by Fay Weldon
‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘Hope for a bad dress rehearsal, Petrov.’
‘I certainly will.’ Frail as he was, Petrov looked exceedingly determined.
‘But don’t aim for total disaster!’ added Elias, alarmed.
With the storm gathering outside, the light in the hall became increasingly dim, and the cracked white columns towered like tall trees. Two soldiers were setting out chairs on the stage. The clattering and thudding were both familiar and foreign — it seemed like a lifetime since Elias had last heard them.
He watched for a minute, then stepped forward. ‘I’d like you to place out some extra chairs.’
‘Sir?’ The younger soldier looked up. ‘But we’ve been told the exact number required.’
‘I want a spare chair there.’ Elias walked among the rows, pointing. ‘One there, and there, and there.’ This would be his private tribute to those unable to play — including Alexander, his long-time adversary, and Nikolai, his new friend. ‘The chairs will remain empty,’ he said to the soldiers. ‘A memorial for the musicians we’ve lost to the war.’
The orchestra had begun to straggle in, damp-haired, pale-faced. They unpacked in silence, keeping on their coats and their fingerless gloves. The bulky clothes did nothing to hide their emaciation; it was as if the near-unendurable winter they’d been through still lurked in their bones, hampering their movements and slowing their reflexes. As they took their seats, their expressions were half-determined and half-fearful: a Herculean task lay ahead, and they knew they were ill-equipped to meet it.
Elias tried to sound calm. ‘Today is an important day for us,’ he announced over the rattle of rain on the windows. ‘For the first time, we will play the Seventh Symphony in its entirety. If you feel faint during a solo, you may rest only after it’s over. Please remember — I’m depending on you. Leningrad is depending on you.’
Thunder groaned above the building, and the musicians shuffled their feet nervously. Elias heard a noise behind him: a few uniformed officials, armed with notebooks and clipboards, were being ushered into the front row. He bowed to each in turn, recognising only the wan Yasha Babushkin and the burlier Boris Zagorsky.
He turned back to the orchestra and gestured to the oboe. ‘An A, please.’ Thankfully, his voice sounded reasonably steady.
Once the tuning up had flared and died away, he removed his hat and placed it beside him on the floor. ‘I considered keeping this on so as not to hear any mistakes. But I’m never at my professional best with a dead animal on my head.’
The musicians laughed, a small ripple that rolled away into the dark wings. They were on his side now, and they were ready to begin.
The light had grown so dim he could barely see the score. Why couldn’t they have provided a generator for today? Did things have to be so difficult, right to the end? He raised his music stand a notch, and wiped his baton on his handkerchief; the waft of camphor made him suddenly miss his mother. With a small sigh, he raised his arms.
He was keenly aware of the men behind him, watching attentively, pens poised ready to note his failings. But even more than this he felt the absence of those far more capable of assessment than these tight-lipped political officials. There was no Shostakovich to listen with tilted head, tapping an unlit cigarette on his knee. No Sollertinsky lolling in an aisle seat, affecting nonchalance yet absorbing everything. No Mravinsky poised on the podium, with his distinguished profile set in concentration. But of course, if Mravinsky were here —
There’s only me! With slight surprise, Elias brought down his baton, and the first chords sounded full and certain through the dusty hall. Next the trumpets and timpani broke the line of the strings with their repeated, urgent two-note motif. Was it the stormy light that was transforming the sunken-cheeked brass players into powerful men whose insistent notes pulled the orchestra into line and began the ominous game of cat-and-mouse?
Instinctively, he glanced at the string section, searching for Nikolai’s half-smile of concentration. Nothing but an empty chair — Nikolai had already been flown out of Leningrad in a flimsy plane, swallowed up by the blood-red sky of evening.
