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They shove the stack of papers in my hands. I hear a few coughs and rattles from the audience. The sudden attention uneases me, like the chatter before a concert. Or the jeering before an execution.

I do not hide emotions well. I turn to meet the opposing officer, who reads my confusion with steely eyes. He sneers. I am addressed by my full name, every crisp syllable:

“Dmitri Shostakovich. Take this,” my handler hisses.

I hang my head and oblige. I am soon ushered towards the wooden podium. I find myself uttering something about artistic formalism. The script tells me to heartily thank my critics, to agree with the banning of my music, to admit that I deserve condemnation. I briefly become a mannequin, my lips parting and closing against my will.

“I know the Party is right. The Party is showing concern for Soviet art and for me, a Soviet composer. I shall work on the musical depiction of the heroic Soviet peoples, from the correct ideological standpoint,” I hear myself sputter.

My words grow monotone and wearisome. I dare not look towards my audience, solemnly lowering my head to the papers. I hope they think that I am bowing out of shame. I do feel shame, just of another kind.

Agonizingly, I reach the final paragraph—the performance was almost over. “My colleagues. I have made a grave and shameful error. I have composed formalist works, on par with the empty ornamentation and decadence of the bourgeois west.” I cough out every word. “Lenin once decreed that art is for the people. As such, an artist must make his music accessible and available. Equipped with the guidance of the Central Committee, I shall work towards a path of triumph for our people.”

There is applause, and they release me. As I stumble back towards my seat, my colleagues turn their heads away. I do not blame them.

I sit down. A few more names are called, the unfortunate comrades that would be joining me. Their speeches can resemble the one I had recited, word for word, and I would not notice. My mind drifts elsewhere to file through distant recollections of various pieces. I dwell mostly on Stravinsky, but I instead settle on an excerpt from Wozzeck, the orchestral interlude. I am doomed, but I will choose when to let the fear fill me.

Sometime later, there is more applause, a standing ovation for an official address. I hear myself clap. People stand up, one by one, ghostly husks trudging towards the door. I remain hunched in my seat, aware but motionless.

Denunciation demands humiliation; I had been spat on in the street for Lady Macbeth, and uncomfortable stares are ideally avoided. And the bars in Moscow are at their best in the late evening.

My eyelids grow heavy. I drift away once more, long and inattentive enough to allow a man to sneak into the seat beside mine, undetected.

I feel a bony finger prod at my shoulder. I twist around in my chair, expecting a night guard who escorted stragglers off premises, or a stern-faced officer with badges at his chest and a pistol pointed at my heart. I tentatively bring my wrists together; in the case of arrest, I would not resist.

I instead meet a tired, balding man laced with bags and wrinkles. A sagging brown suit loosely hangs off his frame, and baggy knee-trousers tucked into his leather boots complete the mismatched set.

“Dmitriyevich. It’s been a while.”

And the cold, steel-tinted eyes of Sergei Prokofiev greet mine.

Intellects simply cannot stand other intellects, for two people who are equally competent hate seeing their weaknesses reflected in the strengths of the other. I know this well. Examples are strewn across history: Mendelssohn versus Liszt, Wagner versus Brahms, Schumann versus Liszt, Mahler versus Strauss. Composers are no stranger to rivalries, and the label would certainly define my relations with Prokofiev.

However, in some ways, this senior composer differed. During my student days, he had been my idol. He had approved of my music before. Our academic quarrels and childish spats have lasted decades. We have been compared against, celebrated, and now condemned together. All things considered, he might be a type of friend.

“Mr. Prokofiev. It has been a while. How have you been?” I gingerly extend my palm, preparing for a handshake. An odd gesture towards an acquaintance, but with Prokofiev’s temper, it was better to lean towards formality.

Prokofiev stares back, offended. “Why the formality? You of all should know the manner to address an old acquaintance.”

I quickly withdraw. “Sergei Sergeyevich. We have not seen each other in a while. Are you well?”

“I have seen better days.” Prokofiev pauses, glancing around the room. The hall is empty, abandoned.

“Cigarette? It’s Herzegovina Flor,” he offers.

I decline, afraid to admit that I prefer Kazbek, and the senior composer seems almost dismayed. He strikes a match. I watch the flame flicker and dance, feeling its warmth lap at my cheeks.

Relaxed by the smoke, Prokofiev chuckles. “You have not changed from your student days. Subtlety is not your strong suit. Your speech could have been more sincere—I’m surprised Zhdanov didn't cut your hands off altogether.”

“You were also condemned. I do not recall seeing your speech,” I retort. “Were you not given a statement?”

This question is ignored. “That bastard Khrennikov, your poker buddy. A smart man.” He takes another puff of his cigarette. “Fraternized his way with the officials until he got himself appointed the Union secretary. A certain someone could use a few notes from him,” he lectures, leaning back in the chair.

I am starting to feel pestered. “Are you here on official business? Do you need a favour? Or have you come here just to taunt me?”

“I’m getting to my point. As for you, Dmitriyevich: I see a narcissist who places himself at the center of his works. You write about your incessant beliefs and personal monologues. Satire and parodies. Protests. This is your fatal flaw, your inability to know your place.”

My shoulders tense. This was a deliberate power play. Like a house of wolves, the Composers’ Union consisted of canines who lunged to condemn another for the faintest hint of promotion. Prokofiev could be no different.

I feel my nails dig into my palms, drawing sweat. I will choose my next words very carefully.

“I do not know what you speak of. Everyone who listens to my music will hear what they want to hear. Is that not the goal of a musician? To reach the greatest number of people?”

“Do not play with me, Dmitri. Anyone with ears can hear the messaging in your work. That is my point.” He lowers into a whisper. “Out of everyone, you survived. You survived when people died for less. How?”

Prokofiev speaks in code. I am useless at puzzles, but I think I understand.

“You want help from me. You are asking for advice.”

Prokofiev gives a slight nod. “Somewhat. This is my first condemnation. It is your second. You are…more experienced.”

“Why me? The Enemy of the People? Why not the others that were denounced? Why not directly plead with Khrennikov or Zhdanov?”

He is silent. He is letting me think. I should feel insulted, but I am grateful for the silence.

I answer my own question. “Because I have self-respect and a conscience. And I had survived Lady Macbeth without issuing an official apology. Well, not a direct apology,” I add. This was a safe way to put it.

