3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  Suddenly, as he remembered Irina’s voice, the progression was there. The harping, repetitive clashing of B and B flat, reversed, then raised a fifth. He smacked his hand on the table, making his cup rattle in its saucer. ‘Thanks, Irina, you grumpy old witch!’ Tiredness and depression fell away. He went to his workroom and closed the door.

  It was late afternoon when he stopped. Raising his head, cracking his aching neck, he realised he could barely see the notes in front of him. For the past week there had been no electricity at all and already his eyes were strained. He lit a candle and held the small flickering circle over his work, scanning what he’d done. Sighing, he picked up his pen again — only to hear loud greetings and laughter from the other room. For a small, wild second, he considered plugging his ears and continuing work. To stop now seemed more of an effort than ploughing on and setting the powerful chordal theme against the relentless Barinova motif.

  He tiptoed to the door and put his ear against it. Was that the reedy laugh of Izrail Finkelshtein? Perhaps he could call him in for a quick chat? Izrail was one of the most intuitive composition assistants he’d worked with, and his opinion might be helpful. He put an indecisive hand on the door handle before remembering that he was, in fact, meant to be celebrating his birthday. Returning to the piano, he gathered up the papers, laid his pen on top of the pile and blew out the candle. He stumbled through the darkened room and out into the beginnings of a party.

  Rivals

  Nikolai was more animated than he’d been for quite some time. Standing in the rehearsal room, he pulled off his gloves and shook his thin hands to get the blood flowing.

  ‘Of course, the food was nothing special, if you think that only a few months ago it would have been a Krug-and-caviar birthday party.’

  ‘So what did you eat? Insubstantial fistfuls of bread, like the rest of the city?’ Elias busied himself with unnecessary tasks, tapping the stone-cold stove as if this would miraculously produce heat, polishing his already gleaming baton.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Nikolai’s voice almost had a glow to it. ‘Of course the food was simple, mainly black bread and potatoes. But Nina Shostakovich had managed to make a kind of cranberry cake, and other people brought whatever they could — there was even some candy! As for Izrail, he’d got his hands on enough vodka to fill the Neva.’

  Elias said nothing. He watched the musicians shuffling in, pinched from cold and hunger.

  ‘Afterwards —’ Nikolai swished his bow through the air in a cloud of resin — ‘after dinner, we heard some of the new symphony!’

  ‘The Shostakovich symphony?’ Katerina had been eavesdropping and her wan face lit up. ‘Some people have all the luck!’

  Nikolai nodded. ‘We went into his study, he hesitated for only a moment, and then he sat at the piano and played straight through the first movement, barely looking at the score. It was pretty long, too — twenty-five minutes, at least.’

  ‘Only the first movement?’ asked Elias nonchalantly. ‘I thought he was further on than that.’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet! Just as he reached the final bars of the march, the sirens began to sound, but he begged us to stay and hear the rest. Nina and the children went to the shelter, but most of us stayed. The bombers flew in over our heads, but on he played, as if he were possessed! And so we heard the scherzo through to its beautiful end.’

  Now Elias understood the dreamy look hovering behind Nikolai’s eyes and the smile playing on his lips. Jealousy flooded through him. ‘That was a strange thing to do,’ he said. ‘Putting one’s guests at risk like that.’

  ‘He didn’t decide for us, we chose to stay. How could we not?’ Nikolai spread out his hands. ‘It was musical history in the making. Nobody’s heard a bar of it before!’

  ‘Is it really a symphony for Leningrad, as he says?’ An avid group was clustering around Nikolai. ‘Will it tell our story in years to come?’

  ‘It’s difficult to tell,’ mused Nikolai. ‘Anything composed in response to such extreme circumstances is a complex thing. But from what I heard last night, I believe it’ll be extraordinary. At any rate, it’s miraculous to compose a symphonic work of this scale in the middle of such hardship — not to mention performing it as he did last night, playing without error for more than half an hour with an air raid raging.’

  ‘Not so much miraculous as foolhardy,’ muttered Elias. But no one was listening to him.

  Nikolai seemed oblivious to the fact that rehearsal should have started four minutes ago, and that in three days the shambles that was the Radio Orchestra would be broadcast on international airwaves. ‘Dmitri’s always been capable of rising to the occasion,’ he continued. ‘As his classmates, we saw that from the start, isn’t that so, Elias?’

