The Conductor (29 page)
‘What did she look like? Black hair, black eyes? A pointed chin?’
Please
, he thought desperately,
please say no
.
‘That’s right. Now, what was her name? The same as the wife of your hoity-toity composer friend, the man with the specs.’
‘Nina.’ Nikolai groaned. ‘Nina Bronnikova. I know her. Was she badly wounded?’
‘Well, she won’t die,’ said Tanya. ‘But it’s safe to say she won’t be doing much dancing.’
‘Ever?’ He remembered Nina’s strong shoulders and slim hips, her kindness to Sonya, her composed serenity at Sollertinsky’s party.
‘She’s still young.’ Tanya sounded determinedly positive. ‘There are
plenty of other things she can do — get married, start a family. Even if she ends up with a limp, at least she’s got a pretty face. She should be able to get a husband.’
‘What a blessing.’ Nikolai’s voice was sharp.
‘Isn’t it,’ agreed Tanya, who’d never been good at detecting sarcasm.
He went to stand by the covered window, feeling suffocated. He longed to pull down the black sheets, rip off the strips of tape and lean out into the cool September night. Ever since Sonya had gone, his lungs had seemed incapable of taking a deep breath. And now — now Nina was hurt, too.
‘Terrible mess they’ve made of the Astoria.’ Tanya clicked her tongue. ‘Soldiers traipsing mud all over the stair carpet, vagrants sleeping in the main entrance, everything scratched and broken. Nothing like a top hotel any more. I don’t know what…’
But Nikolai had stopped listening. His claustrophobia was growing. Trapped in his blacked-out apartment, trapped in the city — and worst of all, trapped in his own mind. Shamefully, alarmingly, he began to long for a violent release.
S
hostakovich woke to the rattle of anti-aircraft fire and an intense feeling of doom. He lay studying the long crack above him that now looked as deep as a crevasse. A few more bombs, and the whole ceiling might split in two. He imagined the upstairs neighbours crashing down into his workroom, and caught himself hoping that the buxom eighteen-year-old daughter would land on his bed, rather than her formidable mother.
Galina came flying into the room. ‘Happy Birthday, Papa! Maxim and I have made up a poem for you! But we’d better tell it to you in the cellar because the bombers are arriving at any minute.’
Shostakovich shuffled after her into the main room. ‘Old age and illness are now officially within sight,’ he said, wincing at the icy air.
Nina was bundling Maxim into his coat and overshoes. ‘Some people would consider you to be in the prime of life,’ she said, giving Shostakovich a kiss.
‘The majority of people know nothing at all about the strain I am under.’ He hitched up his pyjamas and belted his coat firmly around his waist. ‘Writing all day in half-light, with no heating and no rest — an impossible job, even without the Nazis. Before most composers reach my age, they’ve already gone to their graves. Think of Mozart! If I were Mozart, this would be my last birthday.’
‘I hope you’ll cling to life, at least until tonight,’ said Nina. ‘Izrail has gone to a great deal of trouble to get hold of extra vodka.’
Any hopes Shostakovich had had of keeping his birthday low-key, and
his mind focused on his work, were dashed as soon as they entered the cellar.
‘Mr Shostakovich!’ Irina Barinova’s voice rang out of the darkness. ‘We’ve heard today is a special day for you. May all your anniversaries be more peaceful than this one!’
Shostakovich sighed. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Nina. ‘I told her.’
‘How’s the new work going?’ Irina wasn’t allowing Luftwaffe bombs to deter her from gossip. ‘Will your work soon be coming of age, also?’
Shostakovich took Maxim by the hand and groped his way to the long bench against the wall. He clamped his mouth shut and listened to Nina fielding queries. Yes, the first and second movements were completed, and the third was under way. Yes, they were hoping for a premiere performance by Mravinsky and the Philharmonic, in spite of the fact they were currently fifteen hundred miles east in the depths of Siberia.
By breathing in the scent of Maxim’s hair, he remained calm. It was imperative to keep the adagio steady in his head. Although he was a week in, and possibly halfway through, it was by no means secure. Neighbourly exclamations rained down on its surface, muddying the opening woodwind chords and the searing violin melody. He would never have admitted it (except, perhaps, to Sollertinsky), but he was glad when the distant thundering of guns was joined by the loud swishing of incendiaries, drowning out the chatter — and he was even more glad when a crash shook the cellar, releasing showers of plaster and stopping the talk altogether.
