Work Text:
The last time Dmitri Shostakovich anticipated knocks on the door at midnight, was in March 1953, at his home in Moscow, USSR. But here in New York City, United States, in June 1973, the knocks came at midnight, on the door of his temporary "designated residence". He was far from sleepy anyhow --- the Webern and Stravinsky he heard earlier that day kept him up --- but being interrogated is not his favorite nighttime activity.
Nonetheless, he adjusted his eyeglasses, and lumbered for the door. No sooner had he touched the handle than an aged but still distinct voice flooded into his ears: "Dmitri Dmitrievich! Nikolai Nabokov here. I want to apolog-”
"Go. Away." Shostakovich chewed on and spat out each syllable. He was not about to bestow mercy on this Nabokov, who, years ago, in this very city, humiliated him in public, in an international forum. But a younger and cooler baritone voice interjected, and froze his retreating steps.
"Please wait, Maestro Shostakovich! This is Pierre Boulez. Music director and chief conductor of New York Philharmonic." A French accent enunciated at a solemn pace, softening the English syllables. Nabokov's Russian translation rushed to follow.
Not hearing any objection, Boulez continued. "I am honored that you came to my rug concert earlier tonight. It is my sincere wish to meet you in person. The meeting will be off the record, no reporters. Only me and my translator Mr. Nabokov."
Still no response heard, Boulez resolved to try bribery. He will meet Shostakovich tonight, no matter what. "We promise that we won't talk about this meeting, either. I also brought two bottles of very fine wine."
Nabokov added more information to the translation: "1964 Montrachet from Baron Thenard. Not pure alcohol, not vodka, but still great!"
"...And Mr. Nabokov brought something for you too."
"Indeed! A box of Cuban cigars for you, Dmitri Dmitrievich." Nabokov exclaimed.
These unexpected guests are rather persistent. And meeting Boulez --- an enticing idea! Masha admires him, I need to tell her abo- Never mind, Masha died 3 years ago2. But still, an enticing idea! Shostakovich turned back, and inched the gate ajar.
Squeezing through the opening, was a strong man cradling a basket of two bottles, followed by that Nabokov who apparently lost some height due to inevitable slouching in old age. Some stumbling and bumping ensued before Shostakovich finally turned on some lights, and Boulez set the basket down on the long coffee table.
"Such a delight!" Seeing the lights went on, Nabokov waltzed to the middle of the room, and turned a full circle to look to Shostakovich. Taking off his derby hat, he proclaimed: "Dmitri Dmitrievich, I really, sincerely, want to apologize to you, abo--"
Shostakovich ignored him. "Monsieur Boulez, please sit. And make yourself comfortable." No verbal translation needed, and he pronounced his guest's name just fine.
"--out my affront in 1949..." Nabokov carried on.
"Merci, Maestro. And my translator..." Boulez, sounding amused, gestured at Nabokov to Shostakovich.
"...And you, Nabokov, can sit there. There." Shostakovich pointed to the other end of the long coffee table. He wanted to remain a gracious host -- even when he didn't start the party, and the guests simply invited themselves.
The exile Russian-American leaped to that bare chair, his loose black suit and trousers flabbed about. Perhaps subconsciously, Boulez also sat up on the loveseat, and straightened his gray shirt and slacks, like a retired boxing champion going on interview cameras. Shostakovich looked at himself before putting tea cups and glasses on the coffee table, and almost chuckled: in wrinkled canary yellow pajamas, he was the most under-dressed in this group.
"Maestro Shostakovich, it is a delight to meet you finally! My players talked a lot about your presence tonight. Listener were also very thrilled by the sight of you." Seeing Shostakovich settle into the club chair next to him, Boulez began. This is a man so jealously guarded by the Iron Curtain, whom Maria Yudina so adored and told him so much about in her letters. But now he is meeting the man face-to-face, it almost feels unreal.
But Nabokov didn't start translating right away. He looked at Boulez as if a priest seeking approval from the cardinal before confessing a mortal sin.
"Very well, go ahead." The conductor waved him through, and reached for the corkscrew in the basket.
