3 Great Historical Novels (57 page)

‘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 —

Say something!
he shouted inside his babbling head.
Anything
!

‘Are you,’ he stammered out, ‘still dancing?’

She gave a slight frown, and his heart plummeted. Had she been sacked from the Kirov? Received the dreaded summons, been called up before Zagorsky for some imaginary transgression against the State? But surely the outbreak of war had stopped all that, at least for the time being! Flustered, he opened his mouth to apologise.

‘Unfortunately,’ said Nina, ‘my Achilles tendon’s troubling me. Even after several weeks of rest, it still hasn’t come right. It’s extremely disappointing.’

Relief at not offending her, gratitude that she hadn’t incurred official censure, pleasure at her devotion to her work — all these rendered Elias joyful and thoughtless, and he drained his champagne glass recklessly. ‘Is that all? I imagined something much worse.’

‘Well, it’s bad enough.’ Now she did look offended. ‘Don’t you realise how hard it is to get medical services these days? All the doctors are examining recruits to be sent to the front, or piecing them back together when they’re brought home on stretchers. A weak Achilles tendon isn’t a top medical priority in Leningrad at present.’

‘I didn’t mean to belittle your injury,’ he assured her. ‘Believe me, I know what it’s like to be prevented from working. Aspiring to be the best, yet not having the means to achieve it.’ He spoke with an acute awareness of the men on the podium behind him: Sollertinsky, as bold as brass, and cleverer than anyone around him; Mravinsky tilting on a chair with the carelessness of the chosen; Shostakovich gesturing with long-fingered hands that created a magic Elias could never come close to.

‘You’re right, of course,’ nodded Nina. ‘A personal injury is nothing compared to what’s unfolding around us. It’s just that work is my last refuge, and not having it is almost unbearable. Without it, there’s nothing to block out all this chaos. Dug-up gardens, sirens, memories of the past — not to mention the fear of what’s going to happen to us all.’

‘I understand,’ said Elias croakily. ‘I use work in the same way myself.’ He was fearful of admitting the full extent of his fierce working habits. How, sitting up with a score, he’d ignore his mother’s calls because he couldn’t bear to be pulled away again. The way he blocked his ears and scribbled on more determinedly than ever, copying out the fifty-nine motifs of
Elektra
and a list of its different keys. ‘Saved by Strauss,’ he would murmur when he finally surfaced — only to find that, when he crept to the door to check on his mother, his relief was overtaken by guilt.

He stared at Nina Bronnikova. ‘You shouldn’t talk to me. I’m no good. I’m nothing but a lowly beetle.’

But the music had grown louder. Shostakovich’s composition assistant, Izrail Finkelshtein, had been hoisted onto the podium and was pounding out a wild improvised polka.

‘What did you say?’ Nina leaned closer, wafting a faint scent of lilac towards him.

But the moment for confidences was gone. Something closed inside Elias as decisively as a door slamming shut in a wind. ‘Simply,’ he lied, ‘that I don’t know many people.’

‘What about your orchestra? Aren’t they here?’

‘A few are here.’ He looked around. ‘But we’ve been depleted in the last few weeks. Some of my musicians have gone to the Front; others are exhausted from twelve-hour days of ditch-digging. We’re not as fortunate as the Philharmonic. We’re not considered national treasures.’

‘Can you continue rehearsing?’ Nina looked concerned. ‘You must be anxious with the autumn season ahead.’

Elias glanced down, his eyes smarting. No one — no one at all — had asked how he felt at the sight of his orchestra splintering before his eyes. ‘I’m filled with anxiety,’ he admitted. ‘My soloists are under par, concentration is low. Our rehearsals sound like those of a shoddy provincial brass band. Yet in six weeks we are scheduled to broadcast Tchaikovsky’s Fifth to Britain!’ He looked down at his empty glass. ‘Can I fetch you a drink?’

But now someone else was beside Nina, touching her on the shoulder. It was Nikolai.

