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They asked her again where El Presidente might be. She resolved to stay silent. If she could holdout until nightfall, her family might get away.One of the privates beat her with a chain, from her arm pits to her knees, front and back. Each blow jerked her thumbs, but, thankfully, they were going numb. Her body and thighs were soon overlapping bruises, and she suspected a few ribs were cracked.A medical officer came in and told the private to step back. "At this rate, you may beat her to death, and we may never find El Presidente. Beating with chains was a Roman method of execution. There are other ways to cause pain, ways less likely to kill her outright." He pulled up a stool and sat in front of her, his face about the level of her navel. He took out a lighter and flicked his Bic. He held the flame in front of her face and then lowered it, passing it slowly under her breast, broiling it until the skin blistered. She groaned but did not speak. He cooked the other. It seemed like the octave rang forever, but it was really only a split second before her right hand flew off along the difficult arpeggios of the first Etude.Frustration set in as Irina fought to make her fingers sing the melody which constantly shifted registers, peeking between the filigree of the arpeggios. Having small hands was not in her favor for this piece, but rarely was anything ever in her favor in life.As she hit the last notes a few minutes later, Irina made a vow to play this program again one day, when she was ready.There was a murmur and a smattering of applause from a few people, which quickly died down. Irina didn't even notice. She was focused on the second etude.There was no respite in this program. One down, eleven to go. And that was only before intermission... ... From the opening notes of the recital to the last C major chord of the twelfth Etude, Richard had sat riveted to the chair, amazed at what he was hearing: his piano teacher playing some of the most.
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