Some Minor Revisions

By James FitzGerald

A howling Siberian wind rattled the large bay window, like a frozen hand reaching out from a far-flung Gulag, beckoning him to that purgatory for dissidents, thought Dmitri Shostakovich. Though, judging by the inch of ice on the inside of the window, it might even be colder inside than out, he concluded.

His best compositions arrived when he was hopeful, or at least determined. What flow of creativity could come from a catatonic mind and body; the former paralysed by fear, the latter incapacitated by cold. Action! Yes, he thought, a way to deal with both. Shostakovich reached out to a copy of Pravda sitting on the table. Dated June 28, 1936, it had been in his possession for six months, since he lifted it from a kiosk on the main street in Arkhangelsk one sunny morning. The demonic effect of its lead editorial - entitled “Muddle Instead of Music,” undoubtedly penned by Stalin himself - had only grown in power over that period.

Scrunching the paper in his hand, Shostakovich shuffled over to the barren mantle and struck a match under it. The flames illuminated the room - and rekindled the memory of that brilliant sunny day. The clouds had not been long coming after the attack on his beloved opera, Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. In one fell swoop, he had been transformed from national hero to pariah of the state.  

That day, he had halted outside the town hall; the otherwise blackened façade emblazoned with the city’s coat of arms - a blue and red angel surmounting a silhouetted devil. How he had prayed for such an intervention, to banish the nascent evils in his life. 

But now, once again, the grey hue of the room returned, as the flickering ashes of the fireplace reclaimed their momentary golden halo.

Shostakovich slumped back into his chair. The pages of musical notations sprawled across his desk seemed like a death warrant instigated and authorised by his own hand. What of the hidden motifs and themes of dissent underpinning this and his other symphonies? The Great Leader would interpret them as obsequious formalities, but perhaps if he had the intelligence to discern, or was told, their real counter-cultural significance, he, 35-year-old Shostakovich, might gain a new-found respect in his eyes?

“Zatknis!” - he swiped the manuscripts onto the floor - more mind games, more self-betrayal. Look at him - a quivering wreck, just like Prokofiev. Any resistance beyond subliminal cues could only lead to death, or worse… Look at the fate of his mother-in-law, Sofiya Varzar, an astronomer - sent to the camp in Karaganda; his patron, Marshal Tukhachevsky - shot shortly after his arrest; Boris Kornilov and Adrian Piotrovsky - dear friends who disappeared during the night. Not a chance to grieve before it happened again. When will be the knock on his door? Irina, his dear wife, had spent the past month sleeping alone; he had not yet managed to convince her that his bedding down in the hallway was out of genuine consideration. When the secret police did come for him, he would at least spare her the indignity of being seen in a nightgown.

Only thirteen hours to go before the performance; too late for them to cancel now; he would carry this symphony into the last chance saloon, as the Bolshoi must now be considered by all Soviet composers - the bittersweet sip of nectar as the barrel runs dry. 

Shostakovich lifted a cigarette to his mouth; the orange explosion of sulphur momentarily found expression on his spectacles’ bulbous lenses. He dragged hard, but the primordial relief from the glowing embers was soon quenched by the cold logic of his physician; a mantra now embedded in his subconscious: “Everything rests on the breath; but the breath rests on the lungs.” Another dictator, thought Shostakovich.

A deep sigh petered out as a groan. Tics and grimaces spontaneously erupted across his face, and then subsided, as the timid, brilliant personality surrendered all to despair. The cigarette dropped onto the varnished floor as he drifted off into oblivion.

A gust from the chimney flamed the hearth. Sparks floated out towards the slumped figure. The eyes darted from side to side beneath their veils. A subtle change registered on the face; now at peace; the pursed lips inverted, almost smiling. Daylight gradually retreated from the room; but his angular features remained bathed in an orange glow, held in place amid the black void.

