lesson will be given by the police in a detention centre. Your visa is expiring soon, isn’t it? I’m sure the cops will love the chance to get rid of an illegal immigrant.”

I wanted to ask Þorsteinn what he meant, but the words died in my throat. Did he want to let my visa expire? ‘He will show his true colours.’ Was that what he was planning by delaying our marriage? ‘That man doesn’t love you.’ Þorsteinn grinned and took me to the bedroom by the hairs on the back of my neck. He cuffed me to the bedpost facing down and dropped his whole body weight on me. He bit my neck, jaw, and ear. “I love you, Dmitri. But love comes with responsibilities. It’s my duty to punish you for disobeying my orders.” He got up. “Put your arse in the air. If you miss being a whore so badly, I’m going to treat you like one.”

Out of shock I did as he ordered. “Yes, I know about your past. It was the first thing I learned when I arrived in Volgograd.” Three lubricated fingers slid inside me. He added another finger, stretched me until I couldn’t keep from crying out. He took his hand away and grabbed my neck instead, holding me down until I couldn’t breathe. “You had a reputation as the best whore in town, so I made a point of looking for you on that dance floor. You didn’t think I came to you by chance, did you?” His free hand shoved something cold, hard, and way too big into my arse. I didn’t have enough air to scream. “You’re not even good looking; I would’ve never noticed you if I didn’t know what to look for.” He pushed the thing further in. “But don’t get me wrong, I still love you. I love messing with you.” He let go of my neck just as I was about to pass out, but stuffed his smelly underwear in my mouth so I wouldn’t scream. “I love to keep dirty whores like you under control. We have the rest of our lives for you to learn your place.”

Only once the “punishment” was over did I realise he had been fucking me with a vodka bottle. He didn’t help me clean up the bloody mess, nor did he hold me in the shower when I could barely stand from the pain and shaky legs. I cried myself to sleep, feeling used and violated in a way that had never happened when I had sex for money. Eventually I dreamed of my audition, of finding my own place to live, and of Þorsteinn not coming to my concerts.

He acted like nothing had happened the next morning. He expected me to give him a blowjob for breakfast and demanded passionate goodbye kisses before he left for work. When he came back, he didn’t say anything about me drinking less than half a bottle for the whole day, but fucked me on the couch as if I had passed out. Only at night, when we were in bed and he pulled me for cuddles, did he acknowledge that his ‘lesson’ had happened at all. “You know I was just messing with you yesterday, don’t you? You’re the love of my life, whore or not, and I would hate to see you deported. I’m going to keep you safe.”

I would’ve given anything to believe him. I wanted our perfect loving relationship back to what it was. But his words rang hollow this time. Even if he did love me, why didn’t he tell me he knew about my past? Why use it to hurt me? How could he threaten me with deportation just to ‘mess with me’ when he knew how scared I was of going back to Russia? The Þorsteinn I fell in love with wasn’t this heartless monster.

If it wasn’t for the audition looming around the corner, I would’ve given us another chance. I would’ve forgiven Þorsteinn, and worked hard to keep his monstrous side from showing up again. I still loved him, or at least that part of him that promised me a family in paradise land. If not for the audition, I would’ve endured anything to keep that family together.

But the audition held the promise of a different future, one I could build for myself in this same paradise land. I wouldn’t depend on Þorsteinn for anything. If I kept him in my life at all, it would be on equal terms. And I would have a career that would make my teacher proud. I could use my new job to approach him again, apologise for not believing his warning, and rebuild our relationship.

My future depended on this audition. I didn’t want to find out if Þorsteinn was ‘messing with me’ with his threat of giving me to the police. So I practiced every day when I was alone. I played until my lips gave out, and then worked on finger movements. I memorised all the material Karen gave me. I drank as little as my addiction could stand, but Þorsteinn never commented on it as long as he could fuck me first thing after getting home.

On the morning of the audition, I told Þorsteinn I loved him. We made out on the breakfast table and kissed for about half a minute at the door. “I love you too, Dmitri” were his last words to me. I cried after he locked me in the flat. Our last morning together had been full of love and caring, the way it should’ve always been. At least my last memories of him were happy ones.

