The Conductor (10 page)

His father had never cried — at least, not in front of Elias. Perhaps that explained the guilt that lay so heavily inside him? He stared at his reflection in his highly polished briefcase. The small dents in the leather made his face look battered; his cheekbone was caved in on one side and his left eye disappeared into his hair. And suddenly he was back in the hallway of the old Dimitrovsky Pereulok apartment, hearing his mother screaming so hysterically that the hair rose on the back of his neck. His grandfather was being carried in from the street by strangers, his head lolling, his neck bent at a strange angle. The men passed so close to Elias that he could have touched his grandfather’s bleeding face. There was a gaping hole where his nose should have been, bones gleamed through the flesh, and his eyes were two black swollen welts. ‘He was attacked near the station,’ said one of the men.

Mr Eliasberg appeared, to stare impassively at the wrecked body of his father. ‘We found him in a pool of blood,’ explained the unknown man, and Elias’s shrieking mother was led away to the kitchen by a neighbour while his father ordered that the body be carried into the back room. (The ‘body’! As if it were no one he knew!). And then the door of the back room slammed, leaving Elias alone in the hallway. Kneeling, he put his fingers in the pools of blood, and he was still crouched there when his dry-eyed father reappeared. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he barked. Elias looked up at him with bloodied lips, for he’d heard that if you tasted the blood of someone you admired you absorbed their attributes.

He remembered the taste as if it were only yesterday. His grandfather’s

blood had tasted of metal, like the railings of the Pantelimonov Bridge that he walked over every day to the market — there was no trace of courage and bravado in it. Instead, it had sent terror into him. He imagined its darkness spreading through his guts, poisoning his stomach, seeping into his brain and eventually driving him mad.

‘Is Grandfather dead?’ he’d quavered. Death had never been explained to him, but he knew that it had entered their house. ‘Go outside and play,’ ordered Mr Eliasberg, roughly wiping his son’s hands with an old workshop cloth. And Elias had gone to sit on the front steps with fingers that smelt of boot polish and were stained brown instead of red.

No, his father hadn’t cried, not even on seeing the broken body of his own father, a victim of random violence. When Elias asked him timidly why he hadn’t shed tears, his father had shrugged. ‘Tears?’ He sounded as if he didn’t fully understand the word. ‘You can’t bring back the past, nor change the present, with tears. What use are tears?’

What use indeed?
thought Elias. Why cry over a row with an oboist, when all it had done was make him late?

Outside the light was as bright as snow. He stood at the top of the steps for a moment, dazzled, before setting off blindly.
Wham!
He collided with a dark shape racing up the steps towards him. His briefcase flew out of his hand and hit the ground, the clasp burst open, and pages of Tchaikovsky soared through the air.

‘Oh, hell!’ He looked despairingly at his score, pages scattering like butterflies. ‘Bloody, bloody hell!’

‘Hell, indeed.’ The newcomer was none other than Dmitri Shostakovich. ‘Please forgive me! I was in such a hurry, I failed to see you.’ He ran back down onto the pavement and began gathering up great handfuls of paper, oblivious to the fact that he was blocking passers-by.

‘No matter.’ Elias tried to sound light-hearted. ‘The music is in no more of a mess than it was in the hands of my orchestra.’

Shostakovich gave a crack of laughter. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ he said, as if he hadn’t been aware of Elias’s identity until now. ‘It’s the conductor, Karl —’ He paused, pulled out a large handkerchief and sneezed heartily.

Please
, thought Elias, with a disproportionate desperation.
Please don’t forget my name, not today
.

‘Karl Eliasberg!’ Shostakovich removed his spectacles and wiped his eyes. ‘Eliasberg, the radio-master!’ He bent down to tug at a page pinned under the boot of a stout woman at the tram-stop. ‘If you please!

Kindly release the music of one of the world’s greatest composers. His work does
not
belong under your heel.’ Wiping the dusty sole-mark off the page, he handed a messy sheaf of paper to Elias. ‘Here. I hope that constitutes an entire symphony.’

Elias took the tattered bundle and tried to speak, but his tongue refused to work.

Shostakovich coughed. ‘I’m in rather a hurry, as you may have noticed from my hasty arrival. I’m simply dashing in to pick up some tickets left for me by Nikolai Nikolayev.’