  ‘Shostakovich is talented.’ Elias spoke dismissively. ‘No one can deny that. But he’s certainly not averse to showing off. Perhaps you don’t remember his odd behaviour at Glazunov’s soirée in our first year at the Conservatoire?’ He looked around to make sure he had the floor. ‘After a foxtrot had been played, Shostakovich pretended to be offended by it. Which gave him an excuse to set to and, then and there, re-orchestrate the whole thing in front of the guests.’

  Nikolai looked taken aback. ‘Yes, I was there that evening. But he was challenged to do that. I remember it well.’

  Elias fixed his eyes on the painting hanging above Nikolai’s head, a dreary 1820s oil of the Pantelimonov drawbridge. He felt as black as the thick-painted water. ‘He flaunted his talent in the middle of the room, and went through his paces like a show pony.’

  ‘He was challenged.’ Nikolai spoke more sharply. ‘What was a man to do?’

  ‘How about saying no?’ Elias kicked his stool, leaving a scar on the already scratched floor. ‘That was his problem — that is his problem. Shostakovich never says no.’

  The musicians, who’d been momentarily energised by Nikolai’s story, fell silent. They drifted away towards their chairs, their shoulders hunched.

  Nikolai slid off the table. ‘Sorry to hold up proceedings,’ he said under cover of tuning up. ‘You were probably wanting to make an earlier start.’

  Elias shrugged. ‘It’s understandable that you’re excited after what you experienced last night. To hear the mythical Seventh Symphony, even in piano reduction, is a great privilege.’

  ‘I thought you might even be at the party.’

  ‘I’m not a particular friend of Shostakovich.’ Elias gave a second, more emphatic shrug. ‘We’re nothing but acquaintances. In truth, I barely know him.’

  ‘A pity. You’d have enjoyed the performance as much as anyone, particularly as you may conduct it one day.’

  ‘Not while Mravinsky lives and breathes!’ Elias gave a forced laugh. ‘We all know he’s the apple of Shostakovich’s eye. Besides, with a first movement as huge as the march, do you really think we could cope?’ He glanced at his scraping, blowing bunch; more than twenty chairs stood empty.

  ‘Yes, the first movement’s vast. It sounds like a great beast waking up, uncurling itself, preparing for attack.’

  Elias flicked through his score. ‘Did any parallels spring to your mind? Any particular composers?’

  Nikolai laughed.

  ‘I only ask,’ added Elias quickly, ‘because Shostakovich is well known for referencing other works.’

  ‘And I only laugh because, even before he began to play, he made a disclaimer to that effect.’

  ‘Really? What did he say?’

  ‘He said —’ Nikolai paused. ‘“Forgive me if this reminds you of Ravel’s Bolero.”’

  ‘And did it? Did it remind you of Ravel?’

  ‘You know what?’ Nikolai wedged his violin under his chin and began tuning up. ‘It did. Not only Ravel, but also Richard Strauss.’

  ‘The battle scene from Heldenleben! Yes, the third theme is most reminiscent of that. Did you also hear traces of Sibelius’s Fifth? Not at all obvious, and masterfully done — the subtlest of allusions, really.’r />
  Nikolai lowered his violin and stared at him. ‘Yes, there were echoes of Sibelius in the third theme. I agree with you. But how do you know that? When were you —?’

  He was interrupted by a loud burp right beside them. It was Alexander, thinner and pastier than ever, clutching his oboe in unsteady hands. ‘When you’ve finished gassing about Leningrad’s most eminent citizen,’ he said with ostentatious politeness, ‘I’d like a private word with our eminent conductor.’

  Elias stared at Alexander; his breath was strong enough to lean on. ‘You’re drunk. Do you really think it’s acceptable to come drunk to rehearsal? I trust you’re still capable of playing.’ He turned away, but Alexander seized him by the shoulder.

  ‘I wanted to ask you for some time off. My sister’s contracted diphtheria, everything at home is in a mess. I must be excused rehearsal for the next few days.’

