— Elena Viktorovna, let’s be honest. All you do at that music school is press buttons. You just torture kids. Real life happens here! Business, hustle, market know-how!
My son-in-law Vadim lounged back in his chair, swirling a fat wine glass in his hand. He’s thirty-one, wears blazers that strain at every breath, and sees himself as a restaurant tycoon.
In reality, his so-called ’empire’ is just fifteen tables on the ground floor of a sleepy residential building, serving beet ‘defloppe’ and calling croutons ‘artisan craft toasts’.
My husband Andrey and I came for a family dinner celebrating a ‘rebranding.’ Vadim had painted the walls from green to gray and decided his place was now a premium establishment.
— So you really think Bach and Mozart is just pressing a few buttons? — I asked politely, carefully pushing away a plate of something that looked suspiciously like builder’s foam sprinkled with dill.
— Well, what’s so hard about it? — Vadim snorted, giving me a patronizing look. — Just sit and wiggle your fingers. Like they say: those who can, do business. Those who can’t, teach. No offense, Elena Viktorovna. You’re a good woman, but you’ve never tasted real grit.
He gestured toward the corner of the room.
— Why don’t you go over there and show us what you can do? There’s the piano right there!
There it was, a white baby grand tucked awkwardly next to a pot with an artificial ficus tree, clearly left from a previous, less successful tenant.
My daughter Masha, sitting beside her husband, squeaked nervously:
— Vadik, why are you doing this? Mom’s tired, she had six lessons today…
— Mashunya, let the generations have their talk! — Vadim waved her off. — I just want to see some class. Maybe your mother-in-law can barely play scales, and here we are acting impressed. Bet she can’t even get the crowd going!
My husband Andrey, an electrical engineer with twenty years of experience, finally managed to fish out the only piece of meat from his salad. He popped it in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and remarked:
— That’s a bad idea, Vadik. Trust me, I’d apologize now and order us some hot food.
But Vadim was on a roll. He was sure of his charm and that this ordinary school teacher would soon start making excuses and acknowledge his greatness as a restaurateur.
I calmly folded my napkin. I didn’t feel offended or angry — just the icy, liquid-nitrogen thrill of competition. In every situation, you have to be the wolf. And if someone is full of their own importance, there’s no reason not to show them a slice of reality.
— Why not, Vadim, — I looked him straight in the eyes. — I’d be happy to play.
I stood up from the table, adjusted my skirt, and walked toward the piano without hurrying.
The room was half full. People were munching on their fancy croutons and chatting lazily.
A thin layer of dust covered the piano lid. I ran my fingers across the keys. The instrument was a little out of tune in the upper register, but overall, it was working.
I sat down, straightened my back, and rested my hands on my knees.
I paused, waiting for the conversations at the neighboring tables to quiet down — a habit shaped by decades of academic concerts.
And then I struck the keys.
I didn’t play Mozart. I didn’t play Bach. Instead, I unleashed a wild jazz arrangement of “Flight of the Bumblebee” at a breakneck speed on that pretentious hall.
My fingers flew so fast they became a blur. Chords crashed down without mercy. I poured everything into that performance: the construction foam in my plate, my brother-in-law’s tight blazers, his endless business talks. The grand piano roared, groaned, and vibrated, spewing a waterfall of sounds into the room.
When I hit the final chord—powerful as the clash of a gong—and tore my hands off the keyboard, all conversation in the restaurant abruptly died; even the clinking glasses went silent. You could hear someone drop a fork on the floor.
And then the room exploded. People clapped and whistled, and some bald man by the corner table shouted, “Bravo!”
I stood up, gave a restrained bow—just like I was taught at the conservatory—closed the piano lid, and gracefully returned to our table.
Vadim just sat there, completely stunned, staring at me with wide eyes.
“Well? How was that, businessman?” I asked sweetly. “Am I pressing the buttons fast enough for you?”
“Th-that… That was incredible,” he stammered, blinking in shock.
Then suddenly, he perked up and rubbed his hands together, looking like a merchant who just sniffed out something for free.
“Super! Elena Viktorovna, I never doubted you! Now get back over there. There are still three hours until closing. Play something light, background music. The crowd is warmed up—cocktails will start flowing now!”