I cried as I packed my things too. I didn’t have money, my phone, or any documents. But I knew once I unlocked that door, I wouldn’t be able to come back. Not that I knew where I was going after the audition. I couldn’t plan that far. I put a change of clothes, food, water, a vodka bottle, and condoms in my old backpack. Karen’s music went in a separate carrying bag on my right hand, and I took my oboe in my left. I looked around the tiny flat for the last time, shushing away the bad memories and remembering the lovely times I had with Þorsteinn. I would miss this place, despite everything. I shut the door behind me and almost regretted my choice to leave, but the music sheets and the oboe weighted in my hands. It was too late to change my mind.

I didn’t know how to get to the audition place, and I didn’t have money for public transport. This was before the Harpa was built, when the ISO’s home was at the Háskólabío. I figured I would ask people on the street for directions and eventually walk into it. I had no idea how long it would take, how far the place was, or even if I could get there by walking. The audition was scheduled for four o’clock, but I left the flat before lunch to make sure I had plenty of time. I thought Reykjavík, being Iceland’s capital, would be a huge city where I could easily get lost. When the first person I asked told me I was looking for a building about ten minutes away, easily findable if I walked in a straight line, I thought I misunderstood the directions. I asked three more people, and they all said the same thing. So I kept walking in that direction, kept asking people who told me to continue walking that way, and I still didn’t believe them until I stumbled upon a huge building with the words Háskólabío stamped across its white façade.

I learned later that Reykjavík was ten times smaller than Volgograd. But back then I knew nothing about Iceland other than how great it was for gay people. Þorsteinn only told me enough to convince me this was the best place on Earth. He kept me in the dark about everything else. This realisation strengthened the small voice in my head that told me I was doing the right thing in leaving, but made the loss of my perfect love and family life all the more painful.

The audition started at four o’clock sharp. The stage seemed so vast and empty when I walked onto it, and the eighty people looking at me from the first few rows of seats made me feel naked and exposed. Arnar introduced himself, thanked me for coming, and confirmed that Karen had explained the audition process to me. I did my best to speak Icelandic with him, but my nerves made me forget even words in Russian.

I was never so glad to play and not have to speak. I played with my life on the line, with my heart flooded by anxiety. The pain of leaving a life of unfulfilled promises clashed with the hope that something better would come out of it. Despair battled optimism in every note, every breath, and made me cry before the end of my first piece.

“Are you ok?” Arnar asked. “Do you need a break?” Nobody in the orchestra made a sound. Were they even breathing? Or were they dummies put there to intimidate me? I told Arnar I had to carry on. “No, please, have a rest. We won’t mind. You seem quite emotional, and we want to make sure you give us your best.” Arnar showed more compassion to me in those few seconds than Þorsteinn did in the last month. This realisation sent me into a wave of sobs that took an eternity to pass. I showed these eighty strangers a level of vulnerability that surely nobody wanted to see in their work colleague. But they waited for me, and I carried on after reassuring everyone that I couldn’t get any more ready than I already was.

Arnar brought out the scores for the sight-reading part of the audition, and took the opportunity to whisper close to my ear. “Is something upsetting you? If you need us to postpone the audition until you’re feeling better…” I begged him to not do it. I couldn’t say it was because I sacrificed everything for this, but he looked at me with a new kind of understanding from then on. I was at the limit of my emotional capacity. This part of the audition didn’t go as well as I hoped, because I didn’t have enough energy left to concentrate on playing complicated music I had never seen before with only a minute to prepare. My lack of audition experience meant I had no idea whether this was the end of my ambitions, or if I still had a chance. Arnar thanked me for coming and escorted me to the Háskólabío’s main entrance. “Where are you going now?” he asked. I had no idea. The audition took longer than it should have because of my breakdown. Þorsteinn would’ve been home for more than half an hour. Was he angry at me? Sad? Did he even care that I left?

“Do you want a lift home?”

