The Conductor (25 page)
‘Pandemonium.’ Shostakovich shut the door firmly and sank down on the piano stool. ‘After the sirens began we went to the cellar, where we were forced to sit for God knows how long in close proximity to neighbours with whom I have no wish to spend two minutes. Now the bombs have given my wife ammunition of her own. She’s adamant we must leave Leningrad within the hour.’ He stared at the stack of paper at his feet and seemed to speak to himself. ‘Unfinished. Unsatisfactory. Nevertheless, she wants to leave by tomorrow!’
Elias sat down in the nearest chair and placed his briefcase on his knees. ‘I s-s-seem to have arrived at a difficult time. Forgive me for intruding, but I have something here that you might find useful.’
‘Any time in this household is a difficult time. I can understand why Beethoven eschewed family life in favour of brief romances. Can you imagine what the
Eroica
might have become had its creator been forced to cope with two children?’
Elias coughed uncertainly. ‘Speaking of the
Eroica
, I’d like the Radio Orchestra, at some time in the future —’
‘The Radio Orchestra?’ Shostakovich sat up straighter. ‘That might,
indeed, be possible — although Mravinsky seems to know how my mind works.’ He peered at Elias from behind his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘How are they shaping up, your orchestra?’
‘The orchestra is satisfactory, considering the circumstances. Depleted in numbers owing to military commitments, but we’re managing. We’re currently rehearsing Tchaikovsky’s Fifth —’
‘Yes, yes, I know this from my good friend Nikolai. I’m not interested in your repertoire, but rather in the calibre of your musicians. For instance, what’s the state of your wind section?’
‘My wind section,’ repeated Elias. ‘My wind section?’ Being alone with Shostakovich was having a strange effect on him. There was ringing in his ears and a red blur at the edge of his vision.
Shostakovich moved restlessly. ‘Are they strong? It’s some time since I’ve attended one of your performances.’
‘Are they strong?’ Elias could have bitten out his parrot tongue. He tore his eyes away from Shostakovich’s mesmerising stare, trying to think more clearly. ‘They’re talented enough. Though I’m dissatisfied with my lead oboist and hope to replace him before the year’s out. But with the war …’ He trailed away. ‘Everything is uncertain now.’
‘I see.’ Shostakovich sounded disappointed. ‘The oboe is most important. What about the rest?’
‘The rest I’m reasonably content with.’ He was floundering. Surely his contentment wasn’t Shostakovich’s primary concern — but what was? ‘They’ve been playing together for six years, so the trombones are excellent, as are the horns. And my trumpets were recently described, in a review by Semyon Shlifsteyn, as some of the finest of this century. But perhaps you read that in
Pravda
last spring?’ He paused hopefully but Shostakovich was staring past him, looking rather vague. ‘As for their lung capacity,’ he hurried on, ‘that must be the best in Russia, if the constant shouting and arguing is anything to go by!’
The joke was wasted on Shostakovich, who began tapping his pencil on the desk in a rapid, considering way. ‘If only I could get word from Sollertinsky or Mravinsky. Who knows if they even have adequate rehearsal facilities in Novosibirsk? But it’s been a fortnight, and I hear nothing! Nothing!’
Elias flushed with an entirely irrational guilt. After all, it wasn’t his fault that Leningrad’s top musicians were exiled in Siberia, nor that the postal service was more unreliable than ever, nor that the military censors had the power to intercept correspondence if offended by a minor
point of punctuation. ‘I, too, have had no news,’ he ventured, though there was no reason in the world why anyone in the Philharmonia, let alone its Artistic Director or orchestral conductor, might write to him, even in peacetime.
‘I’d hoped for something here in Leningrad.’ Shostakovich scratched his ear with his pencil. ‘Though, naturally, that depends on the course of the war.’
‘Naturally.’ Elias was beginning to feel dizzy.
‘But what am I thinking?’ It seemed that Shostakovich was looking at Elias properly for the first time. ‘I haven’t asked you about your own experience of this terrible morning. I hope you weren’t harmed in any way?’
‘No, not harmed, thank you for asking. I happened to be close to a shelter when the planes appeared, and nowhere near the districts where the bombs were dropped.’
‘That’s a mercy. Though I fear it’s now obvious what German tactics will be. Not content with imprisoning us in our own city, they intend to make daily life a living hell.’