“And I am not as familiar with the others,” he admits.

“I need to be seen around you. While the West watches, the Party cannot possibly liquidate the both of us. They have not officially published this denunciation yet—once the word gets out, we are safe.”

“So, you are asking for my help,” I clarify.

“Yes.”

“My help. After sitting here and insulting me for the past hour.”

“Yes. Your point?”

“And threatening my livelihood.”

“What threats? Am I threatening you?”

He has finished his cigarette. Prokofiev is drumming his fingers on his lap, seemingly amused.

“So, you want my help. Then why not say that? Are you mad?” I am practically shouting now. “Does it bring you shame to ask for something from me?”

He scoffs. “The world would be a much better place if men could freely ask others below them, would it not?”

The final straw. Prokofiev would make a terribly awful tuner, tightening a string when it is already pulled taut.

“It was nice seeing you.” I begin to hoist myself out of the seat. “We are done here.”

“Dmitriyevich, I was merely teasing you. I—”

The apology has come too late. My patience has stretched thin. I am hurrying towards the exit.

I feel my sleeve roughly pulled back, the coarse wool like sandpaper against my skin. Prokofiev grasps my arm, trying to yank me back towards my chair. By fifty-something year old standards, his grip is remarkably strong. I am bewildered by this sudden game of tug-of-war and can only helplessly drag myself towards the door.

Then Sergei Sergeyevich Prokofiev, enfant terrible, world renowned composer-pianist, respected conductor, and my once-idol, does the unthinkable. He bites his tongue and begs.

I look back and Prokofiev is kneeling on one knee, bending and lunging with the other, his forehead brought to my hand. I feel my knuckles chafe against his lips. in a bizarre half-proposal, he kisses and pecks at my hand. He is silent, but the meaning is clear.

We remain in this position, a dying man pathetically grasping at the robes of his priest, for some time. I consider savouring the moment for longer, to see how long this man could take being humiliated before crumbling.

Sadly, I refuse. I fear he understands my weakness towards him—I cannot taint the image of the composer my younger self respected so much.

“Stand up,” I plead. My voice thins. “You are ruining your coat.”

Prokofiev does not budge. His skin is as thick as cowhide.

“I need an answer. Is grovelling at your feet not enough for you?”

I sigh. “Fine.”

One word is enough. He clasps my hand like a crutch and stumbles his way towards the closest chair, disoriented and gasping for air. That cigarette had not helped.

He collapses—I reach towards the elderly composer, but he raises a hand to stop me. He is allowing me to have the first word.

“I am no longer a student. I am your contemporary. If you want this to work, we continue as equals.”

Finally in his chair, Prokofiev regains his footing. He pulls out his handkerchief and brushes off his suit, as if nothing had happened.

“This is temporary. Out of the both of you, Khrennikov is still the ideal ally. Nonetheless, the enemy of my enemy—“

“—is my friend,” I finish. I am happy to get a win over him. “First word of advice: you need to come up with less predictable proverbs to seem intelligent, Sergei Sergeyevich.”

Prokofiev rises from his chair, strength renewed. “A clever comeback. Under my supervision, you are getting better already,” he grins.

I finally understand—Sergei Prokofiev is a cat that licks and grooms at others to assert his dominance.

He looks at me again, and I fill with uncertainty. Uncertainty, then excitement, as if I am peering into a window of the universe. I’m not sure how this arrangement will end, when it will end. All I know is that it will end and that I will end, and that the both of us are doomed. But I will explore and discover nonetheless. And that fills me with a cautious hope.

And so, this absurdist alliance began. With a kneel and a kiss.

We are walking to my apartment, the senior musician accompanying his junior. Prokofiev had voiced that he wanted to leave earlier, but I advised him to remain until evening. He reluctantly obeyed. Considerable amounts of snow had set in; it was better to walk with others on such frosted and dark nights.

The third day of the conference had been much more eventful with the addition of Prokofiev. The incident of interest happened during one of our many one-sided conversations—Prokofiev, ever the critic, was ranting about the flawed technique of a violin soloist he saw last week. I was irritated, but not surprised: during his conservatory days, Prokofiev kept records of the mistakes that his classmates made during performances.

I recall hearing a gruff snarl swell from the seats behind us. “Have some respect. Shut up and pay attention.”

I traced the voice to its owner, a gruff man with arched shoulders. A row of badges garnished his jacket, just above his heart. I have seen his uniform many times, mostly in nightmares—a tiny, cramped cell, a dark oak desk, and an officer who cackles as I twist and squirm with each question. Zakrevsky? Zakrovsky? The name does not matter. The mind forgets, but the heart does not.

Prokofiev stood, unfazed. “Who are you?”

“My name does not matter. But you had better pay attention to my orders.”

“I never pay attention to comments from people who have not been introduced to me,” I heard him retort.

The clammers of the crowd around us faded. The presiding officer did not respond, vanishing.

“Sergei Sergeyevich. Do you want to die?” I mouthed, wide-eyed. He answered with only a sly grin.

Much to my surprise, Prokofiev had remained silent afterwards, only intervallically drumming some improvisations he had dreamt up. During applauses and ovations, he would mime the fiery orators and droning speakers that had just presented, even his fellow condemned. One of his characters bore a defeatist expression, constantly fidgeting at his cheeks and arms. “This is what you looked like on the podium yesterday,” he smirked.

Later, I asked him to approach the official to apologize; partially because it is good mannered to, but mostly to save his skin.

His response: “I never say sorry. It is a word absent from my vocabulary.”

Prokofiev had been personally lambasted, his music picked apart by vultures, and his career scoured by rumour and threats. He had not shown up to the first day of the conference, and insulted a senior officer in front of witnesses on the third. And he had still not been given a speech.

I do not know if he is brave or stupid. All I know is that I am nothing in comparison.

Now, he taps at my shoulder—as always, he bears a slightly annoyed expression. “Today, at the conference, you were timid as always. They ripped your work to shreds. Why didn’t you say anything back?”

I bite my lip. I forget who the presenter was, but he had ripped up a copy of my Ninth, littering the shreds like snowflakes. I sat through it all. What more does he want? I already gave their speech yesterday.