Why did Arnar care so much? He didn’t even know me. “Thanks, I…” If only I had a home to go to. “I…”

Arnar grabbed me just as my legs lost the ability to hold my weight. My face fell on his shoulder, and his arms closed around me, awkwardly at first, but strong and reassuring once another wave of tears and sobs forced its way out of my body.

“What happened? Is there anything I can help you with? Come, let’s go somewhere quieter.” Arnar took me inside again, to a secluded corner that gave us reasonable privacy.

“I’m sorry. I did… it’s complicated. I don’t want to bother you.”

“Don’t worry about it. If there’s anything I can do to help…” Arnar put his hands firmly on my shoulders, making me look at him. “The way you played today reminded me of someone I know who is really dear to me. He has been through things I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. I got the same vibes from you.”

This was all the encouragement I needed to tell Arnar everything. I took ages between crying, sobbing, and not finding the rights words in English or Icelandic. I told him Þorsteinn threatened to take me to the police if I returned home, that I didn’t have a place to sleep, and that I was willing to do anything to stay in the country after that. Arnar listened patiently, never interrupted, and held me when the weight of my feelings became too big a burden to carry alone.

“I can offer you my couch until we decide on the outcome of your audition. What your partner did to you doesn’t sound lawful. There must be something we can do about it. It could even help to keep you in the country.”

“Thank you! Thank you! You saved my life!” I wasn’t exaggerating. What were the chances that someone who had known me for a few hours would show such kindness?

He watched my happy explosion with sad eyes. “I’m sorry you’re going through this. You seem like a good guy, and you’re definitely a good musician. Thank you for trusting me with your story. I’ll help you as much as I can.”

I cried happy, relieved tears in Arnar’s car. The ride was short, but I was so drained by everything that I struggled to walk through his front door. “Welcome to my home. Please make yourself comfortable and get some rest. We’ll think of what to do once you feel better.”

I dragged my body to the couch in the middle of his huge open ground floor. It faced the TV and many types of old music players, with the kitchen and dining area behind it. I heard a faint cello melody that I thought was coming from one of the music players, but Arnar proudly corrected me. “It’s my son, Siggi. He’s playing in the music room upstairs.”

“Your son plays really well. Is he a pro like you?” Siggi’s music helped me calm down. I vaguely recognised it as a baroque piece, probably Vivaldi, but couldn’t guess exactly what it was.

“No, he just turned sixteen. Though… Would you mind telling him you think he sounds like a pro? He has a few issues with self-confidence that I’m trying to help him overcome.”

“Sure. He’s good. And he’s four years younger than me! I wish I had his talent.”

“You speak like you aren’t a good musician yourself.” Arnar sat next to me on the couch.

“Not that good. Þorsteinn said my audition would be a waste of time for everyone.”

“And yet, you still came to us. Are you sure you think you aren’t good enough?” Arnar stared at me in the eyes. Þorsteinn had never looked this gentle. “I can’t speak for the whole orchestra, and I can’t decide who we hire on my own, but if it depended on me, I would’ve called you for at least a few test concerts. Your emotional state may have affected your accuracy today, but it gave us an insight into the kind of person you are.”

“You mean it?” My eyes filled with water again, but Arnar smiled. The cello music stopped.

“As I said, I can only speak for myself, but I do think you’re better than you give yourself credit for.”

I couldn’t answer that in any coherent language, but Siggi’s arrival downstairs meant I didn’t have to. “Who’s this?” he asked, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and throwing daggers at me with his eyes.

“Siggi, meet Dmitri. He’s the oboist who auditioned today. Dmitri, this is my son Siggi.”

I tried to smile, but Siggi’s scowl discouraged me. At sixteen he was shorter than me, and his hair was shoulder-length and still its natural blond colour. If Arnar hadn’t told me his age, I would’ve guessed he was twelve at most. “Nice to meet you.”

“What’s he doing here? Have you hired him already?” Siggi refused to approach us, and flinched when I stood up.

Arnar stood too. “Dmitri is going through some very difficult times, so I invited him to stay with us until things get better.”