‘Nikolai—’ stuttered Elias, glancing over his shoulder. ‘He is no longer — that is, I was the last —’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Shostakovich, slightly impatiently. ‘But he was recording here earlier today. I’m hoping — though not expecting, as Nikolai’s mind is as cloudy as a March morning — that he’s remembered to leave my tickets with the doorman. Tomorrow is a most important match. And if I miss it I will be most annoyed.’

‘M-m-match?’ Elias could have bitten his tongue out.

‘Football, of course.’ Shostakovich stared up at the glinting windows. ‘Not just one game, but two.’ With alarming rapidity, his attention switched back to Elias. ‘I don’t suppose you want to come, do you? Zenith is playing the Moscow Locomotives. Dementiyev has been drafted in from the Dynamos and he’s in top form!’

‘It’s d-d-difficult,’ said Elias.

‘Difficult? The game’s right here in Leningrad! Half an hour’s journey at most.’

‘It’s my mother. She’s a semi-invalid. It can be a bore, but as her only son —’

‘You
are
a Zenith supporter, I hope?’

‘Certainly,’ said Elias in an uncertain voice. ‘That is, I don’t know much about the sport but, were I to support anybody, it would be Zenith. If I ever made it to a match, I would be Dement … Dementi … that man’s biggest fan.’

Shostakovich nodded. ‘Zenith is the absolute best. One night when my wife was away, I invited the whole team to my home for supper. We had a tremendous time. One of them even knew how to play guitar.’

‘Is that so?’ Elias managed a small laugh. ‘Remarkable!’ He was trembling slightly. This might be his only chance to speak to Shostakovich on such intimate terms; he must do it now, yet it felt as risky as sticking his hand into a fire. ‘Will you permit me to say something I’ve long
wanted to say? I wish to t-t-t—’ But at this point his tongue seized up altogether, and he was eleven years old again, standing before his father who was shouting at him for stuttering like a ninny.

Shostakovich blew his nose, as if allowing Elias time to recover. Seconds dragged by. ‘You wished to tell me —?’

‘S-s-imply to s-s-say —’ He bit the inside of his cheek; blood welled inside his mouth. ‘Your Quintet! The power of your Quintet. The beauty! To capture such passion in such a restrained form. It is quite miraculous.’

‘Oh! Thank you! Thank you, indeed, for such praise.’ Shostakovich bent his head — perhaps in gratitude? — yet he sounded as if he wished he were somewhere else.

Now that his tongue was working, Elias couldn’t stop. ‘Your performance in the Moscow concert was miraculous. I travelled there overnight simply to hear you play. What a performance! So long since you’d played the piano, let alone one of your own works, but no one could rival you. Not Lev Oborin, not Sviatoslav Richter! Even if they’d rehearsed for a month of Sundays, if they’d slept with the score under their pillows — not even then could they know the notes as intimately as you. From where I sat, it seemed that the notes were pouring out, impromptu, from somewhere inside you.’ He stopped for breath, feeling immense relief.

What had he expected to see on Shostakovich’s face? Recognition? An acknowledgement that the second-rate radio-master, Mr Eliasberg, was worthy of sharing the secrets of a great composer?
What
, he asked himself bitterly,
did you expect?
For somewhere in the middle of his outpouring, it seemed, Shostakovich had stopped listening. He was glancing into the street, then up at the blank windows of the Radio Hall; he was shading his eyes, shuffling his feet, rummaging in his pocket.
He hadn’t listened
. And when he looked at Elias the sun glinted off his glasses and Elias was shut out. Blinded, winded, wounded. Alone again.

‘You really must excuse me.’ Shostakovich spoke from behind his shield of glass. ‘I’ll be in terrible trouble if I’m not home soon. Once again, I apologise for —’ he stared at the dirty score in Elias’s arms — ‘for that.’

Abruptly he turned on his heel and was gone.

At the fish market

E
lias made his way down Nevsky Prospect, trying not to think of anything at all. ‘I hate him,’ he muttered over and over again. ‘I hate him.’ His sweaty palm slipped on the handle of the briefcase, now filled with a crumpled mess of pages that he’d have to smooth out and press under heavy books once he’d put his mother to bed.

He’d reached the crowded marketplace of Gostiny Dvor before his breathing returned to normal. Entering the Clock Line, he pushed through a mass of people, not looking at faces. ‘An arrogant human cannonball,’ he mumbled, experiencing again the moment of collision, the wind knocked out of him, the briefcase flying from his hand. ‘I hate him. An arrogant son of a bitch who happened to have been born with a gift.
I hate him
.’

