Summit

by Richard Bowker

  * * *

  Hershohn had a towel ready for him when he came offstage after Les Adieux. Fulton wiped his face and hands. "I'm playing like a pig," he said.

  "You're doing fine. What's a few wrong notes? Listen to the applause."

  "I don't care about the wrong notes. I'm not connecting with the audience. My mind is too fragmented. There's no concept. If there's no concept, how can I communicate anything?"

  Hershohn nodded. "I understand," he lied. "You're bound to settle down, though. Just don't panic."

  Fulton looked at him. "Too late," he said. "Too late." And he strode back onstage to play the Pathétique.

  * * *

  "Was that any good?" Secretary Grigoriev asked his wife in a whisper.

  She looked at him with exasperation and nodded. "A few wrong notes, though."

  He hadn't noticed. Classical music bored him. Concerts struck him as pretentious rituals designed to cure insomnia. But what could he do? This was the centerpiece of his festival; the eyes of the world were on Moscow and Daniel Fulton. He had to come.

  Fulton stared for a long while at the keyboard, and then he started playing something slow and, presumably, dramatic.

  It was boring, even when it suddenly became fast. Fulton, however, interested Grigoriev; people always interested Grigoriev. Fulton obviously had the idiosyncratic artistic personality that did not flourish in the Soviet Union. That sort of personality held a certain fascination, but ultimately it was unhealthy—for its possessor and, more important, for society.

  Grigoriev had met a lot of people like Fulton when he was ambassador to the United States, mostly at Kennedy Center receptions like the one that would take place after this recital. Many of those actors and dancers and musicians had struck him as being so self-absorbed that their egos seemed to glow around them like those Kirlian auras Volnikov had once expounded upon at a Politburo meeting. He much preferred the easygoing—even if phony—camaraderie of politicians. He thought he could understand President Winn; he was incapable of understanding Daniel Fulton.

  And yet he had to admit there was something compelling in the man as he flung his hands around the keyboard, just as there had been something compelling about Valentina Borisova, who had her own sort of self-absorption. Even if you can't understand them—even if you don't like what they do—you can feel their power.

  He wondered if Volnikov liked classical music. Probably not. He probably preferred sobbing over maudlin old ballads while he swigged his vodka. And his flunky Rylev would like whatever his boss liked.

  Fulton finished abruptly in a blaze of notes. Grigoriev jolted himself back to reality and joined in the applause. Wonderful, marvelous, brilliant. "Was it any good?" he asked his wife as they headed for the lobby.

  She glared at him and didn't bother to answer.

  * * *

  "This is the worst. Oh God, I should never have agreed to do it. Why didn't you talk me out of it? My reputation is ruined. Where's my shirt?"

  Hershohn handed Fulton the clean shirt. "You're overreacting, you know," he said. "You may not have reached your own standard of perfection, but you're doing just fine."

  Fulton sat down and sipped the tea the matron had forced upon him. He didn't put on the shirt just yet; the dressing room was hot. "Did you hear that second movement? It was just notes, and half of them were wrong. I couldn't concentrate. I don't think I should go back out there."

  "They love you, Daniel," Hershohn said. "Don't let them down."

  "I already have."

  "Trust me, Daniel." Little likelihood of that.

  "I played it better when I was eleven," Fulton went on, ignoring Hershohn's request. "At Northwestern. My mother gave me my clean shirt instead of you. I was too young to think. I just did what felt right, and it got me by."

  "People judge eleven-year-olds differently," Hershohn observed.

  "You don't know my mother." Fulton sighed and closed his eyes. "But you're right. The standards change. It's not enough to play the Pathétique well. People are out there comparing you to every other pianist who recorded the thing for the past century. They'll go home and listen to Schnabel or Serkin or Brendel and shake their heads. 'He's lost it,' they'll say. 'He should've stayed retired.' You can't be just adequate. The stakes are too high."

  "Maybe you should imagine that you're eleven again."

  "Oh God, that would be even worse. The only reason I survived back then was that I was too stupid to know any better."

  There was a knock on the door. Time to go back to work. Fulton opened his eyes, finished his tea, and stood up. "Chopin," he whispered. He headed for the door.