‘Yes, it seems this morning was only a taste of what’s to come.’ Once more Elias heard the terrible whine of the planes, saw them sweeping in like a plague, blackening the sky. He groped for his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
‘Please don’t mention such things to my wife,’ said Shostakovich, glancing at the door in a slightly hunted way. ‘I wouldn’t wish to alarm her.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, I’ve got little time to speak to anyone, for I must hurry to rehearsal. The purpose of my visit —’ But now Elias’s stutter welled up again, and his tongue turned to wood. ‘I h-h-heard … someone t-t-told me —’ Giving up, he reached inside his jacket and laid the bulky paper parcel on the desk. ‘I’m s-s-sorry it’s crumpled. I’m afraid I lay on it during the air raid.’
Somewhat gingerly, Shostakovich removed the wrappings. For a few seconds he sat and stared, then he sprang up from his stool. ‘Score paper!’ he cried, brandishing it above his head. ‘And so much of it! Where in heaven’s name did you get it? It’s harder to find than the rainbow’s end!’
Elias’s face burned. ‘I’ve been saving it ever since my composition classes at the Conservatoire. I didn’t need much. Never was much good at composing, you know.’
‘This is wonderful! Marvellous! I can’t tell you what a difference this
will make. Not having to scrimp and save, especially not having to battle with this —’ He waved something that looked like a large metal spider. ‘How can I ever repay you?’
‘There’s no need.’ Elias shuffled his feet under his chair. ‘I’m pleased to be of service.’
‘Can you stay a minute longer?’ Shostakovich’s face shone. ‘I finished a work — at least, the first movement of a work — a couple of days ago.’ But he didn’t wait for Elias to answer. He snatched up some pages lying beside the piano, drew in his stool, held his hands above the keyboard for a moment, and began to play.
As the notes built up into a solid wall, Elias sat perfectly still, watching Shostakovich’s slightly stubbled, concentrated face. The composer’s mouth twitched as he played and he hammered at the keys as if they were made of steel rather than ivory. Sometimes his hands leapt over each other, left hand soaring over right and back again.
As the march-like theme grew louder, the piano began to shake. Sheets of paper leapt off the rack and sliced through the air. But Shostakovich was no longer looking at the music; his face was almost touching the keyboard and his glasses were suspended at the end of his nose. Then, in the middle of a savagely repeated phrase, he broke off altogether. The only sound was of plates clattering in the main room.
Shoving his glasses back onto his nose, Shostakovich sat back, breathing hard. ‘The rest of it is to be a bassoon solo. A kind of elegy. But it doesn’t sound effective on the piano.’
At last Elias could let go of his chair. His fingers were red and grooved from gripping the wood. ‘It’s … Oh, it’s —!’ But the room was blurring; quickly, he wiped his eyes. ‘Is it to be a symphony?’
‘Yes, though I didn’t know it at first. I began it in the first weeks of the German advance.’
‘A war symphony. For Leningrad.’ Elias’s voice sounded tiny in the aftermath of Shostakovich’s bold, defiant notes. ‘It will be your
Eroica
.’
Shostakovich’s flush was fading. Suddenly he looked smaller and thinner, his shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. ‘Some might say that. If they’re kind. But it’s more likely this will be hailed as my
Wellington’s Victory
— which, as you know, represented Beethoven at his most simple-minded.’
‘The premiere of
Wellington’s Victory
featured Vienna’s finest performers!’ protested Elias. ‘Salieri, Meyerbeer — the audience loved it! You can’t deny it was extremely popular.’
‘Popular, yes.’ Shostakovich shrugged.
‘Like Beethoven, you’ve captured the very essence of war. The people of Leningrad can’t help but hear that.’
‘A naturalistic portrayal of battle may win popular approval, but, as Beethoven proved, it can also turn out to be an aesthetic embarrassment.’ Shostakovich’s shoulders slumped lower with every word. ‘Do you not think,’ he added, ‘that this movement is somewhat reminiscent of Ravel’s
Bolero
?’
‘That’s it! I couldn’t immediately place it, but yes, it is similar to
Bolero
— the quiet start, the crescendo, the insistent repetition.’
Shostakovich began raking up the loose pages at his feet. ‘That’s exactly how the critics will damn me. They’ll say I’ve copied Ravel. Well, let them say it. This is how I hear war.’ He glanced around, then dumped the pages into a large saucepan standing under the piano.
‘Not
only
Ravel,’ said Elias hastily. ‘I heard definite echoes of
Ein Heldenleben
. And perhaps a nod, too, towards the second movement of Sibelius’s Fifth.’
