Great Historical Novels (86 page)

He drifted like a sleepwalker towards Sonya’s door. Because it was now also Tanya’s room, he rarely went in there out of respect for her privacy. But the deprivation was like an intense and constant homesickness, a longing for a country belonging to his past. And today he was weak; nostalgia flooded over and through him, swamping him. He gave only a tiny rap at the door before pushing it open.

Tanya was standing in front of him. ‘Nikolai! I didn’t expect you home so early.’ A guilty tide of red rushed up her neck and into her face.

In her arms, she held a cello.
The
cello. Sonya’s cello.

‘What are you doing? What are you doing with Sonya’s birthday present?’

Tanya stepped back, still holding the cello. Its wooden body stuck out on an awkward angle. ‘We both know what’s happening, Nikolai.’ Her voice was as rough and muddy as the Leningrad streets. ‘If we don’t act now, we’re going to end up starving to death.’

He stood in the doorway and stared at her. Her feet were planted firmly on the threadbare carpet where his daughter had learnt to crawl; her fingers had tightened compulsively around the cello.

‘How dare you.’ His voice was flat and expressionless. ‘How dare you. You were planning to steal Sonya’s cello and barter it for food.’

‘Not steal.’ Tanya gave a shrug. ‘Someone at the hospital offered us tinned food.
Tinned food!’

Nikolai laughed incredulously. ‘You’re holding an eighteenth-century Storioni, Tanya. Do you realise that? After this siege is over, you’ll be left with a guilty stomach, empty arms and a niece who will never forgive you.’

Tanya spoke in her most reasonable voice. ‘Nikolai, you know you’re hopelessly impractical. If you intend to go on working, you’ll need more than a handful of bread to get through the winter. Soon the supply barges will be frozen off the lake and we’ll have even less food than we do now. Do you really think anyone will want a cello then? The doctor at the Astoria won’t take this cello off our hands when rations are cut to nothing and there are riots in the streets.’

‘It is not
a
cello.’ He felt like hitting her. ‘Nor
this
cello. It’s Sonya’s cello. And you’ll put it down, now.’

Tanya shook her head and hitched up her burden, making the C string twang against her hip. ‘We must act now,’ she said, as if reading a propaganda pamphlet. ‘We must stock up on canned food that will last. The doctor has tins of red cabbage. He has green cabbage. He has beans!’

‘He can shove his cabbage up his arse and shit it out again, before he lays one finger on Sonya’s cello.’

‘It was my sister’s cello first.’ Tanya’s cheeks flamed. ‘And before that it belonged to our father. You didn’t know my sister for as long as I did, and Sonya hardly knew her at all. I’m the one who knew her the longest, so I should decide what happens to this.’ She shook the cello as if it were a difficult child.

Nikolai had never felt such anger. ‘You’re despicable. I’ve given you a home, and this is how you thank me? You know how special that cello is, what it means to Sonya and to me — yet you’re willing to palm it off to a quack with an eye for the black market who will pass it on for far more than a few tins of beans. I promised Sonya that her cello will be here when she comes home. Put it down and get out now, before I force you to do so.’

Tanya gave a strange, loud laugh. ‘Take your stupid cello,’ she said, throwing it on the bed with a loud rattle of strings. ‘Die of hunger — see if I care. As for your daughter, we both know she’s never coming home. You’re living in a dream world. Sonya is dead.’

She marched past him and through the main room, leaving the apartment door open behind her. Her crying echoed up the stairwell, and was followed by the bang of the heavy front door. As if in immediate response, an air-raid siren started up.

Shaking all over, Nikolai sat down on the bed. ‘Sonya isn’t dead,’ he whispered. ‘She’ll come back.’ There was a long scratch down the front of the cello, and he rubbed at it carefully with his cuff.

Outside the sirens wailed, but the blood hammering in his ears was far louder. He felt weightless, as if he’d lost connection with the physical world. ‘I think I’d better lie down,’ he said, moving the cello gently to one side of the bed, and stretching out beside it. He concentrated on breathing deeply. As his heartbeat slowed and his nerves settled, he became aware of a tiny rustling sound beside him. It was coming from the cello.

Raising himself on one elbow, he looked around him. The room was already dark. He got up, lit a candle and tilted the cello towards the flickering light. Peering through the carved holes into the instrument’s wooden cavity, he could just make out what appeared to be many white paper rolls the size of a cigarette or a child’s finger.

He ran to the kitchen, seized up another candle and a knife, and returned to the bedroom. With shaking hands, he managed to manoeuvre one of the rolls from the cello’s body. Even before he’d finished unrolling the paper, he could see it was covered with Sonya’s neat miniature printing.

Dearest Mama, today was a good day and a bad day. Papa and I met an angry soldier who hit the Bronze Horse. Mr Shostakovich walked me home. He said you were one of the best cellists in Leningrad. I told him I only got to know you after you died.

Now his hands were shaking so violently that extracting the scrolls through the narrow curved slots seemed impossible. Out in the street, the sirens were screaming and loudspeakers blared. The house shook with frantically banging doors and running footsteps. Ignoring it all, he worked on until there was a small sliding pile of notes on the bed beside him.

Mama, I’m writing to you because I’m not sure you can hear me any more. The tanks are so
loud in the streets.

Today I played scales, no pieces. I want my fingers to be strong like yours
.
Papa said my C major was very good.

We had air-raid practice today. The Germans make everyone
scared
.

The low drone of the bombers had started, but Nikolai read on. His eyes stung, though once or twice he actually laughed.

I have to go to Pskov soon. I don’t want to but the Generals are making me go. I hope the cousins have learned not to eat with their mouths open.

Now the planes sounded as if they were right above the house; the whole world was shuddering. He stood up, still reading desperately — and at last he found what he needed.

