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New York is already hot in June, but Dmitri Shostakovich decided to wear a tie anyway. A chili hot red tie, no less. He is staked in the heart of capitalism, in the center of the most bourgeois of all cities, and going to a concert with a program half full of Stravinsky and Webern --- some of the most "degenerate" and "decadent" composers! Why not? He just got an honorary doctorate degree from the Americans, and traveled around a good portion of this strange and foreign land. Of course he is in high spirits!
Plus, his curiosity is really poking at him, and nostalgia comes nagging. How would the New York Philharmonic sound in their own lair, after so many years? That young conductor Bernstein sounded good in Moscow, but how about this Boulez fellow? He has heard all about Boulez, but not heard him conducting a concert. And what is a "rug" concert, anyways? Does that mean people bring rugs to the concert? What would the rugs be doing? Is the air conditioning so extreme that listeners should wrap themselves not in coats, parkas, sweaters, but in heavy-duty, tightly-weaved rugs? That sounds fascinating --- almost Wagnerian, in fact. He grinned at the mental image of the Three Norns not weaving the rope of Destiny, but durable rugs, so they can keep themselves warm in the possible event of a flaming hot Götterdämmerung gone wrong in the Ice Age fashion.
The orchestra streamed in, carrying their chairs and arranging them in front of the stage. It's still early in the evening, but a number of folks have lined up at the table of this musical feast. A few patrons already sat themselves down on the stage, while some others were making themselves comfortable on the rugs and cushions that replaced seats at the orchestra-level. Several dots were moving on the balconies, rummaging the rows to get to their seats. Shostakovich soon found his own quiet corner, and lodged himself there. The proscenium arch, the stage, and the rug-ful main floor, with all the listeners lying down supine and prone, sitting up and reclined, and musicians buzzing in and out: all were exposed in front of him. It feels good to not be front-and-center, to not be in the footlights, to not be noticed, and to remain a nameless face in the crowd --- even just for one evening. Life would have been much easier and happier that way.
Or so he thought.
The third oboe leaned over to his older colleague, "Look at that grandpa on the balcony. There. Right, there. The one with a red tie. He looks familiar."
"No way...Is that Shostakovich? ...Hey," another older member of the orchestra got a shoulder tap, "Do you remember what Shostakovich looks like? Yeah, when we toured Russia with Lenny. Look, is that Shostakovich? Right, the pops wearing a red tie."
"...You are right. That's totally Shostakovich." Overhearing this little conversation, more heads popped over to catch the news, "Look, there. Right, on the balcony..."
"I'll need to get an autograph," The young oboist patted himself up and down to feel for a possibly mis-located pen.
"Easy there," his older colleague chimed in, "Fix your intonation now. Iceman is going to freeze your heart out if you don't. The violas are going up to get autographs. Ask them for help."
"Hey, don't beat up the kid," another tenured orchestra member was squeezing his way through the chairs, and interjected, "He'll survive. Iceman is all business. Do the job and he will stay out of your way."
So all is well that ends well, at least until intermission, Pierre Boulez nodded to himself. The orchestra today is more jittery than usual, but at least the third oboe fixed his intonation, the harpist put down the pedal at the right notes, and after all, the Webern and Stravinsky went as clean and precise as they should. And this audience today, an even more enthusiastic and exuberant crowd than usual! Today's young people are warming up to Stravinsky and Webern, and that is a good thing, even if they stick around only to hear the Schumann --- well, his Schumann --- as dessert. His contract with the New York Philharmonic was extended for another 3 years, and he will have more time to crank up the heat on New York's lukewarm attitude towards 20th century music. He could hardly contain his smile at the thought. Only after prancing several circles around his office like a boxer on victory laps, did he finally manage a neutral expression. The intermission is almost over. He straightened his grey t-shirt, opened the door, and walked out.
The torrents of autograph seekers receded to trickles as intermission drew to a close, and the conductor returned to the floor. The Webern and Stravinsky had lean tones and exacting rhythms, a welcomed cooling gust in the stifling heat of summer. Shostakovich is curious to hear how the Schumann would go. Would that be as plush and warm as the Romantics usually are, or as restrained and cool as the conductor is?
"Dmitri Dmitrievich," a soft but firm voice came from behind, followed by footsteps damped by isle carpets. So the consulate people finally found him. Or maybe they wanted to hear Webern and Stravinsky too, and waited until now, "It is late. We will accompany you back to your designated residence."