“I’m not in the mood for this right now,” I mutter, absentminded. Something else had pressed on my mind, heavy as a stone; the stone is gone, but it had left a dent.

“I did what they required yesterday. I gave their speech. The rest I will answer with my music, not my words.”

“You’re pathetic. You need to grow a spine,” he responds, testing the waters.

“Perhaps I do. That’s not for you to decide.”

“Then Zhdanov will decide for you. Outside of your music, you are defenceless.”

“Say that again.” I intend the phrase as a warning, but it comes out as an instruction.

Prokofiev heeds it. “Dmitri Dmitrevich, let me lay it out for you. When others scold you, you bottle your sadness to sit and sulk. You write music that speaks of protest, but cannot shout yourself. What is the point?”

I am pensive. I do not like the amount of time that passes before my response.

“And has biting back at everyone who has dared to look in your direction helped you?”

He scoffs. “I will not bite at the hand that feeds me. You, on the other hand—they have defanged you. You can no longer defend yourself.” He pinches his thumb and index finger together and gestures in a waving motion, hand writhing and twisting. “You are no longer a snake, but a worm. A puny, pathetic worm.”

“Tread carefully. Or I will leave you at my feet this time,” I warn, half-serious.

“I’m not teasing. I am warning you.”

I pretend to ignore this remark, staring at my feet. I had forgotten to wear my boots, which I regret. The snow sifts against my leather soles like flour. A little worm.

Prokofiev quickly fills in the discomforting silence. “You didn’t want to walk with me yesterday. What was that about?”

The stone. I sigh.

“I visited Mieczysław Weinberg’s apartment last night, the composer from Warsaw. They murdered his father-in-law and disguised it as a traffic accident. While people watched.” I close my eyes and meet the Polish composer’s, frantic and bloodshot. “I still cannot forget his face.”

There are four types of people in this country: the schoolboys who toyed with men like puppets. The victimized and tortured puppets. The people who are forced to follow like pawns. And their allies, the bystanders, while corpses pile beneath their feet. Fear is reasonable, silence is forgivable; apathy is not. I look towards Prokofiev, wondering if he understands.

The former exile side-glances. “Weinberg. He was the one you wrote letters begging to save. How has that worked out for the both of you?”

I frown. He rephrases.

“You are a kind man, I’ll give you that. Foolish but kind.”

“How can I not be? In this country, kindness is a duty.” I stiffen. “Do you not care?”

His eyes dim. “I care. There’s just no point in caring. I choose to worry about it when the time comes.”

I cannot tell if he is serious or joking. Not that it would matter. “Sergei, you disgust me, you and your silence. While honest men die.”

He flashes a worried look. “Keep walking. You don’t want to be saying those things while in front of him,” he quips, glancing towards our right.

Against a stone pedestal, a statued Stalin stands; the Great Gardener or Butcher, depending on who and when you asked. Brooding and all-powerful. And now all-hearing, according to Prokofiev.

I stop walking. My fingers curl into my palms, forming fists. The night is frigid and dark, and there are no lights. Where crowds once flocked, only the two of us remained. There would be no witnesses.

I step towards the massive figure. I am tiny David, facing Goliath. The plaque is covered in tiny slivers of frost, branching like ferns. Comrade Stalin’s figure shines piercingly, even in the dim moonlight. “Religion is the opium of the masses,” Marx had said. This quote rings true; what he had not known is that his words would become the scripture.

I lean, then spit at the Chairman’s feet. Where the phlegm touched instantly freezes to the bronze, at the tip of his shoes.

Prokofiev’s eyes widen, a combination of thrill and shock. “You bastard. I didn’t know you had it in—“

His praise is cut short. Out of the corner of my eye, lights flicker on. I hear a door creak open.

We flee the scene like thieves, my feet growing wings. Prokofiev trails behind, then disappears. I feel a harsh tug at my back collar, and am dragged down a branching alleyway. I swallow, and close my eyes—this was how I would finally die, for the crime of spite—then recognize the sharp, agonized breaths of the senior composer that drags me.

I tumble to the ground, my dress pants and coat caking with snow and frost. My spectacles fly off my face. I find myself crawling on four limbs, towards Prokofiev, ignoring the shards of ice that dig into my palms.

I dare not breathe. We huddle together, criminals in the night.

Minutes passed. No one pursued us. The streets sit as empty as always.

Prokofiev breaks the silence. He is huffing, still catching his breath. “You idiot, you moron. That was insane. You are pathetic,” he sputters, nearly incoherent. “That was so stupid, so pathetic. No one came. Running when no one had pursued us.”

“Then why did you run after me?”

“To stop you.”

I want to retort back, but puffs of air form instead of words. I press my hand against my beating chest, feeling its motion, rising and crashing like waves.

Slowly, my breathing steadies. The adrenaline fades, and I am washed with joy, a brief respite. I had scorned a god and lived.

Then, reality dawns. I am hunched in some dark alleyway like a rat, hiding from a guard that never came, the mirage of the panopticon. My music is still banned. Stalin still sits atop his throne with a magnifying glass, burning his people like ants. The shame settles, wrapping its tendrils like mold.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sergei. I truly am. I don’t know what’s happened with me.”

“You should be. What’s wrong with you?”

I reach for his coat, sweeping the flecks of snow off like dust. “Are you hurt?”

“Sore, but fine otherwise.” He glimpses at his right, where the street meets the alleyway. “I know another way to your apartment. We will go when I have finished resting. Now brush the rest off my coat.”

I obey. After the last chunks are gone, we rest, a rare period of silence around Prokofiev.

My vision is foggy. I dig into the snow bank, searching for my spectacles, to no avail. I give up, lying down—my limbs unfurl, stretching on four sides, like how children made snow angels. I am numbly warm despite the snow that dusts my coat and cheeks. I grow delirious, the feverish sensation melting on my tongue like ambrosia.

There are a million ways to die in Russia. Most involve pain. I fear pain; I fear failing and having to carry on living. But I do not fear dying. Here, death is like sleep, an embrace, a mother swaddling her child in arms and blankets. If it is done, then be it. Death would be kinder than man.

“Get up.”

I don't answer. Prokofiev’s voice passes through like air.

My ear is yanked. I jolt awake, half-conscious. Prokofiev towers over me, arms crossed and pacing like an annoyed schoolteacher.