The stillness was suddenly shattered by a rat, tat, tat on the door. Its hinges creaked defiantly. The gaunt but ferocious-looking housekeeper marched into the room. “Dmitri Dmitryevich Shostakovich, time to get up. This is the big day,” said Natalya “Sobranie” Mikhailovna, her husky voice an indictment of the eponymous cigarette brand. She stood over him. An eyelid twitched. He held up his hands to block out the brilliant white of her starched blouse. The reality of his night odyssey returned - something still etched on the back of his eyelids; a concept that must be grasped and held in the mind. Shostakovich rose to his feet, and ushered her towards the door. He dropped the latch and stumbled over to his desk. Paper, paper, he must find paper!

Grasping for a pen, he scribbled frantically, trying to hold out the din of the waking mind. Nothing must halt the flow of wisdom, the majesty of the idea must be given form. One sheet after another filled with notation: cleffs consorting with quarter tones; alla breve followed by glissando; crescendo begetting stacatto. Finally, he held the pile of notes aloft, transparent under the streaming sunlight.

Again, rat, tat, tat on the door. “Dmitri, Isaak Berlinsky is here,” bellowed Natalya.

“Show him in,” muttered Shostakovich.

A fair-haired stick of a man glided in through the open door. His face was pained.

“Dmitri, our rehearsal, have you forgotten?” exclaimed Isaak.

Shostakovich handed him the new notations. “Part II, allegro. This is to replace it.”

“Are you…” Shostakovich cut him short with an outstretched hand.

 “They are minor revisions. Get the orchestra ready.”

Isaak turned on his feet, then glanced back. “I was expecting the Order of Lenin for this performance. Now, at the last moment, you decide to play games.”

Shostakovich mused to himself on their differing expectations. “Isaak, you are blessed with a kind of naivety. You expect the best outcome for yourself, and you invariably get it. I have much to learn from you.”

Isaak shook his head in disapproval and padded away. Shostakovich stood in the sun-drenched room, now brimming with possibility - what seemed an insurmountable dilemma last night was now a call to adventure.

Somewhere in the city a bell tolled. The grand, pillared entrance to the Bolshoi theatre filtered the shoal of incoming bourgeoisie. The uniform of dinner jackets and gowns was never enough to support the pretence at proletariat egality; the aristocrats were betrayed by their prominent noses and the social climbers by their self-conscious waddle. Nevertheless, inside the auditorium, all were peasants under the gaze of the feudal lord.

Silence descended on the hall. A curtain twitched at the back of the “Tsar’s” box. A nervous-looking attendant gave a final cursory inspection of the seats and refreshments. The curtain parted and the ridged, leather face of Stalin emerged from the shadows. He was followed by Party Secretary Andrei Zhdanov - whose crinkled features offset the smooth lines of his quasi-naval uniform.

A huge crystal chandelier hovered below the arched ceiling, competing for attention with extravagant gold reliefs and murals.

Shostakovich scuttled along a trench below the stage and took a seat in the murky pit facing the orchestra. He craned up to take in a view of the box. Stalin and Zhdanov sat against scarlet draping. No other colour would be appropriate, thought Shostakovich - blood does not run any other hue.

There was a clang of instruments as a troop of male choristers filed on stage and squeezed in behind the brass section. The lead violinist - a hairy Ukrainian in his mid-50s - glared quizzically at Shostakovich, who returned an authoritative wave. The sprightly Isaak made his way to the podium. He bowed to the audience and then to the box. He tapped his baton on the wooden stand. Silence. On his mark, the first movement began. Its brooding tone evoked the cold temperatures outside; violas and cellos maintained the sense of inertia - its elusions to the rigid political regime would be obvious to all but the most cretinous listeners. As bassoons, trombones and piano unfolded the audience was taken on a journey that undulated and mellowed, reaching a climactic fanfare of trumpets.

Isaak lapped up the applause. He squinted down at Shostakovich, whose glasses glinted back; the invisible bond of trust between composer and conductor held firm.