I sat down slowly. Looked at my husband. Andrei just smirked and poured himself more mineral water.
“Vadim, I think you missed the point,” I said calmly. “My concert is over. I came here to have dinner.”
“Dinner?” my brother-in-law threw up his hands. “You were a sensation! People are waiting! You have to play! Plus, we’ve already put this all over the ads.”
“What ads?” My voice went soft and gentle.
Whenever Andrei hears that tone, he usually stops chewing and starts looking for an exit.
Vadim snapped his fingers triumphantly and called over the administrator—a tired, middle-aged woman named Zinaida.
“Zinochka, bring us our new promo materials!”
Zinaida hurried to the bar and brought back a glossy A5 flier. Vadim, with a magician’s flourish, laid it out in front of me.
There was my photo on the flyer—the same one Masha took at the dacha last summer, except someone had pasted me next to some gold candelabra. In bold letters over my face it read: “LIVE MUSIC! EVERY SATURDAY! MAESTRO ELENA AND HER MAGICAL FINGERS! ENTRY — 500 RUBLES!”
I stared silently at the paper. “Magical fingers.” God, if the head of my music school saw this, she’d have a heart attack right in the middle of the staff meeting.
“Four Saturdays in a row, starting tonight!” Vadim declared proudly, not noticing my expression. “I plastered the whole neighborhood with flyers. You’re our new restaurant resident! Family business, you see. Saving money and bringing in customers. Brilliant idea, right?”
“The poster, please,” I said quietly, emphasizing every syllable.
“What poster?” Vadim asked, confused.
“The one with my signature giving consent for this, as you called it, ‘collaboration’.”
“Elena Viktorovna, come on now,” my son-in-law chuckled condescendingly, glancing at the nearby tables. “What signature? We’re family! All in the same boat! Your daughter is my wife, after all. You’re not going to refuse your own son-in-law who’s just trying to get his business off the ground, right? Just come and play some music for three hours a week. Is it really so hard? You’re at home on weekends anyway.”
“I use my weekends to rest,” I said, shutting him down. “And to recover my nerves after dealing with other people’s unruly children.”
I leaned slightly forward:
“Now listen to me carefully, you local Elon Musk wannabe. I never gave my consent for you to use my face, my name, or my work.”
Vadim fidgeted in his chair, breathing faster in outrage. He absolutely hated being contradicted.
“I see. So it’s all about the money,” he sneered with contempt. “Typical budget workers—bring up money at the first chance! Fine! I’m a generous guy. Five hundred rubles for the evening! That’ll pay for your taxi. Free tea, too.”
Masha covered her face with her hands. Andrey loudly crunched on a cucumber.
“Five hundred rubles?” I laughed genuinely. “Vadyusha, it seems you’re out of touch. These days, five hundred rubles is what it costs just to say hello to a professional musician.”
I paused for a moment.
“My fee, if I ever agreed to play in this jungle of artificial ficus trees, is three thousand per hour. Plus a business-class taxi. Plus a hot dinner.”
“How much?!” Vadim screeched across the whole hall. People turned to stare. “Three thousand per hour?! Just to sit on a chair? That’s what you make at your school in a month! This is daylight robbery!”
“That’s the market, Vadik,” I sweetly reminded him of his own words. “You were the one talking about business and tough negotiation skills. Well, here’s my skill: either you remove my face from your silly flyers, or tomorrow, people from the authorities will show up asking about your illegal use of personal data and unauthorized business activity.”
“Mom! Vadik! Please stop!” Masha pleaded.
“Mashunya, eat your salad,” Andrey said sternly. “Your mom is giving a masterclass in market economics. Don’t interrupt the instructor.”
Vadim jumped up from the table. His fake bravado faded as quickly as cheap gold plating.
“Fine then!” he spat out angrily, looming over me. “I’ll find a real gig musician right now! And he’ll play the whole evening for a thousand rubles—maybe even dance a little! You just sit there and be jealous!”
“Go ahead,” I shrugged and took a sip of water. “But you better hurry. People are already here for ‘the magic fingers.’ See that bald guy? He’s been glaring at the empty grand piano for five minutes now.”
