The Conductor (20 page)
‘I’d like to start with the first movement of the
1812
,’ said Elias. ‘Please get out your scores.’ As he waited, he caught sight of himself in the large mirror. How strange! His face appeared as pale and impassive as ever — but inside he felt as if he were singing.
S
ollertinsky was throwing a huge farewell party. ‘A valedictory romp,’ he explained. ‘Plenty of food, no speeches and definitely no tears.’ The location was to be his favourite restaurant, the Chvanova on Bolshoy Prospect, whose baby quails in tarragon and whiteheart-cherry sauce were unsurpassed.
Nina voiced reservations, as she so often did these days. The only thing about which she seemed wholehearted was nagging Shostakovich to leave Leningrad. ‘It doesn’t seem right, partying in the midst of all this uncertainty. Does it seem right to you?’
‘No, definitely not right.’ Shostakovich was slicking down his hair with one hand and making corrections to his score with the other. ‘The Boris-tune should start with the cellos and spread upwards, not vice versa.’
Nina rolled her eyes. ‘I’ll talk to myself.’
Shostakovich leaned low over the desk, only to be blinded by his unruly hair. ‘Damn it! Do I have to cut off this cowlick to keep it out of my way? Now look! Hair oil all over the bass.’
Nina swept over with a small pot of pomade. ‘Stand still now.’ In a second, the tuft of hair lay shiny and flat to the right of Shostakovich’s irritated brow. ‘You could always try parting it closer to the middle,’ she suggested, deftly blotting the oil off the score.
Shostakovich looked at her shoulders, white and smooth under the cream lace straps of her slip. Through the thin cotton, the steps of her spine led temptingly, distractingly downwards. ‘My hair doesn’t work
with a centre part,’ he muttered. ‘I look like a peasant.’
She was holding out the score, looking at the small spots of oil but not seeing what lay beneath — the swell of an E flat ascent, a drum beat as dark and constant as the sea. ‘That’s better.’ Her nipples were also visible through her slip; suddenly, he longed to touch them, feel them harden under his fingers.
But already she was back on the other side of the room, sorting through her jewellery box. ‘You should hurry. You promised to read to Galina before we leave.’
‘Do we have to go?’ He felt pulled in two directions: the score for his march on his left, his curvaceous wife on his right.
‘Your work will still be here when you get home. Sollertinsky, on the other hand, will soon be in Siberia.’ But a secretive smile flicked over Nina’s lips, as if she sensed what her husband was thinking about her, and she fastened the topaz necklace around her throat with an air of confidence.
The pavements of Leningrad had become like an army training ground, cluttered with rolls of wire, old mattresses and mounds of rubble. By the time they got to the Petrogradsky district, the hem of Nina’s dress was flecked with dirt. ‘Sollertinsky will be too merry to notice how we look,’ said Shostakovich, brushing off his shoes at the restaurant door.
Inside, glittering light played on the gleaming heads of the cultural elite. Sollertinsky stood in the centre of the room. ‘Welcome!’ he cried, ploughing towards them, shaking off the beautiful clinging Kirov girls as if they were gnats. ‘Nina Shostakovich, as stunning as ever, in spite of our troubled times! And even my old friend Dmitri’s looking smart — though he might have cleaned the mud off his shoes before entering the finest eating establishment in Russia.’
‘Look at yourself,’ retorted Shostakovich. ‘I wonder why the Philharmonia Committee appointed an artistic director who doesn’t know how to knot a tie correctly.’
‘At least I’m wearing one.’ Sollertinsky peered down at the loose spindly knot under his chin. ‘Whatever will I do without you, Dmitri? You’re the only one who dares to criticise me. Well, this may be our last supper, so make the most of it! The sevruga here is exquisite.’
The three of them threaded through bare-shouldered women in rustling silk and men with starched white collars. Clouds of perfume wafted up Shostakovich’s nose, making him sneeze. He stood with his back to a pillar, watching Nina circle the table, nodding and laughing.
She appeared absorbed, but occasionally she raised her eyes, checking that he was still close by. Had she been this way when they’d first met — watchful, a little wary? Impossible to remember. There had been so much work over the years, so much necessary concentration; he’d simply toiled on, hoping that every time he raised his head from his work she’d still be there.
Thinking of his failings as a husband and a father aroused the usual guilt.