The obligatory coughs and splutters died out. The air was once again static. A few faces in the crowd turned in the direction of their leader; whose profile probably adorned a wall in their homes - safely restrained behind glass and wooden frame. In the flesh, however, it was so grisly and three-dimensional that even a momentary glance brought the risk of a peptic ulcer.

The conductor took a deep breath; his arms gradually levitated; then struck downward with lightening speed; a ten-drum blast seared the air. Stalin jumped in his seat. Gasps from the audience invaded the momentary void. The conductor flinched again and the drums rumbled back to life; this time low and deep, in deference to the preceding explosion. The rum, bum, bum grew in intensity. The Muscovites sat prone as if expecting a siege; all eyes fixed on the penguin-suited man out front. What magic was he conjuring, they wondered? Surely nothing to challenge the ferocious beast in their midst?

The steady rumble of wood on bear skin was supplemented by the haunting echo of the choral troop. Stalin tapped his finger on the balcony… his head nodded gently, unable to resist the primal rhythm. Animal motifs and human demigods danced together in the invisible ether. The sharpness of the gilded frescoes and glistening instruments began to blur as the octave universe asserted its all-encompassing vibration, materialising in a kaleidoscope of chromaticism.

Irritation registered on the leader’s face. He edged his seat back, as if to stand, but then stiffened: the mind commanded but the body defied. Some deep cellular memory empathised with the real master of ceremony; a phantom of the aural world now manifest and malignant.

Would his arm only obey, he would summon a guard and have the maestro below executed on the spot. Anything to make it stop.

Faces turned towards the Tsar’s box. Stalin sat immobile, catatonic. The unfolding dance of sound was not yet done. Shockwaves streamed out on every prompt of the baton. Only the tyrant’s eyes betrayed the internal confusion; an agony not borne with the fortitude of a gulag inmate, but nonetheless imposed by some immutable force. Violas, violins and cellos united in a sea of swirling screeches, before washing out over the stage; the conductor left to paw the air helplessly.

Stalin slavishly followed the movement of a shadowy mist; his dilated pupils stretched to bursting. The auditorium was now only a dream; the will of harmonics held sway.

Shostakovich sat in a deep trance; his body freed of its habitual tension; the thin mouth plumped and parted.

The door to his subconscious was unlocked once more. But what had been released that now twisted and writhed in mid air; drawn towards a human target? Terror had taken form; a foretaste of horrors to come under a maniacal personality - the etheric preceding the material. 

The hanging ball of crystal began to grow in lustre; a low hum summoned Stalin’s attention. His unflinching stare enveloped the million-watt orb; a light that now revealed infinite potential; a miniature cosmos, no less. The radiating energy embraced him, understood him; celebrated him. A unifying force; something not yet conceived in his inadequate existence. Understanding seeped into the gross matter of his mind; light, vibration and hum revealed as the underlying fabric of reality. All was equal and yet individuated under this overarching triumvirate. His cruelty and malice now melted like butter.

Shostakovich woke with a start. Isaak pulled at his arm. “Wake up. They are shutting the doors.”

Shostakovich looked around at the empty hall. “I was dreaming. Have I slept through everything?”

“It would seem so,” countered Isaak. “Come now and I will drop you off.”

Shostakovich dismounted from the carriage outside his home. He turned to Isaak. “How did he take it tonight?”

“There were no obvious eruptions from the box. People wondered if he had taken ill. Let us leave it at that…until the morning. As you know, I am ever the optimist.”

The first light of day and the loud snap of the letterbox conspired to raise Shostakovich from his slumber. He looked over at his wife, who remained buried in her pillow. He pattered over to the bedroom door and peeked out at the hall. A tightly rolled copy of Pravda sat propped against the door. He snatched it up and pulled off the binding. As he scanned the front page, his mouth dropped open. He read again the splash headlines: “Stalin Joins Monastic Order… Leader Renounces Belief in Lenin…Politicians Scramble to Form Senate.” Shostakovich took a deep breath and scratched his head.

© 2016