The Conductor Read Online Free PDF Page B

her eyes, she saw Mr Shostakovich’s glasses shining full in her face. ‘It seemed to say something, only I’m not sure what.’
    Mr Shostakovich nodded. ‘In my opinion, the A string is the least informative of the four strings. If approached wrongly, it can hold its secrets forever.’
    ‘So you think it likes me?’ Sonya could hardly dare to hope.
    ‘Definitely.’ Mr Shostakovich passed the cello back to her. ‘No doubt about it. Would you consider playing a tune for your guests, if I accompany you?’
    ‘How about an adaptation of Fauré’s Elégie?’ suggested Sonya. She’d been practising this for the past year on her borrowed half-sized cello; last week, she’d finally learnt it by heart.
    ‘A perfect choice for a birthday.’ Mr Shostakovich looked grave. ‘The passing of time is a serious matter.’As soon he played an A on the piano for Sonya to tune to, everyone — even the fidgeting Gessen children — fell silent. ‘A captive audience,’ said Mr Shostakovich. ‘That’s what we like!’
    Sonya felt a little nervous, but the light had grown even softer, candles were burning, and her father was looking happier than she’d seen him for a long time. How she loved him! ‘Fauré’s Elégie, an adaptation,’ she announced in a slightly squeezed voice. ‘For my father.’
    ‘Ready when you are,’ said Mr Shostakovich from the piano.
    Sonya straightened her back and pressed her feet against the floor. The cello leaned into her. I’m ready too , it said in a woody whisper. Sonya placed her left hand in position and laid the bow carefully across the strings — no squeak, no twang.
    Before this she’d seen the Elégie as a silvery kind of piece, clear-cut, almost icy. But today, in the hushed moments before beginning, she saw it differently. Fauré’s familiar notes were transformed: they hung in the air, round, opaque, like ripe golden fruit. How odd! Already, the cello had changed her way of seeing. She took a deep breath, nodded to Mr Shostakovich, and the first note dropped into the silence, perfectly pitched and as sweet as honey.
    And soon it seemed to Sonya that the cello was singing by itself. All she had to do was place her fingers on the strings, and the song sprang open, phrase after phrase floating out as if she’d unlocked a secret world with a magic key. Then, with a sigh — was it from her or the cello? — the bow drew a last husky stroke across the string, and there was silence. She let her arms fall by her side; they were aching from the effort of embracing a cello slightly too large for her. She gave the cello a quick stroke on its smooth back. Thank you , she said. You were wonderful .
    Mr Shostakovich sprang up from his stool and clapped wildly. The room dissolved into applause, and Sonya’s father held her so hard she heard a button on his shirt cracking. ‘You were wonderful!’ he said, just as she’d said to the Storioni. ‘You were marvellous.’
    The light faded, and people began gathering up their things, and Sonya went to stand by the front door. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, shaking hands with her guests. ‘Thank you for coming.’ To Galina, she said, ‘You’re lucky. I’d like a little brother just like yours.’
    ‘Yes, he’s all right.’ Galina took Maxim casually by the hand. ‘We might come and see you again one day.’
    ‘Please do,’ urged Sonya, and to Mr Shostakovich she said, ‘Thank you so much for accompanying me.’
    ‘I should be thanking you. A fine performance.’ He bowed low so that his lock of hair bounced forward. ‘You have a very talented daughter,’ he said to Sonya’s father. ‘Don’t, for God’s sake, allow her to become a teacher. Let her play, whatever happens!’
    ‘Humph!’ Papa pretended to be offended. ‘Just because you consider yourself a poor teacher doesn’t mean the entire profession is useless! Some consider it a noble way of making a living.’ He put a hand on Sonya’s shoulder. ‘But I agree that