3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  ‘Are you ready yet?’ Sonya stood in front of him, her hair tied back in a red ribbon and her cardigan buttoned. Her feet were in a dancer’s first position, together at the heels, turned out at the toes.

  ‘Your shoes are very shiny! Positively gleaming!’ Nikolai returned from the past with a double-edged shock: pleasure at the sight of Sonya undermined by a sharp regret. The passing of time was not altogether a blessing. He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the pale oval face, but it had gone. There were days now when he couldn’t remember the colour of her hair and, desperately, he would search the world outside the window for the exact shade to bring her back to him. On other days he realised that he’d never looked carefully enough at the curve of her neck or the shape of her feet, so that these, too, were slipping from his memory.

  Sonya was looking at her shoes. ‘I spat on them,’ she confided, ‘because I couldn’t find where Aunt Tanya had put the polish.’

  ‘Aunt Tanya is an exceedingly tidy woman,’ agreed Nikolai. ‘Sometimes I think she’d like to tidy away the grass and the trees, and probably the Neva River. Nature is a little too unruly for Aunt Tanya.’

  Sonya glanced at Nikolai’s desk. Every drawer was bulging open and scores were piled high, teetering like stacks of pancakes. ‘I suppose there’s a place in this world for every type,’ she said diplomatically.

  ‘You’d make an excellent politician,’ said Nikolai. ‘Perhaps we should send you to America — you’d be President in no time.’

  ‘No!’ Sonya ran to him. ‘I can’t leave you. I belong here in Leningrad. This is where I belong.’

  Her arms tightened, noose-like, around Nikolai’s neck, and the familiar panic rose in him, as strong as it had ever been.

  ‘Don’t make me go away!’ Sonya was breathing fast and her forehead was slimy with sweat.

  ‘I was only joking, Mouse,’ said Nikolai quickly. ‘It’s not a good time to go anywhere with the spreading of this wretched war.’

  His words appeared to calm Sonya. At the mention of separation, it was as if her heart had flown apart, fragments hammering in her wrists and temples. Now, almost instantly, her pulse slowed to normal. ‘The war,’ she said, with unmistakable relief. ‘As long as this war goes on, we all have to stay put. No one will go away — not you, not Aunty, not the Gessen kids or Maxim Shostakovich. Am I right?’

  ‘You are.’ Nikolai kicked off his slippers. ‘I’ll go and comb my hair, and then it’s time for some fun!’

  In the bathroom, he leaned on the washstand and breathed deeply. ‘Eight years and five months,’ he said, staring into the cracked basin. ‘Eight years, five months and three days.’ His whisper slipped into the slimy web of hair and soap at the bottom of the bowl, and was gone. When he looked in the mirror, his eyes were watery, and he wiped them with a greyish towel.

  Shostakovich had been the only one to whom Nikolai had been able to tell the shameful truth, partly because of the way the composer sat in on rehearsals: implacable, impassive, seemingly emotionless. Even when hearing his music mangled, his face betrayed nothing. There he sat for twenty or thirty minutes, listening to Mravinsky wrestle with the Philharmonic: starting, stopping, reprimanding the bassoonist or chastising the flutes. And still he would sit in the fourth or fifth row, as silent and immobile as a wax cast, as if the torrent pouring from wide-open brass mouths, from bows and wrists, had nothing to do with him.

  Occasionally, on days when his favourite football team had lost a match or he hadn’t slept, he would break his customary silence. ‘That solo must be pianissimo!’ he would shout. ‘Pianissimo, I said!’ The contrast between the delivery of his request and what he actually wanted might have provoked a joke or two, if the combination of Mravinsky and Shostakovich hadn’t been so formidable — and if the Great Hall of the Philharmonia hadn’t had acoustics (it was said) that enabled a fart from the percussionist’s backside to be heard by an eighty-year-old in the back stalls.