  "Daniel?" Hershohn murmured.

  "Yes?"

  "Put your shirt on."

  He wondered if he sounded like Fulton's mother. Fulton paused for a moment, then grinned at him and did as he was told. And suddenly Hershohn knew it was going to be all right. Fulton was going to make it.

  * * *

  Imagine that you're eleven again.

  No Valentina Borisova somewhere out there in the audience to distract you. But your mother hovers behind your shoulder, her stern, pale face always unsatisfied, always demanding more from you than you know how to give. No, it wouldn't do.

  Fulton stood by the door to the stage, trying to get ready. He was starting with some of the Opus 10 etudes. His mind focused on the third, in E major. Tristesse, it was called. "O ma patrie!" Chopin was supposed to have exclaimed once when he heard it played, reminded of his beloved Poland, now lost to him forever.

  And what, Fulton wondered, was his patrie? The broad, dull suburban streets of Evanston? The practice rooms at Juilliard? The Holiday Inns and Ritzes and Intourist hotels of the world? The secluded estates of Long Island? Had any of them ever really felt like home? I know a patriot when I see one, Lawrence Hill had said to him. What had he seen?

  There is sadness in losing your homeland; there is also sadness in not being quite sure you have one.

  Fulton signaled to the stagehand, who opened the door. He waited a moment, then walked out into the applause. The eye of the TV camera followed him from upstage as he made his way to the piano. Bouquets of flowers were strewn across the front of the stage; he could only vaguely remember them being presented to him. He bowed and sat down at the piano, and for the first time that night it felt right. The keyboard smiled up at him like an old friend. He smiled back through his sadness, then ripped into the first etude.

  At the end of it, for the first time he could feel the applause. Yes, it hadn't been bad.Together he and the audience could make the rest even better.

  At the end of the Tristesse there was a hush that was better than applause.

  At the end of the Winter Wind there were cheers.

  At the end of the set of etudes he walked offstage to Hershohn and his towel. "Brilliant," Hershohn said, beaming.

  "I know." Fulton wiped off his sweat, and then returned to the stage for another bow and more Chopin.

  A scherzo, and then the Barcarolle. Too fast? Khorashev wouldn't have thought so if he had been in the audience. It was the right tempo for this place, this occasion. The audience was interpreting the piece with Fulton, lying in a gondola underneath a starry Venetian sky—but also seeing something more, because Fulton could show them more. The hypnotic rhythm of the left hand was not just the swaying of the gondola, it was the pulse of their lives, and hearing this music was what made their lives meaningful.

  After it was over, Fulton didn't even hear the applause.

  The excitement was in his fingers, and it was only going to build. He sat back down immediately to play the G-minor Ballade.

  * * *

  Valentina closed her eyes as he played the solemn opening octaves. She knew this piece so well; he had played it last time, and she still remembered. Duty and love, love and duty—the eternal, irresolvable conflict; that was what it spoke of to her. The harsh minor-key opening theme chillingly spoke of her duty—what she had to do to stay alive; but th
ank God the theme melted away, and in its place—love. Grand, passionate love, sweeping across the keyboard. The duty theme would return, more menacing, more insistent, but it didn't matter. The love existed; it too would return, and it would triumph.

  Wouldn't it? Oh, she knew it wouldn't, she knew it was just a dream, but when Daniel Fulton played the piano like this, anything seemed possible. The tension of the first part of the recital was gone, her prayers had been answered, and now there was only the joy that had been missing from her life for three awful years.

  When Fulton finished in a wild flurry of octaves, the audience leaped to its feet to cheer him. All except Valentina, who sat in the balcony with tears running down her cheeks, falling like raindrops onto her beautiful red silk dress.

  * * *

  "Now what?" Grigoriev asked his wife in the midst of the applause.

  "Now encores," she said. "If we're lucky, he'll play some Liszt."

  * * *

  Now Fulton listened to the applause. He felt as if he had been holding his breath for two hours, and could finally exhale. He smiled. He waved. He accepted bouquets from solemn, frightened women. He scanned the audience for a glimpse of Valentina Borisova. He couldn't see her. Eventually it was time, and he sat back down at the Steinway. The audience roared its gratitude, then hushed. He waited for them to settle themselves, and then played the Scriabin D-sharp minor etude, his gesture to Khorashev and the Russians.