Do you think instruments remember people? I do. Sometimes when I pick up the cello it wants to tell me about you. Now it has to remember me too, because I’m leaving tomorrow. But I’ll ask Papa to guard it with his life. Anyway, I’ll be back in Leningrad soon. Respectfully, Sonya.

At that moment, there was a sharp screaming sound, followed by a thundering roar. The whole building rocked. Books were thrown off shelves and pictures crashed to the floor. Suddenly Nikolai was surrounded by splintering glass and cracking wood. He ducked his head and fell to his knees by the bed, clutching the scrap of paper in his hand.

Orders

Shostakovich sat and stared at the stack of paper in front of him. For the past four days he’d barely left the room, moving feverishly between the desk and the piano. His eyes hurt and so did his right hand. But the previous night, around this time, he’d finished the adagio.

The elation had been short-lived but real. Flinging back his head, stretching his arms, he’d briefly congratulated himself. He’d done it — and in only twelve days, too. How proud his mother would be! How she would crow, clap her hands, and say, ‘Dmitri, you’re a living marvel!’ But she’d always been inordinately proud of him; if he did nothing more than brush his teeth, she’d pronounce he’d done a better job than any man in Russia.

After a few minutes, he’d realised how cold he was. In spite of his two pairs of socks, his feet were numb and his fingertips were white. Almost instantly, the old fear had started up again. He could barely remember where or how he’d started; the entire symphony had become cloudy, a muddle of themes, secondary themes and reiterated secondary themes. Where were the clean lines of the original idea?

He got up from the desk and paced along the wall, catching sight of himself in the small mirror as he did so. Red-eyed, stubble-chinned, he had the same gaunt look as a drunkard or a tramp. He couldn’t bear to glance at what he’d written; already, the certainty of the final bars had left him. To end by returning to the first subject — was this satisfying or merely predictable? He felt exposed and alone.

He opened the study door. ‘Nina?’ But everything was quiet, both inside the apartment and out in the street. He peered around the blackout blind
and through the criss-crossed tape, but there was no one about — the night-time curfew meant only the most foolish or desperate ventured out this late. ‘I miss voices,’ he whispered. ‘I miss ordinary life.’

He needed to talk to someone. The sense of anti-climax was as predictable as it was inevitable — though no easier to handle because of that. ‘Ivan Ivanovich. Where the hell are you when I need you?’ Restlessly he wandered around the room, taking a swig of cold unsweetened tea, spitting it out in the sink. He clattered a few glasses together and restacked a few plates, and soon, as he’d hoped, Nina appeared in the doorway, her hair in a long braid.

‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you!’ It was a lie. Just the sight of her made him feel better.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘On the contrary. Not ten minutes ago, I finished the third movement! It’s even — well, let’s say it’s satisfactory.’

‘That’s wonderful! Quite worth being woken up for.’ Though she still looked half asleep, Nina went to the cupboard and took out glasses and a bottle of vodka.

‘Three down, one to go.’ But as he sat down at the table he felt so tired he had no idea whether he could pick himself up again and launch into that most difficult of things, a symphonic finale to not only recap but also surpass everything that had gone before.

‘To the war symphony.’ Nina raised her glass.

‘To the end of war,’ said Shostakovich, refilling his.

Later, giddy with exhaustion and vodka, he led her into his workroom to show her the score paper spread out on top of the piano. She bent her head to scan the notes (did she hear anything of what he’d heard?), and he was at once distracted by the sight of her — the swell of her breasts under her nightgown, her nipples hard from the cold. How could he live so close to her, yet not notice her for weeks on end? He’d done it again: treated her as nothing more than a wife and mother, the provider of meals and manager of accounts, the staver-off of unwelcome attention and the smoother of social waters.

‘You’re so beautiful tonight!’ he murmured. ‘And I’m a blind fool.’ He pulled her hair out of its braid so it fell in a smooth black rush. ‘Why do you still love me?’ He led her to the divan then, and slipped her nightgown off over her head. She remained silent, but pulled him to her so closely it felt they would never separate again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, under his breath. ‘I’m sorry for my absences.’

When, much later, he woke in the still-dark morning, under a rough grey blanket, Nina had already gone — but his depression had disappeared, too, so he could fall back into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Now, he was at his desk again, the lust and the loving of the previous night almost forgotten, his stomach as empty as his head. At lunch, Nina had suggested that he rest for a day or two, but he’d shaken his head. ‘I must get on.’ He’d pushed away a lukewarm cup of borscht, made with no meat, very little beet and large amounts of cabbage water. ‘Who knows what will happen in the near future?’

For most of the afternoon he’d sat in his study but not written a note. Two trips to the bomb shelter within five hours — and he realised, with dismay, that the interruptions hadn’t been entirely unwelcome. He had no idea how to continue. How could he follow such unearthly, funereal music with anything at all, let alone a fourth movement that might inspire the starving Leningraders and satisfy the clamouring Party officials?

‘What the hell do they expect from me?’ He jabbed his pencil into the desk. ‘What do they want — and, more to the point, what do I want?’ This, he knew, was the whole problem. He’d made the fatal mistake of inviting in an audience before the work was completed. Had become conscious of the way other people might hear it, and now craved further applause — that rapturous applause offered to him on his birthday, as his friends praised his magnificent march and his lyrical scherzo. ‘The movements sing of Leningrad today and of Petrograd in the past!’ Izrail had had tears in his eyes. And Shostakovich had murmured ‘Yes’, though whether his assistant’s words were true was beyond knowing.

‘Between them, they have created a monster,’ he muttered — but the accusation was directed at himself. Now, when he needed encouragement once more, all he could hear was silence.