“You what?”

“Calm down, Siggi, and listen to me.” Arnar walked towards his son, but Siggi’s posture didn’t relax. “Dmitri had to run away from home because his partner did horrible things to him. He hasn’t got a place to stay, and he doesn’t feel safe anywhere. Can he stay here for a while?”

Siggi looked from Arnar to me with wide open eyes. He bit his lip, and stared at me until I became uncomfortable. His shoulders sagged and he averted his eyes. His voice came like an apologetic whisper. “He can stay.”

“Thank you, Siggi, I really appreciate that.”

Siggi headed upstairs without looking at me. I didn’t see him again until dinner time, when I felt his eyes on me throughout the meal, though he always turned away when I stared back. His food was like a blander version of everybody else’s, but I didn’t want to ask questions and risk offending him further. I offered to clean up at the end, but Arnar told me not to worry about it and sent me to rest on the couch while he and his wife organised the kitchen. I did as I was told, but I didn’t expect Siggi to follow. He stood in front of the couch, looking down on me with his arms crossed over his chest.

“You’re running away?” He asked after a minute of intense staring.

“Yes.”

“Your partner hurt you?”

“Sort of.”

Siggi bit his lip. He glanced at Arnar washing the dishes, and stared at me for another uncomfortable minute. “Are you scared?”

“You have no idea.”

“I do.” Siggi seemed as surprised by his words as I was. “I know.” He lifted the hair on the back of his head until I could see a thin, red scar as long as my pinkie finger.

“Who did this to you?”

“My father.”

I turned towards Arnar. Was this Siggi’s way of warning me I had fallen into a trap?

“Not that one. My biological father.” Siggi said that word with such disgust that I immediately understood his situation. “I ran from him last year.” Siggi’s arms dropped by his sides and he moved towards the couch, but changed his mind at the last second and kept his distance.

“That’s when you came to live with Arnar?”

Siggi nodded. He kept chewing his lower lip, staring at me like I was an exhibit in a museum. The silence was too uncomfortable.

“You’re a great cellist. I asked Arnar if you were a pro when I heard you earlier.”

“I’m not good. I’m a failure at everything. You’re lying to be nice to me.”

“No, I’m not! I mean it!” I smiled at Siggi, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. “Why do you think you’re not good?”

“Because I’m not. I’ll never be good enough. I’m a waste of everyone’s time.”

“My partner told me a similar thing. He didn’t want me coming to the audition today.”

Siggi looked at anywhere but me. “You came anyway.”

“Yes. That’s why I can’t go back. I risked everything at that audition, and I don’t have a backup plan. I can only hope that whatever happens from now on is better than if I had stayed.”

Siggi’s body became so stiff I feared he had stopped breathing. I considered calling Arnar, but Siggi recovered after a few seconds. “That’s what… that’s what I thought back then.” Siggi’s eyes were on me, but he wasn’t staring like before. He looked like he was seeing something completely different.

I heard footsteps behind us, followed by Arnar’s voice much closer than the kitchen. “I think Siggi is surprised he found someone he can relate to.” Arnar approached his son and put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t know what to do now, do you?” Siggi shook his head. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Do you want to tell him your story? Ask more questions? He’s not going to hurt you or get angry.”

“No, I won’t.” Shouldn’t that have been obvious?

Arnar hugged him from behind and turned to me. “Siggi is very good at detecting people’s anger, but he’s still learning what to do when people aren’t angry around him.”

“I’m a failure.”

“No, you’re not.” Arnar tightened the hug. “You didn’t have a chance to learn before. That’s different, and not your fault.” He turned to me again. “Tomorrow morning the orchestra will have a meeting to decide on the outcome of your audition. You’re welcome to wait here with Ágústa and Siggi, and then we can see what to do once we make a decision. We should report your partner to the police either way, but we might be able to get you additional help as an employee. How does that sound?”

“That’s great. You’re doing so much for me…”

“I’m doing what I can.”