I wouldn’t want to be married to me
. Turning abruptly, he collided with the woman beside him. ‘Forgive me.’ He reached out to steady her. It was Nina Bronnikova, nearly as tall as he was — and as beautiful as when she’d first joined the Kirov Ballet Company.
‘My fault.’ Her hair was coiled high on her head, emphasising her cheekbones and the slightly melancholic fall of her mouth. ‘I shouldn’t be loitering behind pillars! But I’m not in a partying mood, and I have very little to chat about.’
‘That’s hardly surprising. The extramarital activities of the intelligentsia are less absorbing when one is listening for the sound of the Luftwaffe.’
She shrugged. ‘I never listened to gossip, even before the war began.’
‘Nor I. Gossip distracts one from working. It’s a good reason to avoid parties such as this.’ He stared across the room. It had been a mistake to come. Had he learnt nothing from toiling through six symphonies and an opera? From struggling with sonatas and concertos, quartets and quintets, song-cycles, ballet scores and film scores? How did he manage to forget, every single time, that the initial stages of a work demanded constant attention?
‘Speaking of work,’ asked Nina Bronnikova, ‘when will you be going?’
‘I must stay for a while, at least.’ Shostakovich took a gulp of his vodka. ‘Sollertinsky is my best friend. And it was quite an effort for my wife to get me here.’
Nina Bronnikova laughed. ‘I wasn’t referring to the party, but to evacuation plans. The Kirov is leaving within a week.’
He took another swallow of vodka; already its effects were making him feel stronger. ‘I’m not going. I intend to stay in Leningrad as long as possible. If the Luftwaffe attacks, the fire brigade will need extra volunteers.’
‘You’ll stay and fire-watch?’ She looked surprised. ‘Are you allowed to do that?’
‘At first they refused to let me dig ditches. Now I’ve been digging
ditches for three weeks. If incendiaries start to fall, how can they refuse another set of hands?’
‘You have rather famous hands.’
‘I’ve got a will of my own, even if my hands and my mind are claimed by the State.’ For once he didn’t glance over his shoulder to see who might be listening. ‘Besides, as long as I continue providing tunes for their infernal brass bands, they have no grounds for complaint.’
‘I hope my husband isn’t depressing you.’ His wife appeared at his side, glancing at him to check he was all right but addressing Nina Bronnikova. ‘He finds the initial stages of anything difficult — although once a party warms up, he becomes its life and soul.’
‘Far from depressing me, he’s inspired me! Choosing to stay in Leningrad, with the Germans at our very gates, displays a sense of duty most of us couldn’t hope to possess.’
‘Duty?’ Nina Shostakovich’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can’t help thinking that “duty” has become the most overused word in our society, not to mention a defence of any number of atrocities. Is it one’s duty to remain in an increasingly dangerous situation — or rather to remove one’s children to safety? Duty to one’s country also necessitates safeguarding its future.’
‘We don’t know if it is any safer,’ said Shostakovich loudly, ‘to send children out of the city. Look at the disaster that happened in June! Children put on trains, sent directly into the path of the enemy and brought back again.’
‘The issue isn’t only about evacuating the children,’ replied his wife sharply. ‘It’s also about safeguarding yourself, so your children can grow up with a father.’
How swiftly the conversation had shifted from the impersonal to the personal! He felt the same longing to escape as he had when a boy. Now, too old to run and too civilised to withdraw, he said nothing and stared down into his glass.
‘It’s a many-sided debate,’ said Nina Bronnikova diplomatically. ‘Not only has the war thrown our streets into disarray, it’s forcing moral dilemmas upon us. Even this party —’ she gestured at the platters laden with wild boar, whole fish and golden melon — ‘feels like the last gasp of the Roman Empire. A wilful denial of what is to come.’
‘Yes, it seems paradoxical to enjoy such a feast,’ said Nina Shostakovich, ‘when the bread queues are becoming longer by the day.’
‘Our country is built on such paradoxes!’ Sollertinsky had arrived to join the fray. ‘Contradiction lies at Russia’s heart, and always has.
Refusing the privileged cards we’ve been dealt won’t help those who are less fortunate.’ He looked dishevelled, with sweat on his brow and his sleeves rolled up, but he spoke seriously. ‘Take our friend Dmitri. Think of the music that would never have been written if he hadn’t been willing to compromise. To duck for cover when necessary, strut when commanded, and steer the fine line between integrity and common sense.’
‘You’re overstating the case.’ Shostakovich shook his head. ‘I’m just doing what I was born to do.’
