I read your letter. âGailâ can stay in America but Galena must come home. Your classes will begin soon and your visa will run out. If you are still in America when that happens, they can arrest and deport you. I am in Moscow now. I will be in Irkutsk next week. Make sure you are, too. Itâs autumn now, the trees are beautiful. There are colors here, too.
Your father
âYouâre in luck.â It was the girl in green.
He followed her behind the counter, through the door, and up a narrow set of stairs. âWhatâs your name?â
âTatiana.â
âHave you read Pushkinâs
Onegin
?â
âItâs a book?â
âNever mind.â
She knocked on a door, and then opened it.
The air smelled of must and age and old vinyl. The walls were hidden behind thousands of records carefully racked in specially built shelves. Thin, dusk light came through yellowed lace curtains.
An old man sat in a padded chair. There was a cardboard record sleeve on his lap. He had a pink face and a fringe of white hair. He wore a loose cardigan of indeterminate color, a white shirt and tie, maroon corduroy pants. His eyes were magnified behind thick lenses. They were pale, watery blue.
âYour granddaughter said she found a copy of the Dvo(breve)rák. . . .â
âThe A Minor. Itâs rare. I have just the one.â The old man peered at the back of the old record. He handed it to the girl. âShow him.â
It was the Dvo(breve)rák A Minor, Tadeus Nowek with the Czech Philharmonia. The picture on the back, taken in the early sixties, was of a young, intense man. It could be Nowekâs own face looking up at him from the old, fragile cardboard.
âThe Wild Siberian. He came out of the snows with a strong arm and a fast bow. He
glided
. He
flew
. He was remarkable.â
âHe still is.â
The old eyes gazed up. âTadeus Nowek is alive?â
âAbsolutely.â Though he meant, barely. Nowekâs father was nearly blind, nearly immobile. He could hardly stumble, much less glide. Though he still made life miserable for the young students Nowek hired to look after him. âHe practices an hour a day.â
The old face wrinkled into a grin. His teeth were stained yellow with tea and time. âPut on the Dvo(breve)rák,â he commanded his granddaughter. âWeâll listen to some
real
music.â
Nowek looked out the window. Daylight was fading fast. He should be going back to the hotel to meet Volsky. âIâm afraid I canât stay. Iâd like to buy the record as a gift for him.â
âYou canât. Iâm
giving
it to you. Now listen.â
The old turntable began to spin. There was a scratch, and then, from large speakers Nowek hadnât noticed, his fatherâs music, his father himself, poured forth and filled the dim room with light.
The black chaika pulled away from the Hotel Rossiya. It left behind a few determined prostitutes huddled beneath the hotelâs concrete canopy, shivering but still hopeful.
Volsky thought,
Where is Nowek?
âThe Rossiya has had three managers this year,â said Gavril.
âWhy did they leave?â
âThey werenât given a choice. They left in body bags. Contract killings.â Gavril paused. âWhere is your assistant?â
âWhy?â
âJust making conversation.â
âDonât.â
The car turned right onto a wide boulevard scaled for parading tanks. Still known as Marx Prospect, the road was swarming with rush-hour traffic: charcoal-gray Mercedes, ministry Volvos with rooftop flashers blinking pinball blue,
mafiya
Lincolns. And at the edges, Russian Ladas cowered and darted, shouldered aside by sleek tons of victorious foreign steel. The red stars atop the Kremlin walls disappeared behind a curtain of freezing rain.
âHow about a magazine?â asked Gavril.
Similar Books
Killing Halfbreed
Zack Mason
The Coincidence 03 The Destiny of Violet and Luke ARC
Jessica Sorensen
On Broken Wings
Francis Porretto
Beloved Wolf
Kasey Michaels
Sugar Cube
Kir Jensen
Guardian Awakening
C. Osborne Rapley
Inspector Specter
E.J. Copperman
The Pages
Murray Bail
After Claude
Iris Owens