Despite Arnar’s kindness, sleep didn’t come easy that night. Þorsteinn’s threats echoed in my mind until they turned into a nightmare of the police invading our flat to take me away. Just as three burly guys hurled me through the front door, though, a calming cello melody dissolved the nightmare. It took some time for me to realise Siggi was playing at three in the morning. His parents weren’t doing anything to stop him, though they must have heard it from their room if I could hear it from the floor below.

I knocked on the music room’s door, but Siggi didn’t answer. I thought he hadn’t heard me, so I went in. He took a while to notice me even then, but put on an angry face as soon as he did. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask. Why are you playing so late?”

Siggi’s hard stare lingered for a few moments before he allowed his body to relax. “I had a nightmare. I play to make it go away.”

“I had a nightmare too, but your music took me out of it.”

“A nightmare about your partner?”

“Yes.”

Siggi didn’t speak or look at me for a while. When he finally opened his mouth, his words came in a whisper I couldn’t understand. I had to ask Siggi to repeat it twice more, until he finally made it loud enough. By then his face was red, and he made a point of looking at his cello rather than me. “I asked if you want to play with me.”

“Won’t your parents mind?” How were they sleeping through all this anyway?

“Arnar was the one who told me to play when I can’t sleep.”

“You have a lot of nightmares?”

“Not so much anymore.”

“You had them a lot before?”

Siggi plucked his cello’s lowest string a few times. “Yeah.”

“Are they about your biological father?”

He plucked the string again, louder. “Yeah.”

“Well, if playing helps you feel better, I guess I can try it too.” I smiled, but Siggi wasn’t looking at me. “Thanks for letting me play with you.”

Siggi didn’t give any indication that he heard my answer, so I hurried to get my oboe and join him in something that didn’t require words. The sun was beginning to rise in the horizon when we started playing at quarter past three in the morning. I watched it through the glass door to the balcony, feeling more reassured and hopeful even as the sun’s rays burned my retina and made me see black spots everywhere. The light of a new day was the cheesy metaphor I needed for the dawn of my new life. Siggi and I played random things that lifted my mood and helped me forget that my future would be decided in just a few hours.

Siggi called an end to our playing session at four in the morning. The aggressive air around him was gone, and a shadow of a smile danced on his lips when he turned to me. “You’re good. They should hire you.”

“Thank you, Siggi. I’m feeling a lot better now, though I don’t how long that’s going to last.”

“I…” Siggi bit his lip and looked away.

“Do you want to tell me something?”

“Just because I want it doesn’t mean I can.” His face turned red. “I’m such a ridiculous failure I can’t even talk to people. I can’t… I can’t find the words.”

I waited for Siggi to say more, but he turned his attention to a random spot on the fluffy carpet. His words didn’t make sense to me. Was it a language barrier? “So you want to say something? What is it about? Maybe it helps to think that way?”

“It’s about… it’s about you. The things you said about your partner; they’re like the things I think about my father. It makes me feel weird. I don’t like it, but… but I don’t want you to go away.”

“Do you want to talk to me about your father?”

Siggi considered my question for a while. “Only if you talk about your partner.”

My chest tightened at the thought of opening wounds still so raw, but one look at Siggi made it clear he felt the same way. That awkward connection helped me share with him things I couldn’t tell Arnar, and he trusted me with the worst details of his father’s abuse. I didn’t know at the time that it had taken him a whole year to trust Arnar on that level, or that he had opened up to his foster father merely two weeks earlier. Maybe that was what made it easier for Siggi to confide in me so quickly. We were still talking at five in the morning when Arnar came to check on us.

“I’m glad to see you’ve made a new friend, Siggi.”

That was the first time I saw Siggi smile. It lasted a second before he did his usual ‘bite-the-lip-and-look-away’ thing, but a smile it was. I smiled at him too.