“Did you fall asleep? What’s taking so long?”

I struggle to stand, joints limp and stiff. Seeing my useless attempts, Prokofiev sighs, offering his arm as a crutch. We clasp hands, the older pulling the younger to his feet.

“There. Now we’re even.” He raises an eyebrow. “Where did your glasses go?”

I’m not sure either. I remember feeling my ear throbbing, not painfully, but a sullen numbness that deafens my voice. I remember groggily saying something to Prokofiev, most likely a word of thanks, or perhaps that I am an idiot. The specifics are lost to time.

“What’s that?”

I try again. “I think you might be right.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I am a fool, I have been a fool,” I mumble, speech slurring. “I am pathetic and good for nothing.”

His expression shifts to something close to concern. “Did you hit your head? You sound more idiotic than usual.”

“I thought about what you said earlier, about my music. I think you’re right. Now I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know what to think.”

“Then stop. Stop doing and thinking.” It was always so simple for him. “Get some rest. I’ll walk you home.”

My memories of the rest of that night are blurry. I feel as if I had watched my life play out through a series of short films, the comedies and satires I once accompanied for at The Bright House.

I remember stumbling home like a drunk, leaning on Prokofiev for support. He had linked my arm to his, tethering me in place. I waved goodbye. I heard the sound of my keys jingling as I struggled with the door. Upon entering, Maxim had leapt into my arms—Papa, you look like a snowman—and sweet Galina, ever responsible (a trait she inherited from Nina, not me), complained that the mischievous boy had refused to get ready for bed to wait for me. Nina had taken my coat off, scolding me for the mess that I made of it, and for rolling around in so much snow and ice that I was sure to come down with a cough. I kissed each one on the cheek, profusely apologizing for coming home so late, for my unexplained exhaustion, for the snow, for losing my spectacles, for the state of my trousers, for being such a terrible father, for existing.

After putting the children to bed, I went to my room, changed out of my torn and wet clothes, and replaced my lost spectacles. I had crept into my study, much to Nina’s dismay, who then lectured about the importance of taking care of myself. I promised her that I just had a few notes to jot down, that I would rest immediately after; another promise I would not keep.

I sat outside by the lift that night, a small leather suitcase in hand, the same one I had used twelve years prior—waiting for the echoing footsteps of an officer, waiting for an inevitable arrest. The same cycle, the same plot, the same ending. By dawn, I gave up, having finished all my cigarettes. Creeping back to the study, I found a small cup and dish on its oak table.

Nina had brewed tea. The cup was still warm.

I broke down sobbing. I could not do that to them. Every action was so small, so inconsequential, yet so loving. The Party could not force my hand anymore. I would live until death pushed me into its arms.

Even a worm will turn, Shakespeare had quoted. The worm had turned. But what can such a meek and docile creature do against a god?

I am walking, this time alone. Just an hour earlier, Oleg Prokofiev had knocked at my door, without his father. His eyes were bloodshot.

Lina Ivanovna. NKVD. Apartment searched. Arrest. Pleadings. Letters. The words repeat in my head, hovering like flies and lingering like tinnitus.

I did not ask him if his father has done anything, if he will do anything. I can do that myself.

I am at his door. I knock, heartbeat-like, a group of triplets. Tap tap tap. Nothing. I am moments away from using the doorbell when the door cracks open.

“Dmitriyevich.” I see Prokofiev’s eyes poke out. I cannot tell if there are tears. “Why are you here at this hour?”

“Oleg Sergeyevich was at my apartment. I received the news. Now I am here.” I deliberately leave the name and incident unsaid.

The door does not open further. I hear him sigh through the crack. “It’s done. There’s no point. You won’t be of any use.”

“I will write letters.”

“Letters. Letters to whom?”

“Officials, officers, anyone who can read. Authorities.” I nervously shuffle my feet. “It is something.”

“You’re pathetic.”

I ignore the insult. “So you choose to do nothing instead?”

“No. I choose to resolve this on my own terms.”

I am on borrowed time. I hear him fiddle with the lock.

“Wait.” I slip a hand through, preventing the door from closing. “Then let us talk. You need to navigate your grief.”

“I am flattered, but I don’t need your concern. My grief is my own.”

“Then consider this as a thank you. For that night,” I say, laying my heart at his feet. “Sergei, I do not care if it’s pathetic. It is better than nothing.”

He is silent, pensive. I tap at the handle. Tap tap tap. “Let me in. Please.”

He finally speaks. “It’s just as I told you. You don’t know your place. I don’t need any more help from you. The decree and murders will be published in the West.” I feel his glare through the door, scalding me like fire. “And they are of more use than you.”

“For the last time, Sergei, I do not care what will happen in a few weeks. I want to help you right now.“

“You do not understand. You never understand. To put it in the words of the capitalist, this world is transactional, Dmitriyevich. I do not want any more help from you.”

I am taken aback. “Is that all you see me as? A transaction?”

He does not respond, but the message is clear. I sigh.

“Well, I want to help you. I can help you with your grief, but it depends on whether you want to be helped or not. You deserve—“

He interrupts me. “Shut up. You don’t know anything. I do not grieve,” he rasps, throat scraped and raw. “Help is debt. I do not need any more help from you. Good night.” He shuts the door before I can respond, nearly taking my fingers.

I run home. I write the letters anyway.

I am unsure of how to feel. Dismay? Offended? Bewildered? For some reason, I settle on pity. I pity him.

Many regard artists as self-saboteurs—channeling misery into art often breeds more misery. This is true, but only in part: art is the exploration of human emotion, and the artist themself is often the subject. Unfortunately, many of the most gripping emotions are negative. Art, then, becomes the release for the pain.

Prokofiev somehow finds an entirely different way to self-sabotage. For how does an artist express his emotions if he pretends that they do not exist?

If the Western press has saved us, as Prokofiev had claimed, then I do not feel its effects. I am fired from my teaching positions at the Moscow Conservatory. My commissions run low. I write more and more Cantatas and film music. Officers fling garbage at my windows and yard—in retaliation, Maxim slingshots them back. After the fifth or sixth time, Nina gives up chastising him. They defend my honour more than I do myself.