Vadim whipped out his phone and frantically started scrolling through his contacts.
“Hey! Sanya! Listen, help me out, I need a pianist for tonight… What do you mean you’re at the dacha? Who else do you know? Give me a number!”
A minute later, he was dialing a new number. I sat back and thoroughly enjoyed the sight of my son-in-law’s nervous leg bobbing.
“Hello, Eduard? Sanya gave me your number. You play the keys? I need someone to come down to the restaurant right now… What do you mean, ‘what repertoire’? Just background music! I’ll pay you one and a half thousand for the whole night!… Hello? Hello!!”
Vadim glared at the screen with pure annoyance.
“He hung up on me, the jerk!”
“Try offering two,” Andrey suggested. “We’ve got inflation, Vadik.”
“I’ll handle it myself! Don’t need your advice!” Vadim barked, jabbing his fingers at the screen.
He opened some classified website and dialed the first number he saw, putting it on speaker to prove to me just how easy it was to find a replacement for the ‘teacher.’
The phone rang for a long time. Finally, someone picked up.
“Yes?” came a deep, rich baritone.
“Uh, hello. Are you a musician? Do you play piano?” Vadim began, all business.
“I am an international competition laureate, Eduard Karlovich. And yes, I do produce sounds from a piano,” the baritone replied haughtily.
“Perfect, Edik! Here’s the deal. I’ve got a premium restaurant, full house. Need you here now to play for three hours. We’re in a bind. I’ll pay you two thousand rubles—just throw on a jacket and get going.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“Young man,” Eduard Karlovich said coldly, “two thousand rubles is what I’d charge just to look at your piano. My performance fee is fifteen thousand. Plus taxi both ways.”
“Fifteen thousand?! For three hours?!” Vadim nearly choked on the price. “Who do you think you are, Rachmaninoff?! I could hire a DJ for a week for that much!”
“Then go hire a DJ,” the baritone replied calmly. “All the best.”
“Wait, wait, hang on!” Vadim panicked, glancing at the crowd. The guests’ unhappy murmurs were growing louder. Someone was already asking for the check. The rebranding was going down the drain. “How about for less? Come on, do me a favor?”
“I’m not your buddy,” Eduard Karlovich cut him off dryly. “And since this is urgent, that’s my ‘emergency’ rate. Twenty thousand, cash. Plus a bottle of good cognac in the dressing room. And dinner from the menu. And if your piano turns out to be firewood, I’ll turn right around and keep the money for my suffering. Address?”
Vadim recited the address with a sense of doom.
“Wait for me. I’ll be there in forty minutes,” the call ended, tolling the funeral march for Vadim’s budget.
Vadim slumped into a chair. He looked thoroughly defeated.
“Twenty grand…” he muttered. “And the cognac.”
“Don’t forget the taxi,” I reminded him, popping a piece of cheese into my mouth. “And you’ve got three more Saturdays coming up. You spread flyers all over the neighborhood. If there’s no music next Saturday, everyone will think your premium restaurant is a scam. Guess you’ll need to buy Eduard Karlovich a season pass, Vadusha.”
Masha was sitting as quietly as possible. Andrey set down his fork, glanced at his watch, and said: “Lenochka, my dear, we should get going. The maestro will be here soon, demanding cognac—I wouldn’t want to interrupt the high arts.”
I stood up gracefully.
“Thank you for dinner, Vadim. The croutons were unforgettable. And thanks for the excellent business lesson. You’re right: those who can, earn twenty thousand a night. Those who can’t—end up paying.”
We headed for the exit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vadim sitting with his head in his hands while Zinaida cleared away our half-eaten salad, purposely avoiding his gaze.
It was fresh and pleasant outside. Andrey wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
“You know, Lena,” he said, looking at the neon sign of the restaurant. “I always knew you had talent. But to play with your brother-in-law’s nerves so skillfully… You deserve the title of People’s Artist.”
I laughed, took my husband by the arm, and we strolled leisurely toward the metro. I felt absolutely wonderful. Any trace of fatigue from my six lessons had completely vanished.