  ‘Must?’ Elias frowned. ‘Who are you to say the word must? The only thing you must do is the job you’re paid for, which is playing in this orchestra. We have a broadcast on Sunday! How do you expect me to find a replacement at such short notice? There probably isn’t even another oboist alive in this cursed city.’

  Alexander stepped closer, making an obvious effort to focus, although his eyes crossed with the effort. ‘Come on, Karl. You know how it is to be underprivileged. You and I, we’re the same. We’ve had to work our way up to our positions. We’ve never had maids, we haven’t been given big apartments like Dmitri Shostakovich, we don’t ignore people like he does. So stuck up he won’t give a man the time of day! You and I need to stick together.’

  Elias felt such distaste for Alexander that his skin crawled. ‘Shostakovich doesn’t ignore people. He’s short-sighted, not stuck up. He’s … he’s wonderful.’ Where were the words coming from? Now he’d started, he couldn’t stop. ‘Shostakovich is one of the greatest composers Russia will ever have.’

  Alexander lurched. ‘But he’s derivative — you said so yourself. Everyone knows he steals material and buries it deep in his precious music, hoping no one will notice. That’s not wonderful, that’s plain stupid!’

  Elias’s heart sank. It was true — he’d publicly denigrated Shostakovich. And the result? The man he least respected in the world was siding with him against the man he admired more than any other. ‘Shostakovich is a master of quotation.’ His voice was uneven. ‘That’s always been one of his gifts. Now take your seat. We’re running late as it is.’

  ‘Shostakovich is a coward!’ Alexander remained standing, though he swayed as he spoke. ‘He pretends he’s stayed on to defend Leningrad, but do you want to know something? He was about to leave at the end of August, when Kozintsev and the film studios were shipped out, but the planes were full. My cousin told me! Too bad for Shostakovich that he crept to the authorities too late.’

  Was it true? Looking away, Elias caught Nikolai’s eye.

  Nikolai gave a tiny nod. ‘For the safety of his children,’ he said, over the heads of the orchestra. ‘At the insistence of his wife. Dmitri himself was most reluctant to leave.’

  Receiving this unexpected, unwanted information filled Elias with fury. ‘He’s neither a copyist nor a coward. And I will not give you time off, Alexander. If your sister’s ill, she must go to a hospital. What would happen if I gave leave to everyone with a sick or injured relative? I’d have no orchestra left!’

  ‘My sister has dysentery, you heartless bastard!’

  ‘Two minutes ago she had diphtheria,’ said Elias. ‘Make up your mind. If you’re placing her at death’s door, you might at least decide what disease you’re killing her with.’

  The orchestra sniggered, and Alexander turned purple. ‘All right. It’s me. I’m exhausted. I can’t go on like this — the air raids, the shelling, the cold. I’m not getting enough food, I can’t sleep. I need a rest.’

  Elias stared at him in disbelief. ‘Do you think it’s different for anyone else in Leningrad? Didn’t you hear Shostakovich’s radio address? Whether we’re artists or artillerymen, at this point in time we’re all soldiers — and that includes you.’

  A sneer spread over Alexander’s face. ‘Shostakovich, Shostakovich. It’s always Dmitri Fucking Shostakovich. I believe you’re in love with him. Do you hear me, comrades?’ He spun around to face the orchestra, his oboe hitting a chair with a sharp crack. ‘Did you hear? Our conductor’s in love with the famous composer!’

  It was Elias’s turn to sway. ‘Sit down. Sit down and play.’

  But instead Alexander leaned on a pillar and leered at him. ‘You’re a bastard. And I won’t play.’

  A sharp twang came from the string section, making Elias jump. A violin string, tightened too far, had snapped, and it curved in the cold air like a whip. He surveyed his musicians with their deathly pale faces and sunken red-rimmed eyes. The sight filled him with horror. He stepped closer to Alexander.

  ‘You will play. It’s your duty.’

  ‘Get fucked,’ said Alexander. ‘You’re a dictator and a cunt.’

  A purple haze washed over Elias’s eyes. He could no longer see the drunk oboist, nor the open-mouthed musicians, nor the cracked walls and the broken windows. Instead, he had a horrifying vision that he couldn’t place: a marble slab, a white neck, veined eyelids wrapped over swollen eyeballs.