  The applause increased. Flowers rained down from the balcony. He turned back to the keyboard for the second encore.

  They were expecting some Liszt, and he wasn't going to disappoint them. He began the rippling arpeggios of Un Sospiro, and heard the audience sigh as if in imitation of the title. They were in love with him now.

  And during the applause after he finished, he saw her—in the side balcony, wearing a red dress. His heart skipped a beat, but he looked away immediately. It wasn't time for that yet; just one more piece, and then he could think about Valentina. The sight of her made him nervous, though, and it was a moment before he remembered what that final piece was supposed to be.

  Of course. Liebestraum. His dream of love. He had played it a thousand times, each time putting into it every ounce of virtuosic ardor he possessed. But tonight—in this hall, in front of this audience—he chose to play it simply, a statement of feet rather than a declaration of passion. Here is my dream, he made the music say. Do with it what you will. And when he played the soft chords that finished the piece, he stood up, gave one final bow, and walked offstage. The recital was over.

  Hershohn hugged him as he strode back toward his dressing room. "You did it," he shouted.

  "I did it," Fulton agreed, making his way through the throngs of admirers who had somehow managed to get backstage. And then there were the final rituals. Into the dressing room with Hershohn; no one else allowed inside. Then into the tiny bathroom, totally alone now, standing in his sweat-soaked shirt, letting the tension tear at him one final time until finally he had to throw up everything inside him, a grotesque physical analogue of what his mind and spirit had just accomplished onstage.

  Then it was over. In a few minutes he came out of the bathroom. Hershohn was waiting with his standard after-recital nourishment: spinach salad and a glass of milk. No food ever tasted better. Fulton closed his eyes. "And now the hard part," he murmured.

  "You don't have to do anything else," Hershohn pointed out immediately. "Get the next flight out. Go home. Take a vacation. This is somebody else's business."

  Fulton shook his head. "It's mine," he said. Mine alone.

  He finished his glass of milk, then got up and slowly changed his clothes. It was time to go to the reception.

  Chapter 19

  Secretary Grigoriev sat with his wife in an antechamber of Saint George's Hall in the Great Kremlin Palace. He was waiting for Daniel Fulton. It didn't surprise him at all that Fulton was keeping him waiting; that was the way artists were. Still, he was not happy.

  "You're not happy," his wife said.

  She was a perceptive woman. He looked at her. She was also beautiful, although the years had made them both stout and gray. "Is it worth it, Tanya?" he sighed. "All the work—all the scheming and plotting and striving for advantage—all the hypocrisy?"

  "We must all do our utmost for the glory of the motherland," she replied.

  She was reminding him of the KGB guards standing by the door, quite possibly within earshot. This was not the place to bare one's soul. She was right, as always. But that didn't make him any happier. Everything seemed so difficult to him tonight—making deals with the rest of the Politburo and cajoling and threatening the bureaucracy and fighting off Volnikov. And now he had to make small talk with an eccentric American pianist. But he couldn't escape any of these things. They were his duty, and he had to do his duty.

  The door opened, and Daniel Fulton walked in, followed by a Russian-looking woman—obviously the interpreter from Intourist—and another American. Grigoriev stood up. "Mr. Fulton, it is such an honor," he said in English, clasping Fulton's right hand in both his own. He noticed his wife gesture to the Intourist flunky to go away; she wouldn't be necessary. "You were simply brilliant this evening."

  "Thanks," Fulton said. "Thank you very much." He didn't seem interested in compliments. Grigoriev introduced his wife, who gushed, and Fulton introduced his manager.

  "Your English is excellent, Mr. Secretary," the manager said.

  "I spent quite some time in your great nation," Grigoriev replied. "Long enough to make a start in its wonderful language." He was very proud of his English. He turned back to Fulton. "You must be exhausted from your efforts."

  Fulton seemed to force himself to pay attention. "Well, you know, the adrenaline is still pumping," he managed to say. "Tomorrow, it'll be a different story."

