Read Online The Conductor by Sarah Quigley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Quigley
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He spoke to the whispering dust on the floorboards, to the creaking springs of the wedding bed given to him by his mother (an attempt to prove she didn’t mind her son marrying a most unsuitable girl). ‘Bored, so bored, at our petty and predictable human ways.’
Somewhere in the house a door slammed. He stiffened and watched the branches tap at the window. Who could be up and about at this time, except composers and drunkards? He knew he was watched — for all he knew, Stalin’s men were watching right now, crouched in one of the buildings opposite. For some years he’d kept a bag in a cupboard on the landing: two clean undershirts, a toothbrush and razor, pencils and score paper. ‘I won’t let them have the satisfaction of a public removal,’he vowed to Nina. ‘I won’t have my children remembering their father being forcibly taken from his home.’
The knife-edge danger of being public property, the possibility of falling from grace at any time — these were constant fears. The stifling irritation of daily existence was another problem altogether.
‘There’s nothing new under the sun,’ he’d complained recently to Nina.
‘You’re always saying you need a monotonous existence to work properly.’ Annoyingly, Nina had the abilities of a court lawyer, reproducing his most sweeping pronouncements as evidence against him.
He shrugged away his own words. ‘It’s not healthy, being able to predict what will happen.’
‘What will happen?’ she asked, mocking him slightly.
‘I will crank out another movement of a piano quartet, my students will surprise me with their stupidity. Maxim will learn a few more words, Galina will learn another way of tricking her grandmother at cards. Hitler will continue his march. Churchill will continue to be exasperated by Roosevelt. Stalin will stick his head more deeply in the sand.’
But in the past few days the heaviness had become altogether more than this. On the surface, life proceeded at its usual pace, but Shostakovich felt as if some menace lay clenched under the city, ready to uncoil and spring.
Was that a rat scrabbling in the wall beside the bed? He thought he felt something run across his face — rasping claws, a dragging leathery slither, a foul breath mixing with his — and he shivered. His insomnia was like a plague; already the fever was starting in his joints. He dipped his finger in a glass of water and smoothed the moisture over his hot eyelids. ‘Sleep now,’ he said, as if he were talking to Maxim.
But his mind was stretched as tightly as rope. Out of nowhere came Herr Lehmann, the German diplomat who had fled the city, marching with his family along a wide road. Legs bent in perfect unison, swinging out and back, joined by a single note — was it a repeated C? — which moved their limbs like strings on puppets. Their feet pointed straight ahead, never deviating from the black-ink markings on the road. (Five parallel markings: now it was recognisable as a musical stave.) The Lehmanns moved unerringly forward, turning only their heads as they peered from side to side, searching for their home country.
A pattern started up in his head, rising and falling in regular peaks. ‘C to G,’ he muttered. ‘C to G.’ Trapped in an endlessly repeated progression, he could neither struggle awake nor escape, and he was filled with dread. ‘Steady,’ he mumbled. ‘Focus on what you know.’ But the white mouldedceiling, the mantelpiece clock, the glass of water: all had vanished. Thudding boots shook the bed, and he saw the machine-like movement of a hundred bodies, flashing teeth, the sun glancing off the curve of an eagle’s beak. Through the din emerged Sollertinsky’s mocking voice. ‘Don’t you understand? The Germans are evacuating.’
Helplessly, Shostakovich watched the lines of people marching away. When one of the women turned, he thought he knew her. ‘Nina?’ But as she began striding back towards him, her face blurred and
Somewhere in the house a door slammed. He stiffened and watched the branches tap at the window. Who could be up and about at this time, except composers and drunkards? He knew he was watched — for all he knew, Stalin’s men were watching right now, crouched in one of the buildings opposite. For some years he’d kept a bag in a cupboard on the landing: two clean undershirts, a toothbrush and razor, pencils and score paper. ‘I won’t let them have the satisfaction of a public removal,’he vowed to Nina. ‘I won’t have my children remembering their father being forcibly taken from his home.’
The knife-edge danger of being public property, the possibility of falling from grace at any time — these were constant fears. The stifling irritation of daily existence was another problem altogether.
‘There’s nothing new under the sun,’ he’d complained recently to Nina.
‘You’re always saying you need a monotonous existence to work properly.’ Annoyingly, Nina had the abilities of a court lawyer, reproducing his most sweeping pronouncements as evidence against him.
He shrugged away his own words. ‘It’s not healthy, being able to predict what will happen.’
‘What will happen?’ she asked, mocking him slightly.
‘I will crank out another movement of a piano quartet, my students will surprise me with their stupidity. Maxim will learn a few more words, Galina will learn another way of tricking her grandmother at cards. Hitler will continue his march. Churchill will continue to be exasperated by Roosevelt. Stalin will stick his head more deeply in the sand.’
But in the past few days the heaviness had become altogether more than this. On the surface, life proceeded at its usual pace, but Shostakovich felt as if some menace lay clenched under the city, ready to uncoil and spring.
Was that a rat scrabbling in the wall beside the bed? He thought he felt something run across his face — rasping claws, a dragging leathery slither, a foul breath mixing with his — and he shivered. His insomnia was like a plague; already the fever was starting in his joints. He dipped his finger in a glass of water and smoothed the moisture over his hot eyelids. ‘Sleep now,’ he said, as if he were talking to Maxim.
But his mind was stretched as tightly as rope. Out of nowhere came Herr Lehmann, the German diplomat who had fled the city, marching with his family along a wide road. Legs bent in perfect unison, swinging out and back, joined by a single note — was it a repeated C? — which moved their limbs like strings on puppets. Their feet pointed straight ahead, never deviating from the black-ink markings on the road. (Five parallel markings: now it was recognisable as a musical stave.) The Lehmanns moved unerringly forward, turning only their heads as they peered from side to side, searching for their home country.
A pattern started up in his head, rising and falling in regular peaks. ‘C to G,’ he muttered. ‘C to G.’ Trapped in an endlessly repeated progression, he could neither struggle awake nor escape, and he was filled with dread. ‘Steady,’ he mumbled. ‘Focus on what you know.’ But the white mouldedceiling, the mantelpiece clock, the glass of water: all had vanished. Thudding boots shook the bed, and he saw the machine-like movement of a hundred bodies, flashing teeth, the sun glancing off the curve of an eagle’s beak. Through the din emerged Sollertinsky’s mocking voice. ‘Don’t you understand? The Germans are evacuating.’
Helplessly, Shostakovich watched the lines of people marching away. When one of the women turned, he thought he knew her. ‘Nina?’ But as she began striding back towards him, her face blurred and
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