The Conductor

by Sarah Quigley

  By the time she reached forty — in and out — she couldn’t help noticing she was breathing faster than usual. The sheet was hardly rustling, so shallowly were her lungs working, so eager was her heart.

  ‘Kitten breaths,’ she told herself severely. ‘You’re cheating!’ When she reached the allotted fifty breaths, she added ten more as penance, though by now the longing to roll over was almost unbearable. ‘You’re a born teacher!’ Papa always said, when he watched her copying out a lesson all over again because of a small ink blot on the last line. ‘I’ve only ever known one other person with such an insistence on perfection.’ He laughed as he said this, but he sighed too. ‘Perhaps it’s not necessary to be quite so strict with yourself. Life is a hard enough taskmaster, you know.’

  Sonya had started to notice that Papa often sighed. Also, that the end of his beard was fraying away in wisps because he pulled it when he was writing. And another thing — their apartment was not like other people’s. It was strewn around with piles of paper, and dust-balls skittered under the sofa like mice. Secretly she thought that if Papa were a little more orderly, there would be fewer grey streaks in his brown beard and fewer lines on his forehead.

  Now, breathing deeply, she’d reached sixty, so now — now! — she sat up and looked. There it was, leaning against the window: only one day known, but two centuries perfect. Its neck was graceful in the moonlight, the scroll bending towards her like the head of a swan.

  From what she’d heard, Aunt Tanya hadn’t wanted her to have it. ‘Are you sure you’ve thought this through, Nikolai?’ Her aunt had pulled Papa into a corner and they stood there, too close, wedged between the piano and the tall fringed lamp. ‘She’ll drop it,’ hissed Aunt Tanya. ‘She’ll smash it. She’s too small for it.’

  ‘She’ll treasure it,’ contradicted Papa. ‘She’ll master it. She’ll grow into it.’

  It was true, Sonya was still a little short for the cello, but if she placed a cushion on her chair and stretched her neck (imagining herself as one of the tall buildings on Nevsky Prospect), and if she made her arms as long as possible (thinking of orang-utans in the zoo) — well, then she became bigger than her years, and her birthday present was a perfect match.

  ‘It’s foolish,’ said Aunt Tanya, her cheeks even redder than usual. ‘A genuine Storioni! To think of giving such a valuable instrument to a mere child!’

  ‘There is nothing mere about Sonya.’ Papa had sounded quite angry. ‘At any rate, I can’t help thinking that you’re objecting for entirely the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Such as?’ Aunt Tanya’s neck was slightly mottled.

  Sonya had stopped cutting up small blocks of sausage and placing them on squares of bread; she moved into the doorway to get a proper look.

  ‘You’re scared that I’m forgetting —’ Papa cleared his throat. ‘That I’m trying to replace —’ He stopped and slammed his hand down on the piano, making the metronome ting and start to tick prestissimo. ‘As if!’ he said, silencing the metronome and Aunt Tanya with one angry hand. ‘As if I could ever forget her!’

  ‘Look!’ Sonya nudged Konstantin, who’d come early to help with the party food. ‘Look at Aunt Tanya’s neck!’ She stared, fascinated, at the blotches above her aunt’s collar, merging like the pools of blood under the pigs hanging in the market. ‘Oh, would you just look at that!’

  But Konstantin was too busy unwrapping candies, cramming several into his mouth at a time.

  ‘Talk about pigs,’ she said, though in fact no one had been talking about them, it was only in her mind that she’d taken a quick trip over the bristle-covered cobblestones to see the bloated bodies hung in rows. ‘You’re no better than a pig!’ she repeated severely, looking at Konstantin, who stood with drifts of coloured fantiki wrappers at his feet like a sturdy oak that had lost its leaves. ‘What about the Shostakoviches? You’d better leave some sweets for them.’ She snatched the brass bowl away from Konstantin and took it into the living room, where she placed it on the sofa and covered it with a cushion.

  ‘Why are the Shostakovich kids coming?’ Konstantin trailed after her. ‘They’re nothing but babies.’ His ten-year-old face was shiny with sugar and radiant with scorn.

  ‘They’re sweet,’ said Sonya. ‘It’s not their fault they’re young. As for Mrs Nina Shostakovich, she’s the most beautiful woman in Russia.’ She looked over at the window standing open to the hot afternoon. The light through the glass formed a perfect white square on the carpet, marked with a shadowy cross. ‘The most beautiful living woman,’ she corrected herself.

