first two terms at the Conservatoire, Elias noticed his father’s cheeks becoming hollow and heard the breath rattling in his lungs. Instead of pity, he felt hatred. His contempt for his dying father grew with every new technique he learned and with every conversation he had with fellow students.
His father had taught him nothing, prepared him for nothing. He hadn’t shown Elias how to act around artists, nor coached him in the art of conversation. He’d sung neither hymns nor gypsy tunes, lullabies nor operas. He’d never even been to the opera. He hadn’t owned a decent suit, had never knotted a casual scarf around the throat like Professor Steinberg, nor worn an expensive jacket so carelessly that it ended up a nonchalant second skin.
Even Eliasberg’s highly honed skills of observation were not enough to save him. When he wore a long fur coat to the end-of-term recital — as he’d heard the famous Professor Glazunov had, when performing for Artur Schnabel and other esteemed visitors from the West — laughter started up at the back of the auditorium. It didn’t stop until he’d finished all three of his chosen Etudes, an interminable journey, at the end of which no recognisable vestige of Chopin remained.
Stumbling from the stage, he locked himself in one of the rehearsal rooms on the first floor. When the coast was clear, he crept back down to the empty auditorium and lay down in the wings behind the curtains, which smelt of mothballs, pressing his hot face against the cold floor.
After some time he heard footsteps on the stage.
‘Extraordinary decision to wear that coat.’ It was Professor Steinberg. ‘Shoulders, arms, spine, all restricted. Whatever possessed him?’
‘Pretensions, I suppose.’ Professor Ferkelman pushed in the piano stool with a screech. ‘He’s completely out of his depth.’
‘Socially, you mean?’ Steinberg’s voice grew more distant. ‘His work’s certainly up to scratch.’
‘His own worst enemy.’ Ferkelman’s voice, too, was further away. ‘Tries too hard to fit in … stands apart.’
When Elias finally reached home, he found his father sleeping. He stood over the bed, looking down at the diminished figure that had once — strange to remember! — represented authority. The body jutted through the threadbare sheet: haunches like a withered fox, a sharp march of ribs, one wasted arm lying across a rasping chest.
‘You’ve given me nothing but disadvantage,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You’ve taught me only what I don’t want to become. You have bestowed on me all the disadvantages of a narrow-minded, straight-laced upbringing. A life of endless scales and five-finger exercises, with no higher goal.’
He put his face close to his father’s, staring at the sunken cheeks and the stubble pushing through the yellow skin. The camphor fumes and the stuffy darkness made him as breathless as his dying father. ‘You pretended to be creative, but you were nothing but a craftsman,’ he said, backing away from the bed. ‘You were born and will die a bootmaker.’
That night he lay awake for a long time, hearing tomcats shrieking in the alleys and the monotonous trolley cars rattling by. Where did he belong? Not here in this family with its wafer-thin layer of culture, nor in the corridors of the Conservatoire, among those who referred to Mussorgsky as casually as the latest football scores and somehow knew the right time to discuss each.
Where do I fit in? He tossed and turned on the mattress. Being neither educated nor ignorant, he had ended up in no-man’s land, where rules couldn’t help him nor background support him. ‘I am an outsider,’ he whispered. ‘I am outside.’
The sharp embarrassment of the afternoon, the guilt at not doing justice to Chopin, the needling pain of the professors’ comments: these seeped out of him like black ink and disappeared into the darkness. Nothing could comfort him, apart from the chilly austere knowledge that he
His father had taught him nothing, prepared him for nothing. He hadn’t shown Elias how to act around artists, nor coached him in the art of conversation. He’d sung neither hymns nor gypsy tunes, lullabies nor operas. He’d never even been to the opera. He hadn’t owned a decent suit, had never knotted a casual scarf around the throat like Professor Steinberg, nor worn an expensive jacket so carelessly that it ended up a nonchalant second skin.
Even Eliasberg’s highly honed skills of observation were not enough to save him. When he wore a long fur coat to the end-of-term recital — as he’d heard the famous Professor Glazunov had, when performing for Artur Schnabel and other esteemed visitors from the West — laughter started up at the back of the auditorium. It didn’t stop until he’d finished all three of his chosen Etudes, an interminable journey, at the end of which no recognisable vestige of Chopin remained.
Stumbling from the stage, he locked himself in one of the rehearsal rooms on the first floor. When the coast was clear, he crept back down to the empty auditorium and lay down in the wings behind the curtains, which smelt of mothballs, pressing his hot face against the cold floor.
After some time he heard footsteps on the stage.
‘Extraordinary decision to wear that coat.’ It was Professor Steinberg. ‘Shoulders, arms, spine, all restricted. Whatever possessed him?’
‘Pretensions, I suppose.’ Professor Ferkelman pushed in the piano stool with a screech. ‘He’s completely out of his depth.’
‘Socially, you mean?’ Steinberg’s voice grew more distant. ‘His work’s certainly up to scratch.’
‘His own worst enemy.’ Ferkelman’s voice, too, was further away. ‘Tries too hard to fit in … stands apart.’
When Elias finally reached home, he found his father sleeping. He stood over the bed, looking down at the diminished figure that had once — strange to remember! — represented authority. The body jutted through the threadbare sheet: haunches like a withered fox, a sharp march of ribs, one wasted arm lying across a rasping chest.
‘You’ve given me nothing but disadvantage,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You’ve taught me only what I don’t want to become. You have bestowed on me all the disadvantages of a narrow-minded, straight-laced upbringing. A life of endless scales and five-finger exercises, with no higher goal.’
He put his face close to his father’s, staring at the sunken cheeks and the stubble pushing through the yellow skin. The camphor fumes and the stuffy darkness made him as breathless as his dying father. ‘You pretended to be creative, but you were nothing but a craftsman,’ he said, backing away from the bed. ‘You were born and will die a bootmaker.’
That night he lay awake for a long time, hearing tomcats shrieking in the alleys and the monotonous trolley cars rattling by. Where did he belong? Not here in this family with its wafer-thin layer of culture, nor in the corridors of the Conservatoire, among those who referred to Mussorgsky as casually as the latest football scores and somehow knew the right time to discuss each.
Where do I fit in? He tossed and turned on the mattress. Being neither educated nor ignorant, he had ended up in no-man’s land, where rules couldn’t help him nor background support him. ‘I am an outsider,’ he whispered. ‘I am outside.’
The sharp embarrassment of the afternoon, the guilt at not doing justice to Chopin, the needling pain of the professors’ comments: these seeped out of him like black ink and disappeared into the darkness. Nothing could comfort him, apart from the chilly austere knowledge that he
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