Great Historical Novels (59 page)

At last Shostakovich spoke. ‘You can’t choose whether or not to love.’

‘What?’ Nikolai, lost in a spinning world of memory, had forgotten everything: where he was, what they were talking about. He stared at the leafy trees and the tall blowing grass, turned his face to the sun wheeling high in the pale-blue sky, tried to remember what season it was.

‘It’s impossible to choose, when it comes to love. I tried it once myself.’ Shostakovich spoke decidedly, like a sixty-year-old man rather than one not yet thirty.

‘You did?’ Nikolai knew a little about Shostakovich’s stormy past, but he wasn’t sure if it was seemly to admit this.

Shostakovich sighed. ‘As a teenager, I loved a girl called Tatyana Glivenko, and she loved me. Then she began loving me more than I loved her. She wanted to live with me, but I wouldn’t let her, because by then I had met Nina Varzar. The die, to speak in gambler’s terms, was cast.’

Nikolai stared. He hadn’t expected the story to begin so far back, when Leningrad was still Petrograd and the fiery Nina wasn’t even on the scene.

‘Do you think I wanted that?’ Shostakovich looked a little defiant. ‘Do you think I
wanted
to fall out of love with Tatyana and in love with Nina Varzar?’

Nikolai scuffed his feet.

‘Of course I didn’t.’ Shostakovich answered himself. ‘Especially because I never intended to marry so young. There was still plenty of living to do,
but how could I go on fishing when I was well and truly caught myself?’

Nikolai shrugged and opened his mouth, but Shostakovich held up his hand. ‘I loved Nina. That was it. And then, as you may have heard —’

Nikolai gave a tactful, non-committal shake of his head.

‘As you may have heard,’ repeated Shostakovich, staring into the middle distance, ‘I stopped loving Nina. For quite a time. Yelena Konstantinovskaya came on the scene. My God, she was something.’ He whistled under his breath. ‘Take my advice, Nikolai. Never get involved with a woman able to speak twelve languages, and each one of them with the tongue of an angel. When you’re in bed with her, it will drive you wild, and when you’re in an argument, it drives you crazy.’

Nikolai remembered that summer well: he’d just taken up his own appointment at the Conservatoire, and his new intimacy with the city’s musical circles meant he was more than usually aware of what was going on around him. Everyone had known of the affair, but no one mentioned it, for Nina Varzar was well liked. Yelena would glide up the stairs of the Maryinsky Theatre, her hair piled high, exposing the white nape of her neck that invited kissing — or biting. People whispered in the foyer below, and Shostakovich waited at the top of the stairs, pale-faced, expressionless. Only the way in which he took Yelena’s elbow, so their hips brushed against each other, suggested the intimacy between them.

‘After that particular storm,’ continued Shostakovich, as if relating an epic tale passed down through generations, ‘there was once more a port of calm. Miraculously, I fell in love with Nina again; fortunately, she agreed to have me back. For a second time our love blossomed, and so it was on with the show!’

Dizzying circles of midges swam on the evening air, but Nikolai sat motionless. He hadn’t expected such confessions — nor had he expected to feel so much lighter inside.

‘My point is this.’ Shostakovich returned to the present. ‘You love, or you don’t love. You can’t order the weight of that love, as you can a packet of tea. Nor can you decide on its temperature: hot, cold, mild, indifferent. If you love your child — and I’m almost certain you do — you simply have to give in to it. And be glad that you’re capable of loving.’ His voice faltered a little, making Nikolai glance at him. ‘Of course I love Nina.’ Shostakovich sounded almost indignant. ‘But not, perhaps, to the extent that most women would wish. You, on the other hand, were the ideal husband, and will very likely be the ideal father.’

After that evening, the white flickering had gradually cleared from
Nikolai’s vision. By the end of the summer, he was able to look at his daughter quite steadily, could pick her up and kiss her, and soon even Tanya was convinced that it was safe to give up temporary guardianship of her dead sister’s child and visit — as previously arranged — on a daily basis only, to cook and clean. ‘About time,’ she said, trundling around the apartment, packing her meagre possessions. ‘I was wondering how long you were going to stay in that mood.’

Yet Nikolai’s ‘mood’ had never entirely left him. At times, such as this morning with Sonya’s arms around his neck, his fear of love was nearly enough to overwhelm the love itself. It felt like an impairment that he would struggle with for the rest of his life — not crippling but exhaustingly constant.

‘Come on!’ Sonya danced ahead, occasionally turning to admonish him. ‘Slow old Papa!’