Siggi might not have been able to express his feelings in words, but he still tried to make me feel better in his own awkward way. As soon as Arnar was gone to the ISO’s meeting, Siggi dragged me to the music room to distract me from my anxiety. He didn’t say that was his plan, and I couldn’t be sure if he consciously realised that was what he was doing, but it worked. While we played together, I saw a Siggi who was relaxed, confident, and happy. He wasn’t awkward around his cello, didn’t have trouble expressing his feelings through the music. And so, for the first time, he made me feel welcome and wanted around him. I felt him reaching out to me, letting me know that yes, he wanted to be my friend. All the words he couldn’t say before were there, laid out in beautiful melodies and thoughtful harmonies. I didn’t expect this kind of connection with him, but knowing that I had this support made the wait for the ISO’s decision much more bearable.

Arnar came back at lunch time. His wide smile told me all I needed to know before he spoke. “We’ve decided to give you a temporary contract. I didn’t tell anyone about your personal problems, but the orchestra thinks you’re the right kind of person for us. Karen is particularly delighted. I said I would contact you and ask you to come sign your contract after lunch. When we get there, we’ll tell Gummi about your situation, and we’ll see what we can do to help you out of it.”

I refused to believe this was happening until I sat in front of Gummi and the other ISO’s bosses with my contract in hand. I didn’t care about salary, work hours, instrument insurance, or pension scheme. I would’ve signed anything as long as I could be sure the job was mine and gave me the right to stay in Iceland. The only problem was that the bosses wanted to see my documents before they let me sign anything.

“Dmitri is not in possession of his passport, and the reason for this is something we would like to discuss with you.” Arnar told my story to the rest of the room. I let him do the talking and I trusted him to say the right things, even though I didn’t understand most of the words he used. Gummi looked increasingly worried as the tale unravelled.

“Go to the police. Your visa expires tomorrow, so you’re still in your right to stay here. Our lawyers aren’t immigration specialists, but I’m sure they know someone who can advise us on what to do about your work status. We’ll do what we can.”

Gummi had a few words with the ISO’s lawyers, who contacted other lawyers, who then got back to Gummi. Two hours later, following their advice, Arnar and Gummi took me to a police station to report Þorsteinn. They searched Þorsteinn’s flat and found my phone and passport under his possessions, which they considered enough evidence to arrest him on human trafficking charges. They charged him with domestic violence, rape, and forced imprisonment too. Those were big, scary words to hold against someone I still loved despite everything.

The lawyers had warned me that Þorsteinn would be put on trial, and I would have to tell my story in a room full of people who would have to believe me in order to convict him of anything. They said it would be a long, painful, and tiring process. So I prepared to face my lover in court, to bury the feelings I still had for him, and to think of him as an enemy. But Þorsteinn pled guilty to all charges in exchange for a shorter sentence and never went on trial. I never saw him again.

But would I want to?

I wanted to know if he truly loved me. I wanted to know why he decided not to fight me in court. But I could never ask him that. I would die if I heard his voice saying he never felt anything for me, that he used me because my love made me an easy target. I would rather hold on to my belief that Þorsteinn’s love was genuine, and that he pled guilty because he realised his mistake and wanted to make amends. His last words to me were “I love you.” I chose to believe they were true.

And so I swore to never love again, to never become this vulnerable and give someone the power to destroy my life. My dream of the perfect family life died with that promise. But I got a new kind of family in the ISO, and I rebuilt my relationship with my teacher.

Karen felt so guilty she didn’t notice the signs of Þorsteinn’s abuse (so obvious in hindsight) that she made a special effort to get to know me and help me navigate life in my new country. She and Gísli were housemates since they started university, but their tiny flat had become too small for their lives as established professionals. So they invited me to move with them into a bigger house that I helped choose too.

Siggi came to live with us a year later, when he got his job at the ISO. By then he was already much more than a best friend to me. The tragedies of our pasts brought us together. We shared things nobody else understood, and that made our friendship more special than anything I had experienced before.

None of this would’ve happened if Þorsteinn hadn’t brought me to Iceland. I lost so much because of him, but I gained even more in the end. Beyond my new family, my new best friend, I found love again. And I found it in someone who’s safe, who will never hurt me. I fell for someone who won’t let history repeat itself, who will respect me and cherish my company even though he doesn’t love me back.

I couldn’t have asked for anything better.