Great Historical Novels (74 page)

She shrugged. ‘I never listened to gossip, even before the war began.’

‘Nor I. Gossip distracts one from working. It’s a good reason to avoid parties such as this.’ He stared across the room. It had been a mistake to come. Had he learnt nothing from toiling through six symphonies and an opera? From struggling with sonatas and concertos, quartets and quintets, song-cycles, ballet scores and film scores? How did he manage to forget, every single time, that the initial stages of a work demanded constant attention?

‘Speaking of work,’ asked Nina Bronnikova, ‘when will you be going?’

‘I must stay for a while, at least.’ Shostakovich took a gulp of his vodka. ‘Sollertinsky is my best friend. And it was quite an effort for my wife to get me here.’

Nina Bronnikova laughed. ‘I wasn’t referring to the party, but to evacuation plans. The Kirov is leaving within a week.’

He took another swallow of vodka; already its effects were making him feel stronger. ‘I’m not going. I intend to stay in Leningrad as long as possible. If the Luftwaffe attacks, the fire brigade will need extra volunteers.’

‘You’ll stay and fire-watch?’ She looked surprised. ‘Are you allowed to do that?’

‘At first they refused to let me dig ditches. Now I’ve been digging
ditches for three weeks. If incendiaries start to fall, how can they refuse another set of hands?’

‘You have rather famous hands.’

‘I’ve got a will of my own, even if my hands and my mind are claimed by the State.’ For once he didn’t glance over his shoulder to see who might be listening. ‘Besides, as long as I continue providing tunes for their infernal brass bands, they have no grounds for complaint.’

‘I hope my husband isn’t depressing you.’ His wife appeared at his side, glancing at him to check he was all right but addressing Nina Bronnikova. ‘He finds the initial stages of anything difficult — although once a party warms up, he becomes its life and soul.’

‘Far from depressing me, he’s inspired me! Choosing to stay in Leningrad, with the Germans at our very gates, displays a sense of duty most of us couldn’t hope to possess.’

‘Duty?’ Nina Shostakovich’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can’t help thinking that “duty” has become the most overused word in our society, not to mention a defence of any number of atrocities. Is it one’s duty to remain in an increasingly dangerous situation — or rather to remove one’s children to safety? Duty to one’s country also necessitates safeguarding its future.’

‘We don’t know if it is any safer,’ said Shostakovich loudly, ‘to send children out of the city. Look at the disaster that happened in June! Children put on trains, sent directly into the path of the enemy and brought back again.’

‘The issue isn’t only about evacuating the children,’ replied his wife sharply. ‘It’s also about safeguarding yourself, so your children can grow up with a father.’

How swiftly the conversation had shifted from the impersonal to the personal! He felt the same longing to escape as he had when a boy. Now, too old to run and too civilised to withdraw, he said nothing and stared down into his glass.

‘It’s a many-sided debate,’ said Nina Bronnikova diplomatically. ‘Not only has the war thrown our streets into disarray, it’s forcing moral dilemmas upon us. Even this party —’ she gestured at the platters laden with wild boar, whole fish and golden melon — ‘feels like the last gasp of the Roman Empire. A wilful denial of what is to come.’

‘Yes, it seems paradoxical to enjoy such a feast,’ said Nina Shostakovich, ‘when the bread queues are becoming longer by the day.’

‘Our country is built on such paradoxes!’ Sollertinsky had arrived to join the fray. ‘Contradiction lies at Russia’s heart, and always has.
Refusing the privileged cards we’ve been dealt won’t help those who are less fortunate.’ He looked dishevelled, with sweat on his brow and his sleeves rolled up, but he spoke seriously. ‘Take our friend Dmitri. Think of the music that would never have been written if he hadn’t been willing to compromise. To duck for cover when necessary, strut when commanded, and steer the fine line between integrity and common sense.’

‘You’re overstating the case.’ Shostakovich shook his head. ‘I’m just doing what I was born to do.’

‘You’re too modest.’ Sollertinsky’s hazel eyes glinted. ‘All I’m saying is that nothing is black and white, not even — or especially not — in times of war.’