  Konstantin took a step closer. He’d forgotten his ill temper and the sudden removal of the sweets, but the sugar rush was still in him. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. ‘I could make you a damn good husband when I’m older.’ His mouth hung open, showing strings of brightly coloured spit between his lips.

  Sonya moved backwards until she was stopped by the piano. Wham! Her bottom landed on the keyboard in a muddled mess of notes. The discord made her wince. ‘Konstantin Kushnarov! Don’t swear! Besides, I’m only nine. Nine years and three minutes, to be precise.’

  At that moment the doorbell rang, Papa and Aunt Tanya stopped their heated whispering and the birthday — which had looked in danger of collapsing — was saved. In came the Gessen children (Papa called them Gessen One, Gessen Two and so on) and Boris the Caretaker’s Son and the four Shostakoviches, all at once. For a while Sonya could hardly hear herself saying ‘Thank you’ and ‘Welcome’ every time someone wished her happy birthday.

  Maxim Shostakovich, tiny in his black fur coat, was holding tightly to his mother’s hand. His small round head swivelled like a parrot’s as he surveyed the room. ‘You see,’ Sonya hissed to Konstantin. ‘I told you he was sweet.’

  Konstantin looked jealous. ‘Why are you wearing that fur coat?’ he said to Maxim. ‘You can’t be cold, it’s not even three weeks till midsummer.’

  ‘He always wears it to parties,’ said Galina. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’ Her hair had been parted perfectly straight down the middle and braided into two long gleaming ropes. Like Maxim, she had an unblinking stare, which was now trained on Konstantin.

  ‘You both look beautiful.’ Sonya spoke quickly. ‘I’ll get you some sausage.’

  When she came back from the kitchen she was pleased to see that Galina was mingling, but Maxim, his coat still buttoned up to his neck, continued to hold onto his mother’s hand.

  ‘Something to eat?’ Sonya held out the plate, reaching up and then down to make allowances for mother’s and son’s differing heights.

  Mrs Shostakovich reached for a piece of sausage-bread with her free hand and bit straight into it: her teeth were large and square like a horse’s. ‘Mmmm. Delicious.’

  ‘Deelicious,’ echoed Maxim.

  ‘I made it myself,’ said Sonya. ‘At least, I cut it into pieces. The butcher made the sausage specially, when he heard we were having a birthday party.’

  ‘I hear you got another special present.’ Mrs Shostakovich’s dark hair was piled high above her white forehead. ‘A real treasure.’

  Sonya nodded. ‘It used to belong to my mother. She died when I was very young, not even as old as Maxim.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mrs Shostakovich. Her eyes were the same clear brown as her amber beads, and tiny pearls studded her ears. She drew Sonya aside. ‘Could you help me out?’ she whispered. ‘Maxim’s a little shy and that’s why he has to wear his fur coat, even inside.’

  ‘To make him braver.’ Sonya understood; she often put on her enamel locket with the pressed violet when she needed protection. ‘I’ll look after him.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mrs Shostakovich smiled and accepted a cranberry juice from Aunt Tanya, who was still a trifle red in the face. ‘To Sonya!’ she said, raising her glass.

  ‘To Sonya!’ said the five Gessen children, and Boris-from-the-Basement, and Galina of the shining braids, and Konstantin who would never, in a million years, be allowed to becom
e Sonya’s husband. And the red rose on the windowsill bobbed in the wind as if to say, Many Happy Returns.

  ‘To Sonya!’ said her father and her aunt, and Mr Shostakovich came across to shake her hand. ‘To your health and happiness,’ he said, bowing as if she were a real lady. The sun glinted off his big glasses so Sonya couldn’t see his eyes, but his voice sounded serious. ‘I hadn’t realised Nikolai Nikolayev had such a grown-up daughter.’

  ‘I’m only nine,’ admitted Sonya. ‘Nine years and —’ She looked at her wrist-watch. ‘Thirty-three minutes.’

  ‘A perfect age,’ said Mr Shostakovich. ‘Neither too old nor too young.’ He took a mouthful of cranberry juice. ‘Do you think your father has any vodka?’

  ‘I know he does. He was drinking some the other night with Mr Sollertinsky.’

  ‘Ah. If Mr Sollertinsky was here the other night, perhaps there is no vodka left? Rumour has it that Mr Sollertinsky could drink the Neva dry.’

  ‘Dmitri!’ Mrs Shostakovich’s eyebrows lowered alarmingly.