‘Really?’ Shostakovich’s glasses glinted in the filtered light. ‘Strauss, Sibelius — and what about Tchaikovsky? Could you detect elements of him, too?’
‘The
1812
did come to mind.’ Elias began to feel as if he were back in the Conservatoire on examination day.
‘Another naturalistic battlepiece. Interesting.’
‘But of course Tchaikovsky is very much on my mind,’ stammered Elias. ‘In three weeks we’re broadcasting the Fifth to Britain. And the
1812
has already been scheduled as part of our winter programme.’
‘The final charge,’ said Shostakovich in a low voice, ‘will be that I’m becoming derivative of my own work. A seventh symphony necessarily carries the other six on its back. Yet how can I avoid this, unless I stop composing?’ He went over to the faded divan and sat with his hands on his knees, staring at the floor. ‘If only Sollertinsky were here. He could help me.’
Elias’s stomach began to tie itself in painful knots. The atmosphere in the room had become chilly, the conversation sealed over like a pond in winter. Shamefully, he almost longed for the sound of another air-raid siren.
Instead the rain arrived — a squall that hit the windowpanes and made him jump. Shostakovich sprang up and pulled the saucepan out from under the piano, throwing the manuscript pages onto the floor. ‘We have leaks. The water gathers on the sill and pours in somewhere
about here.’ He stood with the pan in his hands, eyeing up the cracked wooden windowframe.
Elias stood up. He’d been sitting still for so long that his knees clicked like an old man’s. ‘I should go. I insist on punctuality from my orchestra, so I must set an example.’
‘What else are conductors for?’ Shostakovich placed the saucepan under the sill and led the way to the door. ‘Thank you for the paper. And thank you, too, for your frank comments on my symphony. It’s rarely pleasant to hear the truth about one’s work, but honesty is always preferable to sycophancy.’
Elias stopped in his tracks. ‘I wasn’t criticising! I think your symphony is m-m-m —’ He dug his fingernails into his palms. ‘It’s w-w-won —’
Shostakovich glanced around the main room. ‘Thank God. The children must be napping. Silence at last. Do you need to borrow an umbrella?’
Nina appeared from the bedroom opposite, closing the door quietly behind her. ‘They’re exhausted. Over-excited by the air raid.’ She turned to Elias. ‘Would you like some tea? It’s been difficult getting hold of provisions recently, but we still have tea.’
‘No tea.’ Shostakovich spoke abruptly. ‘He’s in a frightful hurry.’
‘Well, at least allow me to pour Mr Eliasberg some water. I fear we’ve been poor hosts.’
‘On the contrary, it’s been a wonderful visit.’ Elias tried to smile. ‘I’ve been privileged enough to listen to your husband’s new work. A rare honour, and —’
‘Work!’ Shostakovich strode to the table, snatched up Elias’s gloves and thrust them at him somewhat desperately. ‘Yes, you must get to work, and so must I.’
Nina laid a hand on his arm. ‘Dmitri, are you all right?’
‘The scherzo,’ said Shostakovich in a low voice. ‘It’s waiting. It’s always waiting.’
Nina sighed. ‘Well, goodbye, Mr Eliasberg. Take care. The world outside is becoming an increasingly dangerous place.’
Elias blundered down the first flight of stairs and paused on the landing. Heavy wooden boards had been nailed across the windows, so that he stood in almost total darkness. He waited for his eyes to adjust, then pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. In capital letters, much larger than he ordinarily used, he wrote ‘MAGNIFICENT’. Then he folded the paper in half, tiptoed back up the stairs and pushed the note under Shostakovich’s door.
T
he noise was the worst. Usually, Nikolai looked forward to autumn. After the temporary euphoria of summer with its blowsy white nights, the sprawling city closed itself up again and regained its dignity. He preferred Leningrad this way: the streets quiet and empty, footsteps echoing against stone walls, the chilly breath of the marshes hanging on the wind.
But this year, although the leaves were browning and the evenings were becoming cold, Leningrad was denied peace. The hammering and sawing had been replaced by far worse sounds: the blare of air-raid sirens, the high-pitched scream of artillery shells, the crack of anti-aircraft fire, the whining of fighter planes. When the Junkers appeared, their loud drone was followed by a deafening chaos. Fire roared on rooftops, entire buildings collapsed with a crashing of stone and timber.
‘It’s as if the very city is in pain.’ Nikolai huddled against a chimney on the Conservatoire roof. ‘Don’t you hate the constant noise?’