Shostakovich sighed. Although he was feeling a little more sociable thanks to the vodka, he wished to God all this talk of war and his work would stop, and that he could go home and get on with his march.

Sollertinsky laughed. ‘Look at you, standing here with the two most beautiful women in Leningrad! You might at least have the grace to look happy about it.’

‘No offence,’ shrugged Shostakovich. ‘But half my mind is in my work and the other half in the trenches.’

‘No wonder you’re more dim-witted than usual. Gogol wrote of a man without a nose, we’re talking to a man without a mind!’ Sollertinsky gave him a bear-hug. ‘You great dolt. I’m not accustomed to missing anything, except my wedding anniversaries and the occasional tram — but, by God, I’ll miss you.’

Arriving late — his mother had been particularly difficult to get into bed — Elias paused in the doorway. For once, this wasn’t for fear of socialising with more educated, elegant Leningraders. Tonight he stopped simply to experience his new sense of self. With his feet planted firmly on the red carpet and his chest swelling, he surveyed the room.

‘Good evening, sir.’ The restaurateur was also scanning the room, albeit with a more professional eye. ‘Welcome back. We haven’t seen you in our establishment for some time.’

Not long ago, Elias would have found the man’s impressive moustache and air of impatience intimidating. ‘It’s good to be back,’ he replied.
In fact, he’d never ventured here in his life. How many times had he walked past the gilt-handled doors and longed to sweep through the crimson curtain, like one of those confident white-shirted men with beautiful women on their arms!

‘Champagne?’ The restaurateur gestured to a waiter hovering nearby.

‘I’m not —’ began Elias, but already a chilled glass was in his hand. ‘Well, all right.’ Usually he mistrusted champagne, both for its instant effects of gaiety and its almost immediate after-effects (a throbbing headache and gnawing pains in the stomach). But tonight everything was different.

‘Your friends are on the far side of the room.’ The restaurateur gestured discreetly with his head.

‘Thank you.’ A little bewildered, Elias glanced across the crowded restaurant to see who his friends might be. There on the carpeted podium was a grand piano, and gathered around it, like an unholy triumvirate, were Sollertinsky, Mravinsky and Dmitri Shostakovich.

He felt the sudden inconvenient need to be honest. ‘To be precise, they are not —’ But the restaurateur was darting away to reprimand a waiter, and Elias, taking a deep breath, stepped down to join the party. He swallowed another mouthful of champagne for courage and stationed himself beside a table laden with food. From here, through the dark-suited backs and the silk-clad shoulders, he could just make out Sollertinsky’s leonine head. And Mravinsky’s cool smile — and Shostakovich’s face, lit up with mirth, his huge glasses glinting.

Your friends
. Wasn’t that what the restaurateur had said?
Your friends are over there
. How would they react were he to step onto the podium, shake hands, and lean on the piano beside them?
No
. He gripped his glass. He couldn’t do it.

‘It’s Mr Eliasberg, isn’t it?’ Suddenly there she was, not two feet away from him. Her eyes were as large and dark as he remembered, and her neck as slim. The swell of her breasts (sometimes, lying in bed, he’d taunted himself with the memory) provided a pleasing contrast with her narrow ribcage.

Very carefully, he set down his glass and extended his hand.

‘Do you remember me?’ Nina Bronnikova smiled. ‘I met you in the Haymarket back in June. On the very day, I believe, before this nightmare of a war officially began.’

‘R-r-remember you? How could one possibly n-n-not remember you!’

‘Oh, thank you!’ She flushed slightly. ‘Of course, if you dance for the
Kirov, fielding compliments is part of the job, and not always a welcome one. But what you just said — well, it’s the most heartfelt I’ve ever heard.’

‘I’m sorry if I was blunt. My mother’s always telling me to become more practised at paying compliments. I’ve never had what the storybooks call a silver tongue.’

‘Silver tongues can hide tarnished hearts,’ said Nina Bronnikova.

He remembered this from the fish market: the unpretentious simplicity with which she gave her opinions. Her eyes were almost almond-shaped, slanting up at the outer corners … but he shouldn’t stare. He should say something. Why couldn’t he be more like other men — more like Shostakovich, for instance? Women seemed to hang on the composer’s every word, whereas he —

Say something!
he shouted inside his babbling head.
Anything!