Words streamed out of Nabokov. "I really, sincerely, want to apologize to you about my affront in 1949, Dmitri Dmitrievich. I knew your impossible situation, but still humiliated you in public. I wanted to highlight to everyone at the Peace Congress, to all who came to your press conference, one thing, and one thing only. That was your plight under Stalin. The entire, the whole ridiculous farce, that Stalin and Zhdanov dragged you through. But I sacrificed your dignity! All my questions pointed to one, and one answer only, because you had no choice. The answer saved your life, but killed your integrity as an artist! Many years passed, and that day at the Peace Congress still torments me. My conscience is not at peace, it is tortured! I am sorry. I am very sorry. I fully, wholeheartedly, admire your art. I adore your courage even more so!"
Shostakovich took a glass of wine. His physical eyesight was weak, but he could see through the soul of a man, and he knew that Nabokov was genuine in his apology. But not everything makes sense. Not yet.
"Who, WHO paid you?" Shostakkovich asked. Or was Nabokov-of-1949 really so naive in politics that he came up with the antics all by himself?
"I cut ties with them many years ago. I really did! Everything, all the things, completely!" Nabokov's exclaim sapped to a whimper. "It was the CIA."
"Ge-" Shostakovich cut his words back at the tongue tip. He knew Nabokov was telling the truth. So why is he getting angry about the truth, and the person telling the truth? Or is it still fear? And how much different was he from Nabokov, really? He had to submit to Stalin's inane artistic doctrine for survival, at least on the surface, for a while. Nabokov had to be a CIA stooge for food on the table, and he was tormented by his conscience since then. No doubt, Dmitri Dmitrievich Shostakovich is the much superior composer --- he himself knows it, and he's sure Nabokov knows it now and knew it then. But in the game of conscience and survival, was he a winner, ever, in anyway? Or in this game, there are only losers? Shostakovich: loser. Nabokov: big loser. Ha. So it's even now.
Shostakovich raised his glass. Boulez followed --- Nobody told him that Shostakovich is a partier! --- and Nabokov hastily clutched his glass too.
"Let's drink to this: that no art, no conscience, no integrity, can be tied, bounded, gagged, and sacrificed by authority." Shostakovich spoke in his most austere, mezzo-piano voice. Glasses clinked, the first of many tonight.
"An elegant toast!" Nabokov cried out while savoring his gulp. "Here is my toast: 'Fuck Stalin! Fuck CIA! Hail art and conscience!' But you are too genteel for this!"
Shostakovich chortled. "Let's drink to that too!" Another clink of three glasses, despite Boulez wondering what Nabokov toasted to that Shostakovich also approved. But he came here for more important things than watching a confess-and-repent show and drinking with Russians. Although, watching Nabokov repent was more fun than he had expected.
"Mr. Nabokov, shall we get to topic?" Boulez made sure it sounded like a command rather than a question. The translator pick up the hint, and Boulez recollected his words. "Maestro Shostakovich, it is a delight to meet you finally! My players talked a lot about your presence tonight. Listener were also very thrilled by the sight of you."
"You concert was wonderful! Rugs, pillows, cushions, new music, and young people! The Webern and Stravinsky were a revelation --- I keep thinking about your approach. I was sad I had to leave before the Schumann."
Boulez guffawed. A surprise, but Shostakovich did sound genuine. "You are the first to say so! I'm doubly honored! Here, the critics hated me for 3 years, and will hate me for 3 more years. Classical, Romantic, contemporary, avant-garde, they loath everything I program." 3
"Critics! They don't even write or play music. They come up with stupid titles for their critic pieces. That's all." For instance, "Muddle instead of Music" --- what a stupid and boring headline! Even "Shostakovich is All about Lust" is more creative. For 20 years he had dreaded the Critic-in-Chief and the man's next opinion, but here and now he is: drinking fine wine, having a midnight party with unexpected guests, and counting the 20 and more years he has lived longer than his Tormentor-in-Chief! Oh, and these guests even assured him that, now, 20 years later, Dmitri Dmitrievich Shostakovich and his music are more beloved than ever before.
"Listen to me, young maestro: let the critics hate. Because you and your music will live longer than them!" Shostakovich refilled Boulez's glass and his. "Let's drink to this: no critic shall stop us from making music!"