  ‘Ajoke,’ said Mr Shostakovich hastily. ‘Nothing more.’ He turned back to Sonya. ‘Perhaps later you’ll play us a tune on your birthday present?’

  Sonya flushed. ‘With pleasure.’

  ‘The pleasure will be all ours,’ said Mr Shostakovich.

  As the afternoon slunk away, the room began filling up with a strange orange light. Sonya, weaving through her guests with plates of food, felt as if she were swimming in a magic pond. Or perhaps it was more like diving into one of the beautiful beads around Mrs Shostakovich’s creamy neck, which reflected back the low sun.

  Maxim sat, small and grave, on a cushion in the corner. He’d taken off his coat but kept a close watch on it, resting a hand on its sleeve. Sonya kept him supplied with lemonade and sweets rescued from under the cushion that, for a while, Aunt Tanya had been sitting on.

  ‘How could she not notice she was sitting on a big brass bowl?’ whispered Galina.

  ‘Because she has a big brass bottom,’ snorted Konstantin.

  Sonya laughed a little at this, and Konstantin grinned, looking wicked and handsome under his party hat. But Sonya already knew she could never marry a person who made such bad jokes.

  Every now and then another guest, usually someone who worked with her father at the Conservatoire, slipped in. The chattering voices grew louder. Someone started to play the piano and, in spite of Mr Sollertinsky’s recent visit, plenty of vodka was brought to the table. Then one of the Gessen children yawned, and so did another Gessen, making Mrs Shostakovich look at the clock on the mantelpiece and talk about taking the children home to bed.

  ‘All in good time, my dear.’ Mr Shostakovich, his tie a little askew, appeared at Sonya’s side. ‘May I,’ he asked respectfully, ‘see the Storioni now?’

  The cello lay on its side in the shadowy bedroom. Sonya’s heart gave a leap when she saw it: it was so beautiful! Carefully, she picked it up and offered it to Mr Shostakovich, who ran his hands admiringly over its red-brown front and curved back.

  ‘A very fine instrument,’ he said. ‘I saw your mother play it, many times, before you were born.’

  ‘Did you?’ Sonya could hardly imagine what the world had been like way back then. ‘Where did she play?’

  ‘In the Philharmonia Hall,’ said Mr Shostakovich, cradling the cello as if it weighed no more than a baby. ‘Beautiful. Quite beautiful.’ It wasn’t clear whether he was talking about the cello, or Sonya’s mother, or the concert hall with its soaring white pillars.

  ‘I haven’t played it much yet. Just a little this morning, before I started preparing for the party.’

  ‘Does it like you?’ Mr Shostakovich looked at her intently.

  ‘Does it — what?’

  ‘Has it taken to you? It doesn’t matter if it knows you — it will come to know you. But it’s very important that it likes you, and vice versa.’ The curl at the front of Mr Shostakovich’s hair sprang free from its waxy coating and bobbed in front of his face. ‘A long time ago I used to accompany films at the Bright Reel Theatre, and you know what? The piano hated me! Every day, we battled. Every evening, we fought.’ He gave a sigh. ‘It was a disgusting job. Fighting the piano was like working with a person you detest day after day.’

  Sonya stared at the gleaming cello. ‘When I took it out of its case this morning, the first thing I did was pluck the A string.’

  ‘And?’ Mr Shostakovich sounded intensely interested. ‘How did it sound?’

  ‘Like —’ Sonya shut her eyes for a second. ‘Like a voice.’ Opening her eyes, she saw Mr Shostakovich’s glasses shining full in her face. ‘It seemed to say something, only I’m not sure what.’

  Mr Shostakovich nodded. ‘In my opinion, the A string is the least informative of the four strings. If approached wrongly, it can hold its secrets forever.’

  ‘So you think it likes me?’ Sonya could hardly dare to hope.

  ‘Definitely.’ Mr Shostakovich passed the cello back to her. ‘No doubt about it. Would you consider playing a tune for your guests, if I accompany you?’

  ‘How about an adaptation of Fauré’s Elégie?’ suggested Sonya. She’d been practising this for the past year on her borrowed half-sized cello; last week, she’d finally learnt it by heart.

  ‘A perfect choice for a birthday.’ Mr Shostakovich looked grave. ‘The passing of time is a serious matter.’ As soon he played an A on the piano for Sonya to tune to, everyone — even the fidgeting Gessen children — fell silent. ‘A captive audience,’ said Mr Shostakovich. ‘That’s what we like!’