‘Are you,’ he stammered out, ‘still dancing?’

She gave a slight frown, and his heart plummeted. Had she been sacked from the Kirov? Received the dreaded summons, been called up before Zagorsky for some imaginary transgression against the State? But surely the outbreak of war had stopped all that, at least for the time being! Flustered, he opened his mouth to apologise.

‘Unfortunately,’ said Nina, ‘my Achilles tendon’s troubling me. Even after several weeks of rest, it still hasn’t come right. It’s extremely disappointing.’

Relief at not offending her, gratitude that she hadn’t incurred official censure, pleasure at her devotion to her work — all these rendered Elias joyful and thoughtless, and he drained his champagne glass recklessly. ‘Is that all? I imagined something much worse.’

‘Well, it’s bad enough.’ Now she did look offended. ‘Don’t you realise how hard it is to get medical services these days? All the doctors are examining recruits to be sent to the front, or piecing them back together when they’re brought home on stretchers. A weak Achilles tendon isn’t a top medical priority in Leningrad at present.’

‘I didn’t mean to belittle your injury,’ he assured her. ‘Believe me, I know what it’s like to be prevented from working. Aspiring to be the best, yet not having the means to achieve it.’ He spoke with an acute awareness of the men on the podium behind him: Sollertinsky, as bold as brass, and cleverer than anyone around him; Mravinsky tilting on a chair with the carelessness of the chosen; Shostakovich gesturing with long-fingered hands that created a magic Elias could never come close to.

‘You’re right, of course,’ nodded Nina. ‘A personal injury is nothing compared to what’s unfolding around us. It’s just that work is my last refuge, and not having it is almost unbearable. Without it, there’s nothing to block out all this chaos. Dug-up gardens, sirens, memories of the past — not to mention the fear of what’s going to happen to us all.’

‘I understand,’ said Elias croakily. ‘I use work in the same way myself.’ He was fearful of admitting the full extent of his fierce working habits. How, sitting up with a score, he’d ignore his mother’s calls because he couldn’t bear to be pulled away again. The way he blocked his ears and scribbled on more determinedly than ever, copying out the fifty-nine motifs of
Elektra
and a list of its different keys. ‘Saved by Strauss,’ he would murmur when he finally surfaced — only to find that, when he crept to the door to check on his mother, his relief was overtaken by guilt.

He stared at Nina Bronnikova. ‘You shouldn’t talk to me. I’m no good. I’m nothing but a lowly beetle.’

But the music had grown louder. Shostakovich’s composition assistant, Izrail Finkelshtein, had been hoisted onto the podium and was pounding out a wild improvised polka.

‘What did you say?’ Nina leaned closer, wafting a faint scent of lilac towards him.

But the moment for confidences was gone. Something closed inside Elias as decisively as a door slamming shut in a wind. ‘Simply,’ he lied, ‘that I don’t know many people.’

‘What about your orchestra? Aren’t they here?’

‘A few are here.’ He looked around. ‘But we’ve been depleted in the last few weeks. Some of my musicians have gone to the Front; others are exhausted from twelve-hour days of ditch-digging. We’re not as fortunate as the Philharmonic. We’re not considered national treasures.’

‘Can you continue rehearsing?’ Nina looked concerned. ‘You must be anxious with the autumn season ahead.’

Elias glanced down, his eyes smarting. No one — no one at all — had asked how he felt at the sight of his orchestra splintering before his eyes. ‘I’m filled with anxiety,’ he admitted. ‘My soloists are under par, concentration is low. Our rehearsals sound like those of a shoddy provincial brass band. Yet in six weeks we are scheduled to broadcast Tchaikovsky’s Fifth to Britain!’ He looked down at his empty glass. ‘Can I fetch you a drink?’

But now someone else was beside Nina, touching her on the shoulder. It was Nikolai.

‘Hello!’ Nina’s smile was radiant. ‘I thought you’d changed your mind about coming!’

Elias’s stomach lurched with a feeling so unfamiliar it bewildered him. Sketching a half-hearted wave at Nikolai, he looked around for another bottle of something — anything at all — though he knew he’d end up regretting it.