  ‘Karl?’ It was Nikolai’s voice, calling from the back of the room. ‘Are you all right?’

  Elias stepped back, his vision clearing. ‘Get out,’ he said to Alexander. ‘Leave.’

  ‘First you order me to play, now you want me to leave?’ Alexander sounded incredulous.

  ‘You’re a drunkard and a liar. If you look at your oboe, you’ll see that you’ve damaged it, and your oboe is the only reason I’ve tolerated you for so long. We’ll be better off without you. Go to hell.’ In the back of his mind, he heard distant horns starting up: the prelude to a march.

  After Alexander had stumbled out the door, the relief was so overwhelming that Elias also stumbled as he walked to the podium. But behind him he heard a welcome sound. Petrov was clapping. With his weak hands and chapped palms, the sound of his approval was tiny. But it was applause, nonetheless, and soon it spread from player to player until every member of the orchestra was clapping.

  The thief

  Nikolai walked home with his bread ration hidden inside his coat. There had been a scuffle outside the bakery: a woman pushed against the wall by a teenager, the bread snatched from her hand. When Nikolai himself emerged from the bakery, the woman was still sitting empty-handed on the muddy curb. No one had helped her; the rest of the queue had said nothing, done nothing, simply stared as if they had no connection to thief or victim. The crime, the indifference — neither was out of the ordinary. By now everyone had learnt that survival meant looking after yourself. But, trudging along the gritty street, Nikolai felt both sad and wary.

  Just as he turned into Belinsky Prospect, it began to rain, a low slanting rain that was almost snow. He turned his collar up and put his head down. Within minutes his violin case was slippery and wet; he tried to hoist it onto his shoulder but found he didn’t have the strength.

  He struggled on through the mud, avoiding the potholes left by the rumbling tanks. He was only dimly aware of others toiling along beside him, moving as slowly as possible to save energy. The whole of Leningrad was grinding to a halt, winding down like a clock with no key.

  As his tiredness had grown, he’d become less certain about what to do. For the well connected, there was still the occasional chance of evacuation. Being flown over enemy lines, or crossing Lake Ladoga to reach the last unbroken railroad linking Leningrad to the rest of Russia — both were risky. But they were the only two ways of escaping this living hell. Now, peering through the sleet, Nikolai saw the future more clearly than he had since the first shock of the invasion. The German Army had a stranglehold on Leningrad, and it was choking the city to death.

  Realising this, he tried to convince himself that sending Sonya away
might have saved her life. But, as always, his brain cried out: You made a mistake! Whatever the situation was or will be, Sonya belongs with you.

  Only the previous week he’d felt her absence more keenly than ever when he’d arrived, alone, at Shostakovich’s apartment. Galina had opened the door. ‘Where’s Sonya?’ Her face fell. ‘You should have brought her! There are too many grown-ups at this party. We wanted Sonya to come.’

  He’d been shocked at the sound of her name. ‘She went away for a while. To stay with her cousins.’

  ‘Don’t you miss her?’ Galina shook her head. ‘I do. I admire Sonya enormously, she’s so cultured. And Maxim’s quite in love with her. When’s she coming home?’

  ‘When this horrible bombing stops, I hope.’ As he stepped inside, tears sprang into his eyes, and he was glad that the room was lit only by candles.

  Galina had been the first person to say Sonya’s name for a long time. Even Tanya had stopped mentioning her — had she given up all hope of a return? Others referred to her absence obliquely: had Nikolai received any News about the Situation? Recently he’d begun talking aloud to his dead wife, the only other person who’d loved Sonya as fiercely as he did. ‘Tell me if she’s still alive,’ he would say as he lay in bed. ‘Please give me a sign. Is she somewhere in Leningrad?’ This was his greatest hope as well as his greatest fear: the possibility that Sonya had been brought back to the city but not returned to him, that she’d been hideously damaged in some way and was lying, unidentified, in a hospital or an orphanage. God knows he’d searched. Had gone to all the authorities he could think of, both medical and bureaucratic; had asked all possible connections for any leads. During his search he’d seen maimed children, the sight of whom he couldn’t forget: bodies torn through by shells, left without voices, sight or wits. But not one of the bandaged young girls who stared blankly at him from a makeshift ward had been his.