‘I’m out of condition. Sitting around all day teaching lazy students to scribble sonatas isn’t the best exercise.’

‘Perhaps if I run backwards you can keep up,’ offered Sonya.

‘Perhaps if I hop —’ Nikolai raised his left foot off the ground — ‘you’ll realise that I’m wearing my seven-league boots. All the better to catch you with!’ Hopping, watching Sonya running backwards, he crashed into a lamp-post. ‘Care to dance?’ he said to the metal pole, making Sonya giggle.

‘Thank you! I’d love to.’

Nikolai unwound himself from the lamp-post, and saw a slim dark figure beside him. ‘Oh! Nina Bronnikova! Good day!’ He’d been half-hoping to see her, knew she lived somewhere in this block — but this was certainly not the ideal way of meeting. He tried not to blush. ‘Of course I’d rather dance with you than a lamp-post, though I fear you’re used to more athletic partners.’

‘Not at all,’ replied Nina Bronnikova, smoothing back her dark hair. ‘You’d be surprised at the clumsy oafs admitted into the Kirov these days.’

‘You’re in the Kirov?’ Sonya stared at the woman’s narrow shoulders, and her muscular legs clad in black stockings. ‘Oh, I’ve
always
, always, wanted to be a ballerina! But Papa says dancers are stupid and I’d be better off being a musician.’

Once again, Nikolai felt close to blushing. ‘I wasn’t referring to anyone specific,’ he mumbled. ‘Certainly not you.’

A slight smile crossed Nina Bronnikova’s face. ‘Your papa is probably
right,’ she said to Sonya. ‘On some days, even I consider dancing to be a stupid profession.’ And with that she walked away, feet turned slightly outwards, elbows tucked into her slim waist.

Sonya stared at her longingly. ‘She’s wonderful. Is her name Nina too? Like Mrs Shostakovich?’

‘That’s right.’ Nikolai’s forehead was throbbing where it had connected with the lamp-post. ‘But she’s not at all like Mrs Shostakovich. Quite the opposite.’ He’d never seen Shostakovich’s wife in one of her legendary rages, but he had no problem imagining it, whereas Nina Bronnikova seemed as cool as water.

‘I’ve never met a real ballerina, I’ve just seen them from afar. They look much bigger up close.’ Sonya peered at Nikolai. ‘Are you all right? Your face is red.’

‘I expect it’s the sun. I’ve been indoors such a lot this spring, my skin’s not used to it.’

‘You need to get out more,’ agreed Sonya. ‘Shouldn’t we go to the country this summer? Galina Shostakovich said they might be renting a dacha near Luga. It’s only a few hours by train. She said we should go as well, because when visitors are around Mr and Mrs Shostakovich don’t argue so much. She said —’

‘Sonya,’ interrupted Nikolai. ‘You shouldn’t repeat everything other people say. It can be very embarrassing.’

‘But they’re not even here! I wouldn’t say it to their faces. Give me some credit,
por favor
!’

This last phrase was a favourite of Sollertinsky’s; Nikolai could hear the rich satirical tone behind Sonya’s bird-like voice. ‘Let’s get ice cream,’ he suggested, heading for a kiosk.

By the time they reached the People’s House, the midday sun had rolled high above their heads and the stone buildings were bleached against the backdrop of blue sky. Excited screams came from the direction of the roller-coaster. Nikolai wished he hadn’t eaten most of Sonya’s strawberry ice cream; his stomach rolled in anticipation.

‘Two tickets, please.’ Sonya stood as tall as possible in front of the booth, and counted out her birthday money saved for the occasion. ‘You’re sure you want to do this?’ she asked Nikolai, chewing on the end of her long dark braid.

‘I’m sure,’ said Nikolai, taking a deep, surreptitious breath.

Once they were strapped into the carriage, he focused on thinking about household finances: the most boring subject he could come up
with, and the only possible way to ward off terror. The man working the switch shouted, while Nikolai shut his eyes and started adding. Thirty extra roubles to Tanya this month, for looking after Sonya while he waded through appalling student orchestrations of Mussorgsky —

The carriage lurched, and his eyes flew open. They were nearly at the top of the first loop, and he saw the track thrown carelessly in front of them, like coins from the hand of a drunken gambler.
Coins
, he thought desperately, shutting his eyes again.
Kopeks, roubles
. Thirty roubles for Tanya. A hundred roubles for Sonya’s new winter clothes —

‘Why are your eyes closed?’ Sonya’s voice pushed through the chinks of his counting.