And when he looked for Nina Bronnikova, he saw the piano standing silent and closed like a shuttered window. Some days earlier Nina had strained her wrist, and the doctor had emphasised to Elias several times that she needed rest. ‘If she’s forced to play the dress rehearsal, she’ll never make it through the performance,’ he’d warned, as if knowing that, when it came to this concert, Elias’s attitude bordered on the fanatical. Nonetheless —
I need her here, he cried silently, his baton slicing through the air, bringing forth a harsh high C from the flutes and the oboes. Panic rose inside him. He was so alone! One man to lead so many — he didn’t know if he had the strength for it. And such a long way to go. He felt weak at the thought of the hundreds of pages ahead.
There were ragged entrances and a few botched solos. At one stage Vedernikov turned white and sank back in his chair, and the notes from his flute became patchy and faint. But the music had its own momentum, rolling like a boulder down a gradual slope. All Elias could do was to guide it, hold it back, prevent it from rushing. Slow down! he mouthed at Petrov, and miraculously Petrov took in the command and did what he was asked, pulling the whole orchestra back with him, so that the long first movement marched on with inexorable dread to its ending.
Behind Elias the air seemed to stir, but he heard no sound. Had his listeners been moved by the strength of the music? There was no way of knowing, but as he entered the lilting second movement the weight lifted from his shoulders. The symphony has its own life, he reminded himself. You don’t have to carry it alone.
Then, pausing only for a second, the orchestra was treading softly into the adagio, its echoing phrases so plaintive and beautiful that, in spite of their familiarity, the hair on Elias’s neck stood on end.
Finally — he signalled to the snare drum — they were rattling into the war-like fourth movement. ‘Non troppo!’ he mouthed. ‘Allegro non troppo!’ This was the movement that had caused him so many headaches — military fanfares from a depleted brass section, fast precise pizzicato from inexperienced strings — and now, perversely, he didn’t want the ordeal to end. But they were almost there, forging into a C major coda that sounded respectably loud. The churning woodwind, the hammering unison strings, the pounding drum duplets — and then an extended moment of silence, and the release.
Where had the strength come from? It seemed as if he’d been infused with the energy of the composers whose music had thundered through this hall. Borodin, Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, Scriabin, Stravinsky, Glazunov — not to mention all the conductors who had stood on the podium like lone men before a firing squad. Mravinsky, who’d brought Shostakovich’s Fifth to a close amid tumultuous applause; and, nearly fifty years earlier, Tchaikovsky conducting his own Sixth Symphony nine days before his death. All those restless, knowledgeable, egotistical men were there, ranged behind Elias — but they were no longer a threat to him. He let his head hang forward, and sweat poured from his forehead. For the first time in his life he stood shoulder to shoulder with these men, rather than confronting them.
The aftermath was a blur of elated exhaustion. He was aware of Babushkin clapping him on the shoulder, murmuring ‘Quite adequate’, and Zagorsky and his assistants departing with slightly smug approval, repeating phrases like ‘That should do the trick’. Then he watched the odd process of an orchestra disintegrating, the unified body fragmenting into separate musicians. Sinking into a chair, he announced there would be no rehearsal for the next two days. He would hold a brief meeting the following morning, to talk them through the symphony — not everything had been acceptable, in spite of the official approval — but otherwise the musicians should rest as much as possible.
‘Considering the rather extraordinary conditions,’ he said, ‘you’re not expected to perform in tuxedoes or evening dresses — although you may be relieved to hear that I won
’t be treating the public to this enchanting ensemble.’ He glanced down at his holed woollen jacket and trousers. ‘Believe it or not, I still have a tuxedo, which on several occasions escaped being used for fuel or foot-rags, mainly because it was fit for neither.’ There was a ripple of laughter. ‘Two final things,’ he added. ‘First, I’ve been assured that we will have electric light for the performance. And secondly, Comrade Zhdanov has announced that there will be a banquet after the concert.’ He paused, tightening his belt another notch. ‘So make sure you don’t eat too much beforehand.’ The orchestra laughed at this, too.
Once he was alone, he walked into the auditorium and sat down in the middle of the fifth row. His body ached as if he’d been set upon by a street gang, punched and kicked all over. He stared down at his hands. Ten long years of conducting: had the whole of the last decade led up to this week? Or would he and his patchwork band be forgotten once the Germans were driven back? Would their efforts be remembered if — he clenched his hands and corrected himself — once Leningrad was freed? Once the elite swept back into the city, and the Philharmonia stage was filled again with its proper heroes, those elegant professionals plucked from Russia’s finest academies, playing perfectly restored eighteenth-century instruments?
