The Conductor Read Online Free PDF Page 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 become 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