Relaxed and jolly! Tonight, by his side, the most renowned Soviet composer is nothing like the tense and grim image in public. A discovery well worth a sleepless night! Still, Boulez wondered. Is this the true Dmitri Shostakovich, at his most comfortable and confident? Or did age and wisdom cheered up the gloomy spirit? When volcanoes are young, they erupt often, but as time goes by, the fire and hot lava are subdued and stay dormant until the next eruption. Well, time to enjoy the view of a happy volcano then.
Boulez met Shostakovich's wandering gaze, and added quietly, "So be it. Let the critics be natural fertilizers. Saplings of our musical legacy will grow with their nourishment." How tall will his sapling grow to? Boulez doesn't know. But striving never hurts. And he has been trying, very hard at it.
"Ha! Speaking of legacy..." Shostakovich cut himself out of a sentence and raised the glass to his lips, trying to buy more time to answer a critical question. Dmitri Dmitrievich Shostakovich, here is your musical colleague, a man who delighted and surprised you twice in less than 8 hours. First by making incredible music, then by offering this tasty wine you are drinking. So, do you have a name for him? Like you always do for your conservatory pals, theater friends, colleagues you drink with, neighbors you entrust the pet piglets to? He doesn't understand your language, but it doesn't matter, because you want to give him a name.
"Pierre" is too intimate. "Monsieur Boulez" is awfully too formal. And after the first use, "young Maestro" starts to sound odd. How should he address this kind younger gentleman, an admirer, and an impromptu drinking partner in a foreign land? If only I could speak French or English, or he Russian! We could be very good friends. Such is the tyranny of language: people are shackled to their own tongues, ever prisoners of words and meanings that seemingly to be at their disposal. Incredulously, Shostakovich sensed himself envying that Nabokov. What does he know about the world, about beauty and art, about the human condition, that I do not? By knowing other languages? But a higher kind of beauty transcends languages, and bypass the ineffable --- indeed, it is music. Vienna, London, Paris, and here --- they don't speak Russian but still plays my Russian music. Music, more than languages, frees me from the bounds and chains. But now I have a language problem: how do I address the French conductor for the rest of the night?
Just as Shostakovich's final thought surfaced, his visual focus meandered and bumped into Nabokov's. A few words rolled off the ex-CIA collaborator. Mumbling, unintelligible words. But Nabokov's body language seemed to direct the mumbling to Shostakovich.
"What was that?" Shostakovich wasn't sure what he heard.
"Pierre Louis Joseph Boulez." Nabokov enunciated the foreign syllables in his native tongue, "Our French friend has a name! Good name!"
The subject of their exchange looked back and forth between Nabokov and Shostakovich. Are they talking about his name? Those syllables sound like it. But why does his name suddenly matter now?
Of course, a name matters, a great deal. If his name was "Yaroslav" as Mama had wanted, would he have evaded those leap years' bad fortunes? Would he still turn out to write music? Would anyone ever care about Yaroslav Dmitrievich Shostakovich's music, feelings, favorites, dislikes, lovelorn, travels, health problems, food allergies, triumphs, and defeats? Would Josif Vissarionovich Stalin, or rather, Comrade Jughashvili as he was born, spare a Yaroslav but not a Dmitri? Anyway, my name may be in question, but the young maestro's parents certainly named him right. And solace does come in the strangest encounter: someone named Joseph4 --- someone in a position of considerable power --- and a worthy composer, actually appreciates his art sincerely.
Shostakovich smiled, "Musical legacy! So to speak, is a touchy subject! Tell me, Pierre Louis, because you always look to the future: will our music still be played in 2073? Will our art be remembered?"
"If only we could live to 2073 to find out! Only time will tell us, I'm afraid. Many things can change, in just 20 years." 1953 to 1973, from a dusty attic in Paris to the shiny Lincoln Center in New York, the once enfant terrible of the avant-guard now heads a favorite institution of the old-timers', and at the same time, passionately hated by the old-timers. So Pierre, do things really change? Thinking further about the issue at hand, Boulez starts to question himself. But 1973 is certainly better than 1953 for Maestro Shostakovich, is it not so?