  ‘It’s not marked in the score.’ Mravinsky, defending his orchestra, regarded Shostakovich steadily. ‘See? No dynamic markings at all.’ The greater Shostakovich’s rage, the calmer Mravinsky remained. He was generally considered to be the only person in the world, with the exception of Shostakovich’s wife, who was not afraid of the composer’s sharp, though short-lived, tempers.

  Shostakovich would stride to the podium and scribble on the score. ‘It must have been omitted. To be true to the music, I should write pppppp. To be kind to your musicians, I will settle for pp. I’m sorry if it’s difficult to play, but there’s nothing I can do about it. High G, pianissimo, end of argument.’

  Such detachment, combined with such certainty! It was as if the man was able to separate completely: from his own work, from his family, from life itself. His students, piqued and fascinated by this, had nicknamed him ‘the man from Mars’ — and it was this same quality that made Nikolai believe he could unburden himself to no other person but Shostakovich. For months he’d remained silent, not wanting to risk condemnation.

  But one evening in May, thin, weak, with shaking hands, he’d met Shostakovich in the Summer Garden and they’d taken a walk. The long promenade was crowded, mostly with couples strolling quietly under the full canopy of the lime trees. Nikolai looked down as he talked, scuffing the toes of his blistered boots.

  Shostakovich listened all the way to the end of his story before speaking. ‘You’re afraid of loving too much?’

  Above them swallows darted and turned in mid-air. Nikolai ducked his head away from the shadows and sank down on the nearest bench. ‘I was the one who wanted her to have the child. She was uncertain — she was always uncertain — but I begged her!’ His words came out in a loud embarrassing cry, and he closed his eyes, remembering that evening. Sitting by the window, she appeared to him in silhouette. Her profile was etched against the bright light: the small rounded chin, the tilted nose, and eyelashes so indecently long they were the envy of every woman in Leningrad. ‘Your career will always be waiting for you,’ he’d reassured her. The truth was, at that moment he scarcely cared about her brilliant career. Her career wasn’t going to provide him with a replica of that profile, that straight back, that soft but intense voice.

  ‘That was all I wanted.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘I loved her so much, you see. I wanted to be sure that a part of her went on, even after we’d both departed. I didn’t think of the danger.’

  ‘She died of influenza,’ said Shostakovich.

  ‘Yes, but weakened by childbirth!’ Nikolai could hardly breathe. ‘Because of illness caused by childbirth, and depression after childbirth —’

  ‘And now you’re trying not to love the baby? I have to tell you, my friend, it seems slightly illogical to me.’

  ‘Not illogical. Ironic, perhaps. If my love destroyed my wife, it’s going to do the same to my daughter. I can’t allow myself.’ Nikolai put his head down on his knees. ‘To tell the truth, I can’t bring myself to look at her. I can’t go near her.’

  It was the worst admission he’d ever made, and it was true. When Tanya called to him to come quickly (Baby was smiling! Baby was pointing!), he pretended not to hear. He would bend stubbornly over the papers he was correcting, or turn up the radio to cover the murmuring in the next room. At night he paused beside the closed door, but the handle felt resistant to his touch. Keep out, it warned. You are the carrier of danger and death. Then he turned away from the quiet breathing within the dim room, calling to Tanya that he had to go back to work, he’d forgotten something; and then he would stride for hours along the canal, crossing every bridge he came to, back and forwards in a meaningless trickery of a route that seemed to offer escape but led nowhere, especially not away from himself. When he arrived once more at the apartment door, he was slick with guilt, as if he’d visited a whorehouse and sunk, finally, into depravity.

  ‘I don’t want to love her,’ he said, looking at Shostakovich who was sitting upright beside him. His profile was as sharp and bold as if it had been
hacked from the side of a mountain, and Nikolai waited numbly to hear himself condemned.

  A few small boys ran across the avenue, kicking a ball, sand flying up behind their feet. Nikolai leaned back on the bench and felt the slats dig into his back. He was skin and bone, as Tanya was always telling him when she removed his untouched soup and bread.

  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 woul
dn’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 —