‘Will the house fall, Papa?’ Maxim leaned closer, puffing from concern.
‘Not this time,’ reassured Shostakovich, half-listening to the violin that continued to soar far above the bombers and their tilting, lethal wings.
After the roar of the planes had faded, and before the all-clear sounded, the conversation started up again. Now, to his relief, it revolved not around his work or his birthday, but the dire state of affairs in Leningrad. Lack of food, lack of information, the lack of help from Moscow: these issues kept the residents of the Bolshaya Pushkarskaya house occupied for some time. Of all the voices, Irina Barinova’s was the shrillest and most carping; it drove into Shostakovich’s head with a force greater than the loudest bomb blast.
He reached for his notebook, but realised he was wearing only his pyjamas and his overcoat. ‘Galina,’ he whispered urgently, ‘can you remember something for me?’ Galya had the best memory of anyone he
knew, which proved useful on those frequent public occasions when he was approached by someone whose name had slipped his mind.
Galina pressed her ear against his mouth. ‘Of course I can.’
‘B and B flat clash, reversed and raised a fifth.’
N
ikolai was more animated than he’d been for quite some time. Standing in the rehearsal room, he pulled off his gloves and shook his thin hands to get the blood flowing.
‘Of course, the food was nothing special, if you think that only a few months ago it would have been a Krug-and-caviar birthday party.’
‘So what did you eat? Insubstantial fistfuls of bread, like the rest of the city?’ Elias busied himself with unnecessary tasks, tapping the stone-cold stove as if this would miraculously produce heat, polishing his already gleaming baton.
‘Oh, no!’ Nikolai’s voice almost had a glow to it. ‘Of course the food was simple, mainly black bread and potatoes. But Nina Shostakovich had managed to make a kind of cranberry cake, and other people brought whatever they could — there was even some candy! As for Izrail, he’d got his hands on enough vodka to fill the Neva.’
Elias said nothing. He watched the musicians shuffling in, pinched from cold and hunger.
‘Afterwards —’ Nikolai swished his bow through the air in a cloud of resin — ‘after dinner, we heard some of the new symphony!’
‘The Shostakovich symphony?’ Katerina had been eavesdropping and her wan face lit up. ‘Some people have all the luck!’
Nikolai nodded. ‘We went into his study, he hesitated for only a moment, and then he sat at the piano and played straight through the first movement, barely looking at the score. It was pretty long, too — twenty-five minutes, at least.’
‘Only the first movement?’ asked Elias nonchalantly. ‘I thought he was further on than that.’
‘I haven’t finished yet! Just as he reached the final bars of the march, the sirens began to sound, but he begged us to stay and hear the rest. Nina and the children went to the shelter, but most of us stayed. The bombers flew in over our heads, but on he played, as if he were possessed! And so we heard the scherzo through to its beautiful end.’
Now Elias understood the dreamy look hovering behind Nikolai’s eyes and the smile playing on his lips. Jealousy flooded through him. ‘That was a strange thing to do,’ he said. ‘Putting one’s guests at risk like that.’
‘He didn’t decide for us, we chose to stay. How could we not?’ Nikolai spread out his hands. ‘It was musical history in the making. Nobody’s heard a bar of it before!’
‘Is it really a symphony for Leningrad, as he says?’ An avid group was clustering around Nikolai. ‘Will it tell our story in years to come?’
‘It’s difficult to tell,’ mused Nikolai. ‘Anything composed in response to such extreme circumstances is a complex thing. But from what I heard last night, I believe it’ll be extraordinary. At any rate, it’s miraculous to compose a symphonic work of this scale in the middle of such hardship — not to mention performing it as he did last night, playing without error for more than half an hour with an air raid raging.’
‘Not so much miraculous as foolhardy,’ muttered Elias. But no one was listening to him.
Nikolai seemed oblivious to the fact that rehearsal should have started four minutes ago, and that in three days the shambles that was the Radio Orchestra would be broadcast on international airwaves. ‘Dmitri’s always been capable of rising to the occasion,’ he continued. ‘As his classmates, we saw that from the start, isn’t that so, Elias?’