"True, true to that!" Shostakovich roared to laughter in tears. It was 20 years ago that the Tormenter-in-Chief for him, his friends, their art, and all Soviet people finally reunited with Lenin forever. But Shostakovich still has not decided whether he should be happy about the fact that he lived much longer. Nowadays when he and Khachaturian meet for drinks and smokes, they don't talk about people any more. Only about things: soccer, music, Capitalist society, the latest vodka in the store, the horrendous layout of the Composer's Union, the bureaucratic maze of the local soviets, and so on. After all, who else is left to be gossiped about? Those who live in Novodevichy, Vvedenskoye, Donskoye, Tikhvin, or the walls of Lubyanka haven't had any life updates for years. Hands twitching, Shostakovich wiped off tears on his face and the fog on his eyeglasses. Sorry for making you worry, I was laughing too hard, and the wine is too good. He gestured to Boulez, and the concerned expression on Boulez's face eased.
Shostakovich stabilized his hands, and took a sip. "But legacy, so to speak, is it a thing that does not change? Is music or art not eternal? Can our music and our art be eternal?"
Boulez sighed. "Well, as long as orchestras and soloists still play our music, our music and our art will be eternal. If they play at all."
"Orchestras don't play music? At all? What will they do then? Teach?" Shostakovich realized that he never asked Mravinsky or Kondrashin about what they and their orchestras do, when they are not rehearsing or playing concerts. Teaching? Sounds reasonable. But everyone teaches all the time and not playing at all? Unthinkable.
"They will strike."
"Strike?"
"Yes, labor strike."
"New York Philharmonic?"
"The New York Philharmonic."
"When? How? Why?" Musicians strike in the heart of capitalism? I need to tell Mravinsky and Kondrashin about this! A perversely hot stream of excitement ran through Shostakovich's head but soon cooled down. No, no, this is a fantasy in my mind, but would be a tragedy in reality. He shook the thought out of his mind.
"The players' union will decide when. I want to help them, but I could not do very much. Because the Philharmonic is run by...capitalists," Realizing that Shostakovich may not understand what a "management board'" of an orchestra is, Boulez decided to take a short-cut. "And the players disagree with the capitalists. I have to listen to the capitalists too."
"Well then," A twinkle shined in Shostakovich's eyes, as he raised his glass towards Boulez, "Would you want to toast for the players? And to the triumph of music over capitalist demands?"
Boulez obliged. "Let's drink to this: happy orchestras, benevolent capitalists, concert ticket sales, and progress of music."5
Tacking onto the translation, Nabokov whispered his own toast: "Fuck the capitalists too! Hail art and artists!"
A wave of laughter collided with glass clinks, and the night is still young.
It was the soft and firm knocks on the door that woke Shostakovich from slumber. He dragged himself out of bed --- or may be some invisible strings pulled him? --- and plodded for the door. His canary yellow pajama is more wrinkled than ever, but he has to find out who woke him up at this hour, and for what.
There, in the first lights of dawn, emerged a checkered suit and a jockey's cap. It's that translator Koroviev from the consulate again. What news or commands does he bring this time?
"Happy the end of the night, or good morning, Dmitri Dmitrievich! I hope you enjoyed the visit from your secret admirers last night!"
...Ah, of course, I should have known better. This place is bugged. What troubles am I in this time? Measuring possible words and responses, Shostakovich decided not to say anything. He looked up, fixed his look on Koroviev's face, and waited.
After making a knight's bow, Koroviev continued. "No one else in the consulate will hear of anything about the visit. I promise you. And no other living human shall know of what happened between you, and Messieurs Boulez and Nabokov."
"...Ah..." Now Shostakovich had no words nor responses to measure. What is happening? What kind of trap is this? A Soviet consulate staff member covering up an unsanctioned meeting between him, a Frenchman famous for conducting "degenerate" and "decadent" music, and a Russian-American exile who took CIA's money?
Koroviev's smile broadened. "I am true to my words. Also, I want to apologize for having to remove you from the rug concert. That Schumann would have been lovely. Did you enjoy the Webern and Stravinsky?"
Shostakovich remained silent. But he nodded, and the corners of his mouth curved up to form a hearty smile of wrinkles.
"Then I shall take my leave. Enjoy the wine and cigar!"
An almost ridiculous thought seized Shostakovich's mind, and he called out. "Koroviev!"
"Yes, Dmitri Dmitrievich."
"Is it all true?"
"It is all true."
"...Thank you." Now Shostakovich does not know what to think of the last 12 hours again. But at least, there is still a bottle of 1964 Montrachet and a box of Cuban cigar to finish, for his remaining days in this foreign land.