As the effects of the adrenaline faded, so too did his euphoric relief. To play the symphony in its entirety was an achievement, but the performance had been far from perfect — the timing was off, for a start. He checked his watch again. Seventy-three minutes. Where had the time been lost? Perhaps the third movement, in the final reprise of the main theme: the violas had felt heavy and sluggish. Or possibly the pizzicato section in the fourth movement, which had felt overly articulated and not sufficiently frenzied. Three minutes slow. Should he order a section rehearsal tomorrow, after all?
Nikolai, of course, would laugh at this. ‘Three minutes? Twenty minutes is gross negligence; three minutes is artistic licence.’ But Elias knew exactly how long each movement was intended to be, for Shostakovich had specified timings in a letter to Nikolai. He hadn’t written that the first movement lasted ‘about’ twenty-five minutes, or that the scherzo was ‘roughly’ eight. When it came to work, Shostakovich used absolutes, a language that Elias fully understood. Having seen the numerals written in Shostakovich’s own hand, he’d copied them neatly into his workbook. By the time he’d been ordered to conduct the symphony, the four-part timing was mapped out already in his head.
Frowning, he looked along the empty row. He imagined Shostakovich a few seats away, mouth pursed, eyebrows lowered. What would he have said about today? He never held back when voicing opinions on conductors, even the best and most internationally renowned. Toscanini? A conceited tyrant with the sloppy working habits of the near-sighted! In spite of his hatred of flying, Shostakovich would travel to America himself to prevent Toscanini from butchering another of his symphonies. Leopold Stokowski, on the other hand, was relatively talented, his free-hand technique quite effective, and he’d done a reasonable job on Symphonies One, Three and Six — but he was a little too fond of theatrical stunts to inspire complete trust. Closer to home, it was much the same. ‘I admire anyone who can control the Bolshoy Orchestra,’ Shostakovich had reportedly said, ‘but, to be honest, I don’t think Samosud will ever be a great symphonic conductor.’ Even the dignified Mravinsky occasionally came under fire for paying too much attention to detail and neglecting the overall plan.
Yes, I know what you think of the others. Elias kept his eyes fixed on Shostakovich’s favoured concert-hall seat. And I’m fully aware of your opinion of conductors: that we’re craftsmen rather than artists, interpreters rather than speakers. I’m not asking for your approval — but could you tell me your opinion of today? What did you really think?
The hall stretched silently around him. The only sound was the faint creaking of his seat. Along the row Shostakovich was staring straight ahead, the unruly lock of hair springing forward over his eyes. He was visible, but not quite solid. The cracked white wall showed through the weave of his suit jacket, the back of his head was blurred like a badly developed photograph. By concentrating very hard, Elias managed to make him less transparent. Then, in a familiar gesture, Shostakovich’s hand moved to stroke his chin. His lips were opening, he was about to say something —
‘Karl Elias?’
Elias leapt up, banging his knee against the seat in front of him. It was Nina Bronnikova, making her way along the row towards him.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ she asked. ‘Are you still working?’
Had he been talking out loud, or had his conversation with Shostakovich remained safely in his imagination? ‘Not working. Not really.’ He shook his head. ‘I missed … That is, you missed hearing the dress rehearsal. We finished half an hour ago.’
‘No, I heard all of it. I sat right at the back, so as not to distract you.’
In the dim light her face looked paler than ever, and the dark rings under her eyes emphasised her frailty. Her wrist was bandaged, her black jacket was holed, her injured leg was thin. She was lovely. She was perfect.
‘What did you think?’ he asked casually, though his cheeks were burning.
‘It went extraordinarily well.’ She sat down beside him. ‘Brilliantly, really.’
‘I wouldn’t say brilliantly. In fact, we lost three minutes along the way. But they did well, for a recycled bunch.’