‘Hello!’ Nina’s smile was radiant. ‘I thought you’d changed your mind about coming!’

Elias’s stomach lurched with a feeling so unfamiliar it bewildered him. Sketching a half-hearted wave at Nikolai, he looked around for another bottle of something — anything at all — though he knew he’d end up regretting it.

Nikolai looked exhausted, his forehead more lined than ever, his beard more wispy. ‘I thought about staying home, but this may be the last gathering of Leningrad culture for some time. How could I forgive myself for not farewelling my friends?’

Quickly Elias sloshed vodka into three tumblers. ‘A toast to departing friends. By the end of the month you’ll both be gone, and I will remain. But distance has little effect on faithful hearts and minds!’ He’d never spoken so boldly, and with such effusiveness.

Nikolai raised his glass, and then emptied it as if barely aware of what he was drinking.

‘The sentiment’s true, but not the facts,’ said Nina Bronnikova. ‘I’m also staying behind.’

‘You’re staying?’ Elias’s giddy heart leapt.

‘I decided months ago that whatever happened I would stay in Leningrad. The Kirov’s like my family, but Leningrad is my home. Once the company leaves, I’ll be free to work with the other women.’

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ asked Nikolai. ‘Quite apart from the fact that the authorities won’t like it, who knows what’s going to happen here? Novgorod has already been captured; the Luga line has crumbled and is retreating. If the Germans continue to advance, and if they link up with the Finns — well, Leningrad will be completely surrounded.’

‘Who can say if we’re any better off fleeing to Tashkent?’ said Nina. ‘Or anywhere, for that matter. Hitler seems to be some kind of madman, and he won’t stop until he’s marched across the face of the world.’

‘I wouldn’t talk like that, even here,’ said Elias. ‘My lead clarinettist has neighbours who —’ At the memory of Kholodov’s stricken face, he felt his new confidence faltering. ‘Please excuse me.’ He shoved his empty glass into his pocket and hurried away.

Behind the heavy bathroom door, he found a cool white silence. He stood motionless for a moment, staring at his reflection in the mirror, then pulled out a comb and tried to tidy his hair. ‘You’re a mess,’ he said
to himself in a severe but slightly slurred voice.

‘Pardon?’ An old man shuffled up beside him. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, it’s quite a press! I’ve never seen the place so full.’
That’s because
, the sober part of his mind added,
you’ve never been here before
.

‘A press indeed.’ Meticulously, the old man washed and dried his hands. ‘Sollertinsky always draws the crowds. If he weren’t a musicologist, he’d make a successful ringmaster.’ He peered at Elias. ‘It’s Mr Eliasberg, isn’t it? Conductor of the Radio Orchestra?’ He held out a chapped hand. ‘I’m Professor Lopatkina from the Conservatoire.’

‘How do you do?’ Elias made a conscious effort to focus. ‘I’ve seen you about, of course. Nice to meet you at last.’ Once the professor had politely bid him good evening and he was alone again, he continued to stare into the mirror. Somewhere behind his high forehead and thin cheeks hovered the face of his father: larger, heavier, but with a similarly determined jaw. ‘You may look a mess,’ he said to his wavering reflection, ‘but you belong. For tonight, at least, you’re one of them.’

Shostakovich was feeling happier. He’d eaten some excellent hare seasoned with thyme, and had lost count of the vodkas he’d drunk during a rousing discussion of Stravinsky’s musical merits versus his personal flaws. In addition, Prokofiev had been seen slouching from the restaurant, his face like a wet morning in March. ‘Problems with his wife,’ said Sollertinsky with a knowing nod. ‘They say he’s been dipping his fingers in the neighbouring jam jar.’

‘All the better for Lina Prokofiev,’ said Shostakovich. ‘Who wants to be married to a goose?’ It had been more than six years, but it was hard to forget Prokofiev nosing through the score of
Lady Macbeth
, pronouncing it entertaining but a trifle demented.

‘Now that your wife’s left the party,’ warned Sollertinsky, ‘I trust you’re not considering following in Prokofiev’s wandering footsteps.’