He opened one eye and looked sideways at her. ‘Just working out some bills in my head.’ It was almost the truth.

‘Papa!’ Her voice rose. ‘This is meant to be a treat!’ The car was at a temporary standstill at the top of the loop; wind whistled in Nikolai’s ears, voices floated up from the ground, and screams came from those swooping in front of them. Was this like the moment of complete clarity before facing an execution squad?

Suddenly, they were flying, screaming, shrieking into nothingness. Sonya’s braid flew behind them, Nikolai’s eyes streamed with tears. As they churned over the bottom of the loop and back on an uphill gradient again, he felt relieved that at least he hadn’t been able to see clearly what was happening.

Sonya’s hand crept into his. ‘That was fun, wasn’t it? Are you ready for another one?’

‘Of course!’ Nikolai wiped his palms on his trousers and gave a forced smile.

After more ice cream, courtesy of Sonya’s birthday fund, and then some fried cutlets — ‘in the wrong order, but who cares,’ said Nikolai — they left the crowded Nevsky Prospect and wandered home along the narrow back streets. Windows stood open to the heat, and ragged tomcats lay at a distance from each other, too hot to bother with hissing or hostility.

‘Phew,’ said Sonya, when they reached their own front steps. ‘That was quite a day.’

‘Thank you for taking me out.’ Nikolai opened the front door and felt the cool breath of the hallway on his face.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Sonya formally.

Aunt Tanya had already finished the day’s chores and gone home, but
the cello was waiting for them, leaning against the sofa as if it, too, had succumbed to the heat.

‘I haven’t done my practice today.’ Sonya sounded guilty.

‘Consider it a rest day,’ said Nikolai. ‘Even professional musicians take days off.’

‘Did Mama?’ Sonya picked up the cello, and the C string gave a low gentle
boing.

‘Even Mama! Although not many, I have to admit.’ He remembered there had been times when he’d forcibly unwrapped her hand from the bow, and days when she’d played so long it took hours for the dents in her fingers to disappear.

‘I’ll check that she approves.’ Sonya disappeared into her room with the cello.

Nikolai lay on the sofa and stared at the broken edge in the moulded ceiling. He could hear Sonya murmuring away as she usually did in the evenings, telling her mother what they’d done that day. A tiny tear squeezed out the corner of his eye, running lightly down the side of his face and into the green cushion.

The price of furniture

Eliasberg had always listened at doors. He understood why the State functioned like this; it was the only way to find out the truth. The problem was, he didn’t rate the intelligence of Stalin’s information-gatherers at all highly. This was where the system fell down.

Listening in to others had become a habit. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been standing in a hallway, leaning towards a wooden panel as if it were about to sing small confidences to him. By listening at doors or below windows (a necessary subterfuge, which he’d never considered as eavesdropping), he’d heard many useful things. Things that had lodged in his skin like burrs, inflaming him, driving him to succeed — and turning him into the professional man he now was.

‘Why must Karl Elias always creep around in stockinged feet?’ His father, seeing his eleven-year-old son soundlessly passing the kitchen door, had flung down his wrench. ‘If there’s one thing I’m good for, it should be putting shoes on the feet of my family.’

‘The cobbler’s children,’ ventured Elias, ‘always run barefoot.’ He’d heard a teacher say this about ginger-headed Boris, son of the famous botanist Boris Berlovich whose sharp eyes had discovered a rare form of ground moss on the day of Svetlana Stalin’s birthday (her name had been bestowed upon it). ‘Talk about the cobbler’s children!’ the teacher had exclaimed, watching Boris the Younger scrabbling blindly about in the undergrowth, searching for a bright white ball not two feet away from him, while the rest of the class watched in impatient silence. Naturally, Elias had remembered this, for out of the twenty contemptuous children
he was the only one to whom this saying was applicable, and he was puzzled as to why the teacher had aimed it at short-sighted Boris.

His father looked still more aggrieved. ‘Cobbler? Why does Karl Elias use such a word in this house? Has he not noticed the sign hanging outside his own home? Makers —’ He began hammering at the leaky pipe, punctuating his words with bangs. ‘— Of. Fine. FOOTWEAR!’ At the last blow, the pipe flew apart like a worm chopped in two by a shovel. Even this disaster didn’t throw Mr Eliasberg off course. Once started on the topic of his profession, he was unstoppable. ‘If Karl Elias is to take over the family business, he must learn that there’s a world of difference between a man who mends and a man who
makes
. Cobbler, my arse. I am an artisan!’