‘Zagorsky and the others were impressed. They were talking of positioning speakers towards the front line so everyone can hear the concert — not only our soldiers, but also the Germans. To make them realise that Leningrad will never be defeated.’
‘Really? My God, I hope we can live up to the challenge.’ He paused, reached out and nearly touched her arm, withdrew his hand again. ‘But how’s the wrist? I hope you’re not in too much pain.’
‘It’s going to be fine. It must be! I’m determined not to disappoint anyone.’
‘You could never disappoint.’ He said it instantly, without thinking. ‘Least of all me.’ He flushed again, yet he didn’t regret saying it.
‘Thank you.’ Nina looked at him. ‘You once told me you were no good at paying compliments, do you remember? But the things you say to me —’ Quickly, she brushed her hand across her eyes. ‘They make me feel as if I’m the luckiest person in the world.’
Elias ducked his head, staring down at his shoes. ‘Oh, no, I’m the lucky one. Knowing … knowing you.’ He wanted desperately to leave this echoing hall, to walk through the streets and talk to her about things other than symphonies and the siege. Would it be inappropriate to ask her back for some tea?
‘I stayed behind,’ she said, reaching into her bag, ‘because I wanted to give you this.’
‘Oh! What is it?’ He took the small flat parcel. ‘A p-p-present? For me?’
‘It’s just something I thought you should have,’ said Nina with a smile.
‘M-m-many thanks! I can’t remember the last time I was given a present.’ Flustered, Elias fumbled at the layers of newspaper.
Under the dirty wrappings there was a soft grey cloth, and inside the cloth was a little charcoal portrait, with the paper slightly torn round the edges.
Elias gasped. ‘It’s him! It’s Shostakovich!’ He scrutinised the face. ‘But he’s so young here, just a boy. Where did you get this?’
‘It was made by Kustodiev. I was a friend of his daughter. After he died, Irina asked me to give it to Shostakovich, but he wouldn’t take it. He said he’s allergic to portraits of himself.’
‘It’s by Kustodiev?’ Elias looked at the signature. ‘One of the most famous artists of his time. Wasn’t he crippled?’
‘Yes, he worked from a wheelchair. Shostakovich went to school with Irina, and sometimes he stopped by their house after class to play the piano for Kustodiev. That’s when the portrait was made.’
‘But this is really worth something. If you don’t want it any longer, you ought to sell it.’
‘If I’d wante
d to sell it I would have done so in December, when I thought I might die of hunger. No, I want you to have it.’
‘But why — why me?’
‘Shostakovich once told Irina he’d learnt a lot from her father. About struggling on under any circumstances — and also that, sometimes, working can save you. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.’
Elias liked the portrait so much he could hardly breathe. ‘Look! Even at that age he had that … that resolve.’ It was true: the stubborn perseverance was there in the smudged adolescent face, the truculent eyes suggesting he was driven by something not entirely within his control. ‘Thank you so much,’ he said, wrapping it up again carefully. ‘I’ll treasure it.’
‘Well, I should go.’ Nina stood up. ‘You must be exhausted.’
‘Don’t go!’ blurted Elias. ‘At least, perhaps we could go —’ He took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps we could go together? You’d be welcome to come back to my apartment for some tea.’
Nina nodded. ‘Thank you! That would be lovely.’
When they emerged onto the street they found the storm clouds had cleared and the sky was a deep turquoise. Sunlight slanted across the broken rooftops, casting strange shadows on the wet pavements. They walked slowly, on account of Nina’s injured leg and Elias’s exhaustion. ‘It’s not far now,’ said Elias, every now and then.
Later he couldn’t remember what they talked about. What he did remember was how, pausing at street corners or crossings, he would glance at her clear profile and the curve of her neck, and feel as if he were already home.
It felt odd opening the door to the apartment and ushering Nina inside. He’d spent so little time here since his mother had died. Soft dust lay on every surface, and the air felt thick with grief and silence. As he looked around, the memories and the exhaustion overcame him and he began to shake all over. Very carefully, he laid the portrait on the table and covered his face with his hands.