‘Assuredly not. Those days are over. Even that beauty —’ He nodded at Nina Bronnikova, who was talking to Nikolai. ‘Even she couldn’t tempt me. No, indeed.’ He shook his head, feeling virtuous, secure, even happy.
Happy!
How could this be possible, with his best friend about to travel in one direction and other friends in another, and poor young Fleishman … But he couldn’t think of this, not tonight. Leaping off the podium, he landed heavily on the toes of the Radio Orchestra conductor.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon!’ he said. ‘It seems I’m destined to keep bumping into you — quite literally.’ The conductor (What was his name? Always, it slipped away!) looked different tonight: his shoulders were squarer and his gaze more direct.

‘Perhaps,’ replied the conductor with a half-smile, ‘I’m fated to stand at the feet of the great. And sometimes under them!’

‘If it isn’t Karl Eliasberg!’ interrupted Sollertinsky. ‘Just the man we need. Mravinsky is insisting that when he invests a performance with emotion a sophisticated audience responds accordingly. As an experienced conductor yourself, what’s your opinion?’

Elias looked startled. ‘I must c-c-confess that I believe the opposite. A conductor may channel the emotion of the music — but he must never display it.’ He glanced a little nervously at Mravinsky. ‘I d-don’t mean to contradict you, but such an attitude proves as much of a downfall for musicians as for conductors. We’re none of us there to experience emotion. We’re simply there to convey it.’

‘Just what I’ve always said!’ Shostakovich slapped him approvingly on the back. ‘Musicians and conductors are tools.’

‘Or do you mean fools?’ Looking amused, Sollertinsky turned to Elias. ‘Such is the barely disguised contempt of Dmitri Shostakovich for those who are indispensable to him. Without musicians and conductors, his music remains silent on the page. With their help, it can occasionally approach the sublime.’

‘Contempt is too strong a word,’ protested Shostakovich. ‘It’s just that I can’t stand the sight of musicians swaying to Mahler, looking as if they’re about to burst into tears.’

Elias nodded. ‘I have a flautist whom I call the Human Eggwhisk. As soon as Schumann is placed in front of her, she begins to sway. Head, shoulders, ankles, everything must be moving — including her performance!’

Now Mravinsky, looking more handsome than ever in the warm
flickering
light, was nodding. ‘I have several of those. Musicians who believe themselves to be the primary experience of the evening. It’s tedious.’

Shostakovich looked at Elias. ‘You should have come to the Conservatoire Club. Debates like this were our daily fodder. And now it’s too late! Who knows when we’ll gather there again?’ His glasses misted over and he clasped Elias’s hand.

‘Perhaps, after the war —?’ Elias looked a trifle overwhelmed.

‘Dmitri,’ said Sollertinsky, ‘you’re quite impossible. You find emotion
repulsive in others, yet you’re one of the most emotional men I know. You preach icy detachment in music, yet you’re currently working on something intended to stir — and perhaps to save — the whole of Russia.’

Shostakovich swayed slightly. ‘I must sit down.’ He gave Mravinsky an ineffectual push on the shoulder.

‘You should have thought of your need for a seat before holding forth on my shortcomings,’ said Mravinsky, sitting immovably in his chair.

Elias fetched another chair and guided Shostakovich into it. ‘Tell me, what is it you’re working on? I’d be honoured to hear more.’

Shostakovich was dimly aware of a flicker of panic.
Too close, too close
. He swallowed some beer. ‘There’s really nothing to hear. I can only presume Sollertinsky’s referring to my recent masterpiece, composed in response to higher orders, entitled “The Fearless Guards’ Regiment Is on the Move”.’

Elias’s hands flew to his face as if he’d been slapped. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

Shostakovich tilted back, staring at the ceiling. ‘It’s a military march, designed to motivate the honourable men of the Red Army,’ he intoned as if reciting a dull lecture to an equally dull class. ‘It sounds passable when heard in the open air from some distance away.’