Nowadays, I pace around a lot, upright and alone, chain-smoking. Today is no different: empty boxes pile on the windowsill, like ashen carcasses. I am not proud of this habit, but I live with it nonetheless. I light another when I hear a knock at the door. Thankfully, I am expecting it.

I open the door to greet the visitor, a cigarette still dangling from my lips.

“Sergei Sergeyevich. I saw your telegram. How are you?"

(In hindsight, this is a stupid question. For someone who had just survived a stroke, he is remarkably upright; his doctors forbid him to compose. Naturally, he shows up at my door to evade instruction.)

He rolls his eyes. “Better. You look terrible.”

I barely get the door open before he barges in, brushing me aside without another word.

I ask for permission, then act. Prokofiev acts, then asks for forgiveness. No wonder he has gotten further than me.

I hear small but rapid footsteps pound against the floorboards, crescendoing as they approach. Maxim and Galina rush towards Prokofiev, circling their newfound guest like a game of merry-go-round.

“Galya! Mr. Prokofiev is here. The bald one.” Maxim exclaims, flashing a toothy grin. He waves. “Hello sir. Sorry that I used to pelt rocks and shout at your window.”

Galina reproaches him. “Apologies for my brother, sir. You are not completely bald yet.” She tilts her head, examining the elderly composer like a specimen. “Maxim, I told you. He still has hair on the sides.”

Prokofiev grimaces, face bubbling with disgust. “Where’s Vasilyevna?”

I try to keep a straight face. “On a business trip to Leningrad. I am looking after the children today. I hope you don’t mind.”

I clear my throat, addressing the two rascals: “Mr. Prokofiev is our guest today. Treat him like one.”

They nod. I watch as the two scurry away, bickering about what constitutes a full head of hair. I stifle a chuckle.

Prokofiev is less amused. “I do mind, Dmitriyevich. You are useless, while Nina would have made them behave. Children should be seen and not heard,” he hisses.

“You must not be a very good husband then, always springing the children onto their mother. Did you do the same with—“ I realize, then quickly rephrase. “You are no fun.”

He does not notice, or pretends not to. “I am fun when I want to be. You just don’t like my jokes.”

I sigh. Guilt ebbs at my throat.

“We’re wasting time. Please take a seat. Let us compose.”

I guide him to the living room, where I have piled parchments (state issued) on its humble table. I notice a pen slightly out of file with the others, taking a finger to gently nudge it into place—not because Prokofiev would complain, but because I do not like disorder myself.

I gather a stack of papers, handing it to Prokofiev. The coarse edges scrape and stab at my palms like blades. I ignore the memories that this ripples.

Met with just pen and paper to compose, Prokofiev looks almost askance—overreliance on the piano is a detriment. It also may be the effects of age. Either way, I come to his rescue.

“The grand is behind you, but there is also an upright in the study. Should you need it.”

He takes this as an insult. “I do not,” he seethes, through gritted teeth.

I leave him. We sit in silence, aside from the occasional scratches and scrawls of ink.

I am drafting a cantata in praise of Comrade Stalin. Here, I depict him as the Great Gardener—I imagine the staff as orderly ploughs, the notes as crops daintily planted into the seams. I wish I were angry, but I really feel nothing, as if the music were not mine. The melody appears fully-fledged in my head. I am merely a typewriter, conveying another’s thoughts. Occasionally, I sense Prokofiev sneaking glances over my shoulders. I do not turn to examine his expression; partially because it would disturb my work, but mostly out of shame. He does not ask. I assume he knows.

After the fifth or sixth glance, he finally makes a comment. “Your melody writing is rubbish.”

My head remains fixed to the paper. “The same can be said about your orchestration. The few compositions that you orchestrate yourself, anyway,” I tease.

To this he scowls, but does not deflect. This is what I like about Prokofiev: he pouts, but does not deny the truth.

We do not get much composing done. Though we share a dislike of small talk, I find that he is a pleasant person to listen to, while he appreciates how I do not take his habit of overpowering a conversation as flaunting his intellect. I actually do, but he sees how I tolerate it. So much of friendship is learning how to tolerate others.

He talks about Paris, of his time as an enfant terrible at the conservatory, his travels abroad and random anecdotes. I interject sparsely with questions, as if I were a journalist. He enjoys this—another trait I envy him for. I admire his directness: never hesitating, never choosing his words, always exact and simple. I wonder if it is purposeful, or a force of habit: in an early interview, he once refused to answer official questions on his ballet—"that concerns politics, not music, and therefore I won’t answer"—so I conclude that it is the latter.

If I had been in his position, what would I have said? My mind blanks, coming up with nothing. That is the answer: nothing. Or an answer that is equivalent to nothing, with the rest ascribed to my music. Which is why Zhdanov handed me a script.

I ask another. “During your time performing abroad, how did you find the audiences?”

He purses his lips, tracing his thoughts. “I find that the Americans are forgiving and open, but I am less popular than my competition there. The French are pompous and disliked my style. I cannot stand the British.” (He makes no mention of the Germans). “Overall, I enjoy my popularity.”

Yet another one of our differences; Prokofiev enjoys fame.

He sighs. “Generally, the West is more fickle, but it is more artistically rewarding to compose for them. Not that it matters now.” He says this while glancing at my Cantata, then back at me. “Which reminds me. Have you thought about leaving?”

“I have left before, the same as you: Paris, London. Several others that aren't coming to mind right now. Oh, New York.” I wince at mentioning the last city.

He lowers into a whisper. “As in for good. Defecting.”

My blood runs cold. I trust him, but the word brings chills nonetheless.

“No. No, I have not. Truthfully, I have never considered it as an option.”

“Why not?”

“For starters, it would mean endangering everyone around me. Nina and the children. Friends. My fellow composers and musicians.” You. “For such a selfish act.”

He stares, and I know that was not the answer he wanted. I sigh.

“I’m not sure. Even if I wanted to, I cannot see myself leaving. I cannot sever my identity with this cursed country. I would crawl back, a failed exile.” Like you.

His eyebrows burrow. “Elaborate.”

“In life, I am physically bound here. In death, my music will inevitably be tied to this government. I cannot separate myself from this soil while I live, and I will become one with it when I die. And I don’t want to. I love no other land, and have ties to no other soil.” I meet his eyes. “I exist in a context in which I am powerless to change, and unwilling to divorce. So I remain a part of it.”