‘You’re too modest.’ Sollertinsky’s hazel eyes glinted. ‘All I’m saying is that nothing is black and white, not even — or especially not — in times of war.’
Shostakovich sighed. Although he was feeling a little more sociable thanks to the vodka, he wished to God all this talk of war and his work would stop, and that he could go home and get on with his march.
Sollertinsky laughed. ‘Look at you, standing here with the two most beautiful women in Leningrad! You might at least have the grace to look happy about it.’
‘No offence,’ shrugged Shostakovich. ‘But half my mind is in my work and the other half in the trenches.’
‘No wonder you’re more dim-witted than usual. Gogol wrote of a man without a nose, we’re talking to a man without a mind!’ Sollertinsky gave him a bear-hug. ‘You great dolt. I’m not accustomed to missing anything, except my wedding anniversaries and the occasional tram — but, by God, I’ll miss you.’
A
rriving late — his mother had been particularly difficult to get into bed — Elias paused in the doorway. For once, this wasn’t for fear of socialising with more educated, elegant Leningraders. Tonight he stopped simply to experience his new sense of self. With his feet planted firmly on the red carpet and his chest swelling, he surveyed the room.
‘Good evening, sir.’ The restaurateur was also scanning the room, albeit with a more professional eye. ‘Welcome back. We haven’t seen you in our establishment for some time.’
Not long ago, Elias would have found the man’s impressive moustache and air of impatience intimidating. ‘It’s good to be back,’ he replied.
In fact, he’d never ventured here in his life. How many times had he walked past the gilt-handled doors and longed to sweep through the crimson curtain, like one of those confident white-shirted men with beautiful women on their arms!
‘Champagne?’ The restaurateur gestured to a waiter hovering nearby.
‘I’m not —’ began Elias, but already a chilled glass was in his hand. ‘Well, all right.’ Usually he mistrusted champagne, both for its instant effects of gaiety and its almost immediate after-effects (a throbbing headache and gnawing pains in the stomach). But tonight everything was different.
‘Your friends are on the far side of the room.’ The restaurateur gestured discreetly with his head.
‘Thank you.’ A little bewildered, Elias glanced across the crowded restaurant to see who his friends might be. There on the carpeted podium was a grand piano, and gathered around it, like an unholy triumvirate, were Sollertinsky, Mravinsky and Dmitri Shostakovich.
He felt the sudden inconvenient need to be honest. ‘To be precise, they are not —’ But the restaurateur was darting away to reprimand a waiter, and Elias, taking a deep breath, stepped down to join the party. He swallowed another mouthful of champagne for courage and stationed himself beside a table laden with food. From here, through the dark-suited backs and the silk-clad shoulders, he could just make out Sollertinsky’s leonine head. And Mravinsky’s cool smile — and Shostakovich’s face, lit up with mirth, his huge glasses glinting.
Your friends
. Wasn’t that what the restaurateur had said?
Your friends are over there
. How would they react were he to step onto the podium, shake hands, and lean on the piano beside them?
No
. He gripped his glass. He couldn’t do it.
‘It’s Mr Eliasberg, isn’t it?’ Suddenly there she was, not two feet away from him. Her eyes were as large and dark as he remembered, and her neck as slim. The swell of her breasts (sometimes, lying in bed, he’d taunted himself with the memory) provided a pleasing contrast with her narrow ribcage.
Very carefully, he set down his glass and extended his hand.
‘Do you remember me?’ Nina Bronnikova smiled. ‘I met you in the Haymarket back in June. On the very day, I believe, before this nightmare of a war officially began.’
‘R-r-remember you? How could one possibly n-n-not remember you!’
‘Oh, thank you!’ She flushed slightly. ‘Of course, if you dance for the
Kirov, fielding compliments is part of the job, and not always a welcome one. But what you just said — well, it’s the most heartfelt I’ve ever heard.’
‘I’m sorry if I was blunt. My mother’s always telling me to become more practised at paying compliments. I’ve never had what the storybooks call a silver tongue.’
‘Silver tongues can hide tarnished hearts,’ said Nina Bronnikova.
He remembered this from the fish market: the unpretentious simplicity with which she gave her opinions. Her eyes were almost almond-shaped, slanting up at the outer corners … but he shouldn’t stare. He should say something. Why couldn’t he be more like other men — more like Shostakovich, for instance? Women seemed to hang on the composer’s every word, whereas he —