  Sonya felt a little nervous, but the light had grown even softer, candles were burning, and her father was looking happier than she’d seen him for a long time. How she loved him! ‘Fauré’s Elégie, an adaptation,’ she announced in a slightly squeezed voice. ‘For my father.’

  ‘Ready when you are,’ said Mr Shostakovich from the piano.

  Sonya straightened her back and pressed her feet against the floor. The cello leaned into her. I’m ready too, it said in a woody whisper. Sonya placed her left hand in position and laid the bow carefully across the strings — no squeak, no twang.

  Before this she’d seen the Elégie as a silvery kind of piece, clear-cut, almost icy. But today, in the hushed moments before beginning, she saw it differently. Fauré’s familiar notes were transformed: they hung in the air, round, opaque, like ripe golden fruit. How odd! Already, the cello had changed her way of seeing. She took a deep breath, nodded to Mr Shostakovich, and the first note dropped into the silence, perfectly pitched and as sweet as honey.

  And soon it seemed to Sonya that the cello was singing by itself. All she had to do was place her fingers on the strings, and the song sprang open, phrase after phrase floating out as if she’d unlocked a secret world with a magic key. Then, with a sigh — was it from her or the cello? — the bow drew a last husky stroke across the string, and there was silence. She let her arms fall by her side; they were aching from the effort of embracing a cello slightly too large for her. She gave the cello a quick stroke on its smooth back. Thank you, she said. You were wonderful.

  Mr Shostakovich sprang up from his stool and clapped wildly. The room dissolved into applause, and Sonya’s father held her so hard she heard a button on his shirt cracking. ‘You were wonderful!’ he said, just as she’d said to the Storioni. ‘You were marvellous.’

  The light faded, and people began gathering up their things, and Sonya went to stand by the front door. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, shaking hands with her guests. ‘Thank you for coming.’ To Galina, she said, ‘You’re lucky. I’d like a little brother just like yours.’

  ‘Yes, he’s all right.’ Galina took Maxim casually by the hand. ‘We might come and see you again one day.’

  ‘Please do,’ urged Sonya, and to Mr Shostakovich she said, ‘Thank you so much for accompanying me.’

  ‘I should be thanking you. A fine performance.’ He bowed low so that his lock of hair bounced forward. ‘You have a
very talented daughter,’ he said to Sonya’s father. ‘Don’t, for God’s sake, allow her to become a teacher. Let her play, whatever happens!’

  ‘Humph!’ Papa pretended to be offended. ‘Just because you consider yourself a poor teacher doesn’t mean the entire profession is useless! Some consider it a noble way of making a living.’ He put a hand on Sonya’s shoulder. ‘But I agree that she’s brilliant.’

  ‘It was one of the nicest parties I’ve been to,’ said Mrs Shostakovich. ‘If one wants good company, one should always go to nine-year-olds’ birthday parties — never to official functions.’

  Much later, in her bedroom, Sonya lay back and watched her father who was, most unusually, tidying things away. ‘Is Mr Shostakovich famous?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Her father bent down to slot books into the shelves. ‘Very famous.’

  ‘Those books go on the top shelf,’ Sonya told him. ‘And are you?’

  ‘Am I famous?’ Her father looked over his shoulder. ‘No, not really. And we should be glad about that.’

  ‘Why? Is it difficult to be related to a famous person? Galina said her father doesn’t always pay attention. Sometimes he sits at the piano for a long time and then he gets up and slams the door, or shouts. After that, Galina’s mother takes her and Maxim and they all go to stay with their grandparents, for something called a respite.’

  For some reason, her father laughed at this. ‘Well, that’s one reason to avoid fame. And there are plenty of others. Life isn’t easy for people with a high public profile.’ He paused and then cleared his throat. ‘You should try to sleep now. Concerts are quite tiring, if I remember rightly from my performing days.’

  ‘Could you put my cello over there?’ said Sonya. ‘I want to see it when I’m lying down.’

  Her father propped it up against the wall, where it seemed to lean in a tired but graceful way. ‘Is that all, your Excellency? May I help Aunt Tanya with the rest of the washing up now?’

  After the door was closed, Sonya waited for sleep. She tried to close her eyes, but they kept flying open, as if her happiness was too great to box away. So she simply lay there, looking over to where the light-blue sky gleamed on the wooden scroll of her cello. She wished the world could stop right here, because at this very moment everything was perfect.