His expression remains unchanged. “So you love this country. A country that degrades you. This is idiotic, Dmitriyevich.”

I am bewildered. This was all he understood?

“It’s not love in the conventional sense. It has more to do with identity than love.” I jab a finger at his chest, his heart. “Look. Even you came back, in 1936 no less. The year of denunciations.” My denunciation. “You should understand this.”

I strike a chord. His eyes harden, nostrils flaring. “What I did has nothing to do with this. You make no sense.”

“Fine then. If it helps you understand, then I love this country by disposition: in the same way that trees submit to loggers, or how coins hug the pockets of a priest. I am an idiot who finds love where it does not exist.”

“Then you’re a masochist, a slobbering romantic. Our little Mahler. Or a narcissist who thrives off of attention,” he says, chewing on each insult like toffee. “By the way, you are terrible at answering questions. I’m surprised at how you have lived this long.”

I sigh again. “Sergei, if you must, then ignore everything I said. Just focus on the practical. I cannot leave because my family is here. Are you satisfied?”

He is not. “Alright. Theoretically, let’s say that you can leave. There are no consequences. You can bring your family if you’d like. Do you go?”

“You are asking this as if it is an interrogation.”

“It is now." 

The warmness vanishes. We have gone from questioning him to me—except while I was asking for his thoughts, he is asking to prove a point. I'm not sure what, but there had to be one. 

“Sergei, I have been nothing but honest with you. Is this what I get in return?”

He presses onwards, almost gloatingly. "Did Zhdanov reward you for your honesty? See me as him. Picture the scene for me.”

I examine his face, his sneer, and I know that we are done. He exists to remind me of my flaws, or at least what he thinks they are. I'm sure he was born this way to torment me; I serve him my heart on a silver platter, and he prods at it with a fork. 

Unlike him, I understand my true flaws: I expect understanding where there is none. I regard reciprocity as a law of nature. And I spend far too much effort to affect what I cannot.

What he does not understand is that I do not need to picture this scene. I live through it every time I am questioned, whether abroad or here. I live through it every time I see another portrait or statue on the street, or confine another composition to sit unpublished and unknown. I live through it every time I am shunned for daring to show vulnerability. Now, I live through it while facing whom I thought was a friend.

He once told me that I’ve had my fangs stripped away. But I never had fangs to begin with. I am not a snake, but a worm. I am a worm that has turned.

“No.” I repeat the word. “No. I refuse to answer your question. I refuse, because I cannot imagine such a case. It does not exist; it will never exist. I do not care what happens to me, what will become of me if I go abroad. But if anyone lays a finger on my family, on—“ My voice breaks. I cannot say it. If I say it, then I will bring it to reality. “—I will go mad. I will trade my life for theirs, every time. And I know you would do the same. You are not Zhdanov, but far worse: you are Sergei Prokofiev, my contemporary, my idol, my friend. We share the same struggles, the same vulnerabilities, yet you pretend like you do not. You pick apart my fears and worries, but remain in denial about your own. Does it bring you shame to admit that you have regrets? Does it bring you shame to confess that you, like me, are human?”

The words pour and pour. He reaches for me, but I push away.

“Do not console me. I am not angry. I am in sheer disbelief, because I’ve finally figured it out: you rely on others to affirm your opinion of yourself. I had been confused on why you sought me to the point of kneeling, but now I understand—you never needed my help. You never needed me. What you needed was someone to scoff at, so you seem better in comparison. I wish I took offence to this, but I do not. I have enough grace not to. I only feel pity. Sergei, I pity you.”

I raise a finger. “Let me be clear: I do not care about your petty insults. Joke, taunt, insult me all you want. But say anything like that again, and this arrangement ends. Even theoreticals. A single word, and you are dead to me.”

I am breathless. I brace myself for an onslaught, for him to come up with a million different ways to say that I am wrong, why I am wrong, annunciating every syllable as if I were a toddler. I do not care. I have said my piece. I am relieved no matter what comes.

I glare, and he knows that it is his turn to speak. He opens his mouth, eyebrows burrowing, but nothing comes out.

He tries again. He is pensive; I see the words form, then evaporate from his lips.

He tries once more.

“...Sorry.”

I just stare, in quiet disbelief. I do not believe the words are coming out of his mouth.

Prokofiev notices. He repeats them.

“I’m sorry.”

I do not know how to respond. I remain motionless, taking in the moment, seeing if it is true.

He repeats it again and again. “I’m sorry, Dmitri, I’m sorry. I truly am.”

He reaches for me, grasping both of my hands, thumbs gently brushing my palms. I let him this time. I recognize that sincerity, and I cannot tear away. I am quiet, but chastise myself; a single apology on his tongue and I melt.

“I cannot understand you. I don’t think I will ever understand you. I still think that you are an idiot,” he confesses, voice like gauze. “But you are an honourable man. This is the highest praise I can give you.”

He unhands me. There is a long silence. I hear the seconds tick by like a metronome.

He shuffles his feet, more nervous than irritated. I remain silent. I am not sure where to go from here.

Prokofiev takes that first step for me. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he says, voice fraying. “I trust that I should be leaving now.”

Before I realize it, I stop him.

“No. You are still my guest. You should have tea.”

We walk to the living room together. I call for Maxim and Galina. They are overjoyed. The two swarm around him at the table, scooting around their chairs until he is pinned at their center. I do not address them further, leaving to the kitchen.

I wait. The water has boiled by now, but I leave him there for another ten minutes—after all, the punishment is timed. I watch the hand on the clock rotate one last time, then take a peek around the corner.

He has gotten a book, likely Gogol. He reads as if he were a clown: miming each character, raising and lowering his voice to narrate and describe, whistling and hooting to add sound effects. The two are well old enough to read on their own, but they enjoy the charade nonetheless. Maxim helps with the miming. I see Galina grinning, dimples embellishing her cheeks.

Ten minutes becomes twenty, then thirty, then an hour. I stand and watch through all of it. I do not interrupt, preserving the moment, encasing it in glass.

Prokofiev never had tea. He left hurriedly, but had stopped by the doorway, lower lip hanging by the hinges. The words, if any, never came. But before he stepped out, he hugged both children. I think he may have hugged me.