  Grigoriev nodded, although he wasn't entirely sure he had followed. "The Ministry of Culture has scheduled several appearances for you tomorrow, I understand. But of course if you are too tired—"

  "I'll have to see how I feel," Fulton said. "I haven't done this in a while."

  "So I've been told. I'm sure the Ministry of Culture would be disappointed, but of course there will be no difficulty if you need to rest. You have already done your part for the cause of world peace. Now, shall we go inside? There are hundreds of people waiting to congratulate you."

  "That'd be great," Fulton said. He didn't look as if he meant it. He looked scared, as a matter of fact. We all do things we don't want to do, Grigoriev thought. He led the way into Saint George's Hall.

  The people in the hall broke into applause as they entered. Smile and wave, smile and wave. Say a few words, introduce the star, and get out of the way. Saint George's Hall always thrilled Grigoriev. It was a vast place, with brilliant bronze chandeliers and countless columns, each supporting a statue of Victory crowned with laurel. Marble slabs in niches along the walls displayed the names, engraved in gold, of brave soldiers awarded the Order of Saint George. It was here that the reception was held to celebrate the nation's victory in the Great Patriotic War, and here that Yuri Gagarin was honored as the first man in space. It was a place that made you proud to be a Russian.

  But like most Russians Grigoriev felt a deep insecurity underlying his patriotism. Would the foreigners here be as impressed as he thought they should be? Or would they secretly scorn the hall as needlessly grandiose, a second-rate imitation of what Europe did better and more naturally? If the Russian nation was the greatest on earth, why was it always struggling so hard to prove it? And when this insecurity was strongest, the patriotism fell prey to an equally Russian pessimism, and Grigoriev thought that, for all its greatness, his nation would always be second-best, and all his skills, all his efforts could not prevent it.

  It was this insecurity and pessimism, he knew, that Volnikov fed on. Grigoriev's way will never work. It is too complicated, too un-Russian. Follow me, and we will triumph. Grigoriev looked around as the reception line formed. V
olnikov was here, gobbling caviar, his swarthy face beaming as he joked with a couple of his cronies. Grigoriev sighed and turned away. "I'm tired," he murmured to his wife.

  "Then go to sleep," she said.

  He smiled. Little chance of that just yet. He stuck out his hand and greeted the ambassador from Bulgaria.

  * * *

  She was here. Fulton had glimpsed her off in a far corner of the huge, ugly hall. He tried to smile and say something sensible to the people greeting him. It didn't matter if he failed, though. He was eccentric; he could get away with anything.

  But why didn't she come?

  * * *

  Igor Volnikov was smarter than he looked. One did not get to be head of the KGB simply by being ambitious, or obedient, or cruel. He was talking to a couple of Central Committee nonentities, drinking champagne and laughing at their feeble jokes. But all the while his eyes were scanning the crowd, noting who was talking to whom, who was familiar and who wasn't. He noticed Grigoriev, of course, as usual trying not to look grim and put-upon. The man had no imagination, no daring, no fire. Volnikov studied Daniel Fulton and dismissed him: a good piano player, so they said, and moderately handsome in a Western sort of way, but nothing more; hardly worth the fuss.

  And he glanced once or twice at Valentina Borisova, standing by herself in her low-cut red dress, pretty enough to attract some stares, but aloof enough to keep anyone from approaching her. Ah, Valentina, he thought. You are pretty, and you are ours. Why not make the best of it? But she wasn't the type to make the best of it, poor thing. It didn't matter, of course, as long as she obeyed. And Igor Volnikov was smart enough to know how to make her obey.

  He grabbed another glass of champagne and told a joke about the toilet-paper shortage. It was a funny joke, but it made his companions uneasy. One does not laugh at such jokes in the presence of the KGB. Volnikov enjoyed making them uneasy.

  * * *

  Valentina had rehearsed something, but she couldn't remember it now. She was scarcely able to move or speak. She remembered standing in darkness, waiting endlessly, hopelessly, but incapable of doing anything else. And then the moment came, suddenly, miraculously, and she had to act.... No. Memories would not help her now. As before, she had to act.