The Conductor Read Online Free PDF

young.’ He took a mouthful of cranberry juice. ‘Do you think your father has any vodka?’
    ‘I know he does. He was drinking some the other night with Mr Sollertinsky.’
    ‘Ah. If Mr Sollertinsky was here the other night, perhaps there is no vodka left? Rumour has it that Mr Sollertinsky could drink the Neva dry.’
    ‘Dmitri!’ Mrs Shostakovich’s eyebrows lowered alarmingly.
    ‘Ajoke,’ said Mr Shostakovich hastily. ‘Nothing more.’ He turned back to Sonya. ‘Perhaps later you’ll play us a tune on your birthday present?’
    Sonya flushed. ‘With pleasure.’
    ‘The pleasure will be all ours,’ said Mr Shostakovich.
    As the afternoon slunk away, the room began filling up with a strange orange light. Sonya, weaving through her guests with plates of food, felt as if she were swimming in a magic pond. Or perhaps it was more like diving into one of the beautiful beads around Mrs Shostakovich’s creamy neck, which reflected back the low sun.
    Maxim sat, small and grave, on a cushion in the corner. He’d taken off his coat but kept a close watch on it, resting a hand on its sleeve. Sonya kept him supplied with lemonade and sweets rescued from under the cushion that, for a while, Aunt Tanya had been sitting on.
    ‘How could she not notice she was sitting on a big brass bowl?’ whispered Galina.
    ‘Because she has a big brass bottom,’ snorted Konstantin.
    Sonya laughed a little at this, and Konstantin grinned, looking wicked and handsome under his party hat. But Sonya already knew she could never marry a person who made such bad jokes.
    Every now and then another guest, usually someone who worked with her father at the Conservatoire, slipped in. The chattering voices grew louder. Someone started to play the piano and, in spite of Mr Sollertinsky’s recent visit, plenty of vodka was brought to the table. Then one of the Gessen children yawned, and so did another Gessen, making Mrs Shostakovich look at the clock on the mantelpiece and talk about taking the children home to bed.
    ‘All in good time, my dear.’ Mr Shostakovich, his tie a little askew, appeared at Sonya’s side. ‘May I,’ he asked respectfully, ‘see the Storioni now?’
    The cello lay on its side in the shadowy bedroom. Sonya’s heart gave a leap when she saw it: it was so beautiful! Carefully, she picked it up andoffered it to Mr Shostakovich, who ran his hands admiringly over its red-brown front and curved back.
    ‘A very fine instrument,’ he said. ‘I saw your mother play it, many times, before you were born.’
    ‘Did you?’ Sonya could hardly imagine what the world had been like way back then. ‘Where did she play?’
    ‘In the Philharmonia Hall,’ said Mr Shostakovich, cradling the cello as if it weighed no more than a baby. ‘Beautiful. Quite beautiful.’ It wasn’t clear whether he was talking about the cello, or Sonya’s mother, or the concert hall with its soaring white pillars.
    ‘I haven’t played it much yet. Just a little this morning, before I started preparing for the party.’
    ‘Does it like you?’ Mr Shostakovich looked at her intently.
    ‘Does it — what?’
    ‘Has it taken to you? It doesn’t matter if it knows you — it will come to know you. But it’s very important that it likes you, and vice versa.’ The curl at the front of Mr Shostakovich’s hair sprang free from its waxy coating and bobbed in front of his face. ‘A long time ago I used to accompany films at the Bright Reel Theatre, and you know what? The piano hated me! Every day, we battled. Every evening, we fought.’ He gave a sigh. ‘It was a disgusting job. Fighting the piano was like working with a person you detest day after day.’
    Sonya stared at the gleaming cello. ‘When I took it out of its case this morning, the first thing I did was pluck the A string.’
    ‘And?’ Mr Shostakovich sounded intensely interested. ‘How did it sound?’
    ‘Like —’ Sonya shut her eyes for a second. ‘Like a voice.’ Opening