I do not understand him either. I may never. But he, too, is an honourable man.

We meet regularly. I go to attend premieres and performances with him. Sometimes he drops by to compose.

Others do not occur in person—I get telegrams, letters. Sometimes they are more than just that. One time, I found a bouquet of roses at my doorstep, the type I receive at concerts and recitals; except my right hand has developed a tremor, and I do not perform much anymore. I should have spent the rest of the day wallowing in regret and self-pity, until I noticed the tag—From yours, SSP. I remember sifting through my recent ventures, wondering if I had any recent premieres that required congratulations, only to come up with nothing. He had apologized already, and I am not in hospital. I am still not sure why he sent them.

Another time, I pass by him while walking, on the opposite side of the street. I had been surprised; he prefers driving, or the chauffeur. I waved at him, frantically, as if I were drowning. He merely stopped, acknowledging my presence. Then he kept walking.

I confronted him about it the next time we met. He said he thought that he felt it was too much effort to raise his arm and wave back that day—not mockingly nor condescendingly, but as a fact.

I recognize the pattern now: like clockwork, we meet, bicker, then reconcile. He pouts, and I sulk. We are either children, or an old, married couple. Perhaps there is no difference.

I think back to what I had said to him at my apartment, why he had sought me out originally. He never denied it. However, this does not hinder my feelings towards him.

I’ve said this before, but I view our relationship the same way humans view the cosmos, our reality: cold, unanswerable, and helpless before its grandeur and mystery, but inviting and exciting. We are so weak towards it all; I am so weak towards him. Nothing I do makes sense. I am a physicist, mulling over abstract formulas and equations in an attempt to grasp the stars I cannot reach. I am Patroclus, regal and tall, dressed as a soldier as Achilles sends me to my doom. I am a spectator, watching a football game from the sidelines, cheering and placing bets for my team. My side is losing. And I choose to cheer on the losing side, every time.

“Blessed are the meek,” scriptures recite. I pray that this is true.

Prokofiev had sent a telegram this morning: “In bed. Migraine. Bolshoi cancelled.”

He wears spectacles now, the same as mine, the bony frame pinching his face like tweezers. I look in the mirror, and I see someone else stare back. There are wrinkles, spots, and sags, the wears and tears of alcohol and cigarettes. I flower with more features. But I only see what has gone.

He still writes, but I feel he prefers the telegram due to its brevity—the fewer the words, the less amount of meaning that could be extracted. What he does write is brief: thank-yous. Acknowledgements. I received your letter the other day, thanks. Thank you for existing. I value your opinion. I have always valued your opinion.

Writing is difficult with a dilapidating hand, but I write nonetheless. I write letters too, the other kind. I write more letters than music nowadays. I’m not sure if it’s of any use. But the requests pile up either way. Whether relatives, friends, acquaintances, strangers, I try my best to fulfill them. I try to save them all. 

Most are ignored. Some are rejected. I rarely ever see successes—when they happen, I try to rejoice, no matter how small. Prokofiev summed it up best: “You care too much.” He is correct. He always is.

They are stubborn. But so am I.

We are at a concert today. I forget which piece, but it felt so painfully familiar. It may have been his Sixth, or Mussorgsky. Rimsky-Korsakov or Tchaikovsky. Or Mahler. It may have been one of mine. It does not matter.

There is a trumpet solo. The soloist is steady, but meanders through what is supposed to be a controlled phrase; small, but noticeable. He does not point this out.

He dashes out of the auditorium at the intermission. I chase after him. His right hand clutches his stomach, the other clamping at his mouth, and I know he is aiming for the restroom. In his panic, he leaves the door open.

When the business is done, I glance over at the sink. It is putrid and dreadful, but that is not my concern. I see small clots and patches of blood.

I pat and rub his back. He is wretched and thin, like a cloth wrung dry. “Let it out. It should not hurt anymore.”

I feel his breathing gradually steady. “No. That’s not the problem.” He turns towards me, face pale and limp.

“That’s not what hurts. Dmitryevich, my soul hurts.”

He brings his handkerchief to his lips. A wipe, then it is gone. His face returns to marble. I offer him my arm—momentarily, I feel a small tug, then nothing. He chooses to lean on the wall instead.

I am quiet through it all. He deafens me with all he leaves unsaid.

Afterwards, we sit in a car, courtesy of the chauffeur. I am to return to my apartment. He is to return to the hospital.

I initially glance out the window, but eventually my pupils wander elsewhere. I catch myself staring towards him. I do nothing else. I just stare and stare.

Like a worn photograph, the edges have blurred, but the Prokofiev in front of me keeps his integrity. His piercing eyes, his distinctive chin. He is resting his chin on his hand—his hands, slender but wide, worthy of a pianist’s. His calculated arrogance. His obscured emotion. How he adapts his compositional style with ease. How I have grafted myself to him while receiving nothing in return.

Coveting over what others have is a sin. I cannot covet. I cannot take. I cannot scheme. So I mourn. I mourn for what he has and what I do not, for the fact that I am the way I am. I will mourn until the stars go dark and the flowers around his gravestone are deceased and they have finished flaying me apart, page by page, note by note. When I am forgotten.

We meet less and less often. I believe he spends most of his days resting, lounging, taken care of. It both relieves and infuriates me. 

I achieve a small victory the other day—a letter went through, relocating Sergei Prokofiev to a better hospital. This is overshadowed by the fact that he is in hospital.

Perhaps artists are not meant to be happy. So many art movements are founded on misery and anger. I think of Romanticism, of Expressionism; Weltschmerz, world-weariness; Sehnsucht, indefinite yearning—never love, longing. No one writes while happy. Optimistic, yes, but those end in tragedy. I know this well.

Yet, he pranks and snickers still. He pinches at my locks of thinning, graying hair and jokes that I will end up bald like him. He switches my spectacles with his and laughs when I don’t immediately notice a difference. And he still complains of my melody writing.

I am used to this. I let him. Sometimes I retort back and he smiles.

I am numb.

We are sitting. The sun shines warmly. I hear the tranquil rustle of the grass and gravel that surrounds us.

Despite my protests and against the doctor’s instructions, he is outside. I am secretly grateful. We had walked for a bit. Now we are at a bench, feeling the cool breeze lap at our skin, wordless but together.