‘Shostakovich is talented.’ Elias spoke dismissively. ‘No one can deny that. But he’s certainly not averse to showing off. Perhaps you don’t remember his odd behaviour at Glazunov’s soirée in our first year at the Conservatoire?’ He looked around to make sure he had the floor. ‘After a foxtrot had been played, Shostakovich pretended to be offended by it. Which gave him an excuse to set to and, then and there, re-orchestrate the whole thing in front of the guests.’
Nikolai looked taken aback. ‘Yes, I was there that evening. But he was challenged to do that. I remember it well.’
Elias fixed his eyes on the painting hanging above Nikolai’s head, a dreary 1820s oil of the Pantelimonov drawbridge. He felt as black as the
thick-painted water. ‘He flaunted his talent in the middle of the room, and went through his paces like a show pony.’
‘He was
challenged
.’ Nikolai spoke more sharply. ‘What was a man to do?’
‘How about saying no?’ Elias kicked his stool, leaving a scar on the already scratched floor. ‘That was his problem — that
is
his problem. Shostakovich never says no.’
The musicians, who’d been momentarily energised by Nikolai’s story, fell silent. They drifted away towards their chairs, their shoulders hunched.
Nikolai slid off the table. ‘Sorry to hold up proceedings,’ he said under cover of tuning up. ‘You were probably wanting to make an earlier start.’
Elias shrugged. ‘It’s understandable that you’re excited after what you experienced last night. To hear the mythical Seventh Symphony, even in piano reduction, is a great privilege.’
‘I thought you might even be at the party.’
‘I’m not a particular friend of Shostakovich.’ Elias gave a second, more emphatic shrug. ‘We’re nothing but acquaintances. In truth, I barely know him.’
‘A pity. You’d have enjoyed the performance as much as anyone, particularly as you may conduct it one day.’
‘Not while Mravinsky lives and breathes!’ Elias gave a forced laugh. ‘We all know he’s the apple of Shostakovich’s eye. Besides, with a first movement as huge as the march, do you really think we could cope?’ He glanced at his scraping, blowing bunch; more than twenty chairs stood empty.
‘Yes, the first movement’s vast. It sounds like a great beast waking up, uncurling itself, preparing for attack.’
Elias flicked through his score. ‘Did any parallels spring to your mind? Any particular composers?’
Nikolai laughed.
‘I only ask,’ added Elias quickly, ‘because Shostakovich is well known for referencing other works.’
‘And I only laugh because, even before he began to play, he made a disclaimer to that effect.’
‘Really? What did he say?’
‘He said —’ Nikolai paused. ‘“Forgive me if this reminds you of Ravel’s
Bolero
.’”
‘And did it? Did it remind you of Ravel?’
‘You know what?’ Nikolai wedged his violin under his chin and began tuning up. ‘It did. Not only Ravel, but also Richard Strauss.’
‘The battle scene from
Heldenleben
! Yes, the third theme is most reminiscent of that. Did you also hear traces of Sibelius’s Fifth? Not at all obvious, and masterfully done — the subtlest of allusions, really.’
Nikolai lowered his violin and stared at him. ‘Yes, there were echoes of Sibelius in the third theme. I agree with you. But how do you know that? When were you —?’
He was interrupted by a loud burp right beside them. It was Alexander, thinner and pastier than ever, clutching his oboe in unsteady hands. ‘When you’ve finished gassing about Leningrad’s most eminent citizen,’ he said with ostentatious politeness, ‘I’d like a private word with our eminent conductor.’
Elias stared at Alexander; his breath was strong enough to lean on. ‘You’re drunk. Do you really think it’s acceptable to come drunk to rehearsal? I trust you’re still capable of playing.’ He turned away, but Alexander seized him by the shoulder.
‘I wanted to ask you for some time off. My sister’s contracted diphtheria, everything at home is in a mess. I must be excused rehearsal for the next few days.’
‘Must?’ Elias frowned. ‘Who are you to say the word
must
? The only thing you
must
do is the job you’re paid for, which is playing in this orchestra. We have a broadcast on Sunday! How do you expect me to find a replacement at such short notice? There probably isn’t even another oboist alive in this cursed city.’
Alexander stepped closer, making an obvious effort to focus, although his eyes crossed with the effort. ‘Come on, Karl. You know how it is to be underprivileged. You and I, we’re the same. We’ve had to work our way up to our positions. We’ve never had maids, we haven’t been given big apartments like Dmitri Shostakovich, we don’t ignore people like he does. So stuck up he won’t give a man the time of day! You and I need to stick together.’