‘You want to buy?’ Someone was pressing closely to his side: wrinkled face, glazed eyes, toothless open mouth.

‘I hate him,’ he said again to the old woman pushing a handle of candles at him.

‘What’s to hate?’ queried the crone. ‘These are quality candles, damn your eyes.’

Elias shied away. ‘No candles. I’m not here for candles.’ He hurried on, straightening his jacket, attempting to remember that he was a professional working man. But there was a lament inside him: something had been lost. How could he ever listen to the soaring lines of the Quintet with the old appreciation? Even now, though the day was cooling, his cheekbones burned.

Fish
, he thought.
Got to buy fish. Don’t cry. Fish
.

Turning into the Haymarket, he came face to face with none other than Nina Shostakovich. It took all his willpower not to turn and run.
Don’t say it!
he thought desperately.
Don’t say
,
I hate your husband!

‘Mrs Shostakovich.’ He wiped his free hand on his jacket. ‘How do you do?’

‘Hello, Mr Eliasberg.’ Nina’s grip was cool and smooth. ‘How are you? I haven’t seen you for a very long time.’

‘My mother’s unwell. She’s in what you might call a decline.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ A small straight line appeared between Nina’s brows. ‘Is it serious?’

Elias thought of his mother’s hands pushing him into the kitchen, pulling him away from his work. ‘Let’s say that it’s been serious ever since she decided she no longer wished to cook, clean or queue for food. The decline has already lasted an eternity, it shows no sign of ending, and it often results in me arriving so late at the fish market that there’s nothing left to buy.’

Nina laughed. ‘You’re not so late. At least, not too late for codfish.’ She grimaced at the dry grey curls protruding from her basket.

‘One might say,’ joked Elias a little nervously, ‘that one is never late
enough
when it comes to codfish.’

‘Indeed.’ Nina laughed again. ‘Our domestic help, Fenya, often buys cod, and my husband loathes it. On the days when I come myself, I remember there’s often no other option.’

‘In these deprived times, codfish is as ubiquitous as the common cold,’ agreed Elias, ‘and seemingly as unavoidable.’

‘In fact, I’ve got too much here for one household. You’re welcome to some, if it would help to make you a little more … punctual.’

Elias stiffened. ‘Punctual?’ He’d heard the jokes told at his expense: how the Conservatoire staff watched from their windows, commenting on how fortunate it was that Leningrad had such a stickler for time, considering the unreliable reputation of the civic clock keepers. It was said that Ivan Sollertinsky wouldn’t start gathering up his lecture notes until Elias appeared around the corner of the press building, and that he departed for his 9 a.m. class at the precise moment Elias’s coat-tails disappeared behind the Pushkin fountain.

But there was no gleam of humour in Nina’s brown eyes. She looked as calm as she had in the days when Yelena Konstantinovskaya had usurped her place at Shostakovich’s side, causing opera-goers to stare
and housewives to gossip on their doorsteps. ‘I’ll get some extra paper from the vendor for you,’ she offered.

‘Thank you! But no, thank you!’ As always, Elias became flustered in the face of kindness. ‘However hungry she is, my mother won’t touch codfish. Anything dried creates mayhem with her gums. It gets —’ he stuck his finger in his mouth to demonstrate — ‘schtuck in the holsh.’

‘Well, one evening when there’s something a little tastier than cod on our table, you and your mother must come for supper. I’m sure my husband would like to hear more about where you studied.’

‘Most kind of you.’ Elias flushed. ‘In fact, I studied at the Conservatoire here in Leningrad. With your husband.’

Nina’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Is that so? He often talks about his fellow students from that time, but I’ve never heard him mention you. Surely you didn’t study under Maximilian Steinberg?’

‘Rimsky-Korsakov’s son-in-law? Indeed I did. A little conservative in his methods, but a fine teacher.’

‘I don’t remember you being at the reunion party for Maximilian’s students. Were you there last year, in our Bolshaya Pushkarskaya apartment?’

‘Ah, no.’ He shuffled his feet and looked over the heads of the shoppers with a desperate nonchalance. ‘I must s-s-s- … I must
confess
, I didn’t have the pleasure of attending that party.’

‘I hope you were invited. I thought Dmitri had extended invitations to all his ex-classmates. If you were overlooked, I offer my belated but most sincere apologies.’