It must be late because the sun’s already high. It seems surprising, after all that’s happened, that the sun still rises. He’s no longer the person he was a year ago, and the city, too, has changed beyond recognition. Yet the summer is familiar in all its blowsy green fullness and, as always, the stone walls and streets — however battered — have absorbed its heat.
He stands up and stretches, making his spine crack and his shoulders loosen. As soon as he puts on his glasses, the room jumps to attention. As if for the first time, with the utmost clarity, he notices the straight-backed chair, the right angles of the window, the layered score on the windowsill.
Below the window, the street is quiet and empty, but he can still see her walking there, threading her way past the broken houses, transforming the world. When he closes his eyes, his fingers feel the smooth coolness of her face. Behind him, the stove has become a small point of warmth, a leaping blue flame, and there’s the bubbling roar of water coming to a boil.
Later, after a breakfast of strong unsweetened tea and black bread, he’ll read over the stack of paper, listening with his eyes, moving his hands in the air, shaping something invisible to others. If the day stays fine and there are no air raids, he’ll walk along the canal, just a few bridges, and then back home. It’s important not to meet or talk to people in the hours before.
Later still, he’ll walk the long stretch of Nevsky Prospect all the way to the Philharmonia Hall, slip in a back entrance and shut himself away in a small one-windowed room. Shortly before 6 p.m., while putting on his white shirt (not pressed as perfectly as he’d like, but clean), he’ll turn on the radio to experience the odd sensation of hearing himself speak.
‘Comrades,’ announces his voice in crackling tones, ‘a great cultural occurrence is about to take place in Leningrad. In a few minutes you will hear live, for the first time, the Seventh Symphony of Dmitri Shostakovich, our outstanding fellow citizen.’ And he knots a threadbare black tie around his neck, pulls on his jacket and slips a folded piece of paper into his breast pocket. Because he’s clearing his throat, he misses a few sentences of his first pre-recorded public address.
Opening the door, he walks steadily down a narrow corridor, leaving behind his radio-self still addressing the city of Leningrad. Or, at least, addressing those not already waiting for him in the auditorium, row upon row, stretching to the very back of the hall. ‘Europe believed that the days of Leningrad were over,’ the voice behind him is saying. ‘But this performance is witness to our spirit and courage. Listen!’
Pausing in the wings, he listens, too. What does he hear at this moment? The scraping of chairs, the small twang of violin strings, a quick arpeggio from a clarinet; and, beyond these, the rustling of clothing and shifting of bodies, some coughing and murmuring, the sounds of anticipation. When he cranes slightly forward, he can see a row of microphones pointed like guns towards the stage, ready to catch the Leningrad Symphony and broadcast it to the world.
He takes a deep breath and steps into the blaze of electric light, far brighter than any sun. Sweat leaps on his back, the orchestra rises to its feet, and the audience also stands, a dark gleaming mass of military badges and medals, and pearls.
Soon the fluttering will stop and the musicians will become still with concentration, their backs straight, their fingers in position, their bows and mouthpieces raised — and their eyes also raised to him. For one perfect complete moment he stands, poised on the edge of silence. The only sound is the telegram in his pocket, rustling as he breathes, moving as steadily as a beating heart.
Acknowledgements
I have found a number of books and articles about Shostakovich and the Leningrad Symphony extremely useful while working on this novel. They include: ‘Orchestral manoeuvres’ by Ed Vulliamy published in The Observer Magazine, 25 November 2001; Shostakovich: A Life by Laurel E. Fay; Shostakovich and His World, edited by Laurel E. Fay; Shostakovich: A Life Remembered by Elizabeth Wilson; Story of a Friendship: The Letters of Dmitry Shostakovich to Isaak Glikman 1941-1975, with commentary by Isaak Glikman, translated by Anthony Phillips; Testimony: The Memoirs of Dmitri Shostakovich as related to and edited by Solomon Volkov, translated by Antonina W. Bouis; The New Shostakovich by Ian MacDonald.
I would like to acknowledge W.W. Norton & Company for permission to quote from the poem ‘As if through a straw, you drink my soul’ in Anna Akhmatova: Poems, selected and translated by Lyn Coffin, 1983.
I am grateful to the following people for their help in varying ways, including general advice and support, close readings of the manuscript and the invaluable offer of quiet writing space: Harriet Allan, Jill Foulston, Sarah Lees-Jeffries, Rachel Paine and Rob Wilson, Jane Parkin, Sebastian Schrade, Dulcie Smart, Jon Stallworthy, John Wilson, and Antoinette Wilson. Many thanks as ever to my agent Simon Trewin, and also to Iris Tupholme and the team at HarperCollins Canada for their professionalism and enthusiasm with this edition.
Special thanks to Margaret Quigley and Gustav Hellberg for their constant support and encouragement.
About the Author
SARAH QUIGLEY is a writer, poet and reviewer. She has a DPhil in literature from the University of Oxford, and her work has been widely published in New Zealand, the U.K., the U.S. and Germany. The winner of several highprofile awards for her fiction, Sarah Quigley was the inaugural recipient of the Creative New Zealand Berlin Writers’ Residency. She now lives in Berlin. Visit her online at www.sarahvquigley.com.
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Author’s Note
Although this novel is based on real events, the majority of its characters and incidents are fictional. In some instances (such as Karl Eliasberg and Nina Bronnikova), where little documentation exists, I have retained real names but have largely fictionalised backgrounds and personalities. I have slightly altered a few facts for dramatic purposes.
In recent decades, conflicting views have arisen relating to the programmatic interpretation of Shostakovich’s Seventh Symphony. I have chosen to depict the work as a direct response to the invasion of Leningrad for purely novelistic reasons.
In most cases I have used Anglicised versions of Russian names and place names. I have also simplified the complicated Russian method of personal address; characters are usually referred to by one name only, regardless of their relationship to the speaker.
Copyright
The Conductor
Copyright © 2011 Sarah Quigley.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © NOVEMBER 2012 ISBN: 978-1-443-41311-4
Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Originally published by Random House New Zealand: 2011
First published in Canada by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd in this original trade paperback edition: 2012
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Quigley, Sarah
The conductor / Sarah Quigley.
ISBN 978-1-44341-309-1
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PR9639.3.Q84C85 2012 823’.914 C2012-906064-X
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