I may be content to just sit in silence with him, forever. But there is so much to discuss. And not enough time left.

Prokofiev reaches into his breast pocket, drawing two cigarettes. Like an accompanist to a soloist, I respond telepathically, striking a match. We douse our cigarettes into the flame, as if dipping a nib into ink. He looks at the smoke. I look into his eyes.

He starts us off, as always. “When did we first meet? My memory is failing, but I want to say that one of the first meetings that defined our relationship was during a performance of your first piano concerto. I think you performed it, then ran out of the room. I had critiqued you, saying—”

“That it was formless. You said that it was formless,” I blurt, cutting him off, “Loose in shape and not flawless in good taste.” I could not stop myself. Embarrassingly, I still recount each word.

He laughs. “I see. By the way, I still think it is rubbish. Hopefully your second is better.”

I don’t answer. My right hand is useless at this point. If I write one, I will not be the one playing it.

We have both aged. I am no longer young and rebellious, but also not ancient and wise. I am something in between.

We trade words, confession for confession, anecdote for anecdote. He talks about his travels, his performances, his favourite ballets and productions he’s seen at the Bolshoi. I’ve heard most of these stories before. I do not remind him; as long as he is talking, I do not mind.

When it is my turn, I talk about anything and everything. Mostly music. I tell him about his works, how much I adored them, how much I wished he would keep composing. I hold a horrible piety for him, I joke. He chuckles and teases me when I say this, so I say it all again. When the praises run low, I briefly turn to mine. I tell him that I have plans for a new symphony, my Tenth. The sketches have long been started, but I’m not sure when I will complete it. Only a few know. He is now one of them.

Soon, it is his turn again. “Do you have any regrets? Last wishes, bearings?” I ask. 

Prokofiev chuckles. “Too many. For one, I’d like to live for a few more years, to write and compose more music. Like your letter.” I wish you at least another hundred years to live and create.

I still, eyes locking, attentive as he unburdens his heart to me. 

“But watching my body fall apart, having to rely on others for simple tasks…it’s humiliating. Lying in bed alone, waiting for the inevitable. Then silence. I dislike the helplessness of it all.”

I am silent at first. I do not possess a tongue that sweetens grief into acceptance, or the skill to speak and inspire. It is agony. I wish I were an orator, not a storyteller; a speaker, not a writer; a politician, not a composer. What I can offer is only the truth.

“I will be there through it all.”

He nods and continues. About the rotating nurses and doctors, about which ones were nice and which ones were not. The aches in the joints and tendons that return with the chill weather (this I relate to). The whirs and beeps of the machines by his bedside. How Mira Alexandrovna visits and cares for him.

I ask him to give her my greetings. I say how much I enjoyed his music once more. I affirm that he will be remembered, and how I would make sure of it. I console, as a teacher does to a pupil, and counsel, as a doctor to a patient. I do not tell him how his teases and antics became less annoying as time went on, or how I liked it when he smiled.

I turn my head, inspecting his expression once more. He is closing his eyes, smiling, at peace. An air of finality hangs, like the last curtain call.

This relief is short-lived, dissolving into dull terror—he prepares to rise from the bench. Our last meeting. I have fulfilled my purpose. He does not need me anymore.

I want to snag and drag his wrist towards the bench, his proper place, next to me. But I cannot. I stay seated. I stare at the gravel, at my feet, finger pointing towards the empty space beside me.

For the first and last time, Prokofiev takes note of my hesitation. He sits back down.

“Dmitriyevich.” Each syllable of this name he has given me is tongued and crisp. “Do you have anything else to discuss?”

He asks if I have any last questions for him, if I have anything else to say. If.

At first, as with any interview, this question draws a blank. Not that I do not have anything to say, but too much, flooding and brimming. I had stowed the words away in a box. No, a pit. A pit inside my heart, yawning and caving.

Every time we meet, I always look towards him: listening to him, thinking of him, complimenting him. He has never said anything of me. Years ago, he called me an honourable man. I had wondered what he meant by it.

Damn my insecurity. I only have one question left. A selfish one.

“Sergei Sergeyevich. What am I to you?”

(Reflecting on it now, not just a selfish one. A stupid one. I am far too sentimental. But how can I not be, when I feel all the emotions he suppresses?)

I should have worded it better, but I think he understands. Prokofiev’s expression shifts from solemn to nearly relieved.

“You are my contemporary. A good one at that. And a good composer.”

Then silence. I wait for more, but he finishes sooner than he had started.

“Is that all?”

“Your music is satisfactory.”

“And of my person?” I pause, fingers nervously tapping on my pant leg. Tap tap tap. “In your opinion. I want your thoughts.”

“No different. What I said earlier: you are a good musician and a capable composer.” He shuffles his feet. “And my favourite contemporary,” he adds.

“So I am only your contemporary?”

“Did you not hear me? I also commend you as a good musician. I’m not sure what else you want.”

“Well, I was expecting…more. After all these years.” I silence and reflect. “All those meetings, performances, letters.” The roses. “So they meant nothing.”

“Well, am I not sitting with you now? You are my dearest contemporary.”

That awful word again. It stings and rubs like alcohol.

“But otherwise, I am nothing to you. So you do not love me.”

I cup my mouth with both hands, spectacles nearly flying. That damned word finally leaves my throat and I immediately wish I could claw it back. I had used such a potent word. I’m not sure what I had meant by it. I’m not sure what I mean by anything. But Sergei Sergeyevich Prokofiev would receive the wrong meaning.

He does. I study his face, heart dropping to my stomach.

“No. You are dear to me, but a friend and contemporary first. Perhaps in a different life.” He turns his head away. “And I’m sorry if I had ever made you feel that way.”

We sit next to one another, but we are chasms apart. I ponder what he sees; I see him, then my flaws that have brought us here. I wonder what he wants; I want to strip my flesh bare to the bone and bruise my throat with liquor and tobacco. Would he then notice the grief he has brought me?

“That’s not what I meant. I do not mean that word in the conventional sense; when have I ever been conventional? I would retract it if I could. But I hope you can understand me.” I expect understanding where there is none. “If not, then at least try. Please. It’s all I want.”

He gives a partial answer. “We are composers first, friends second. This is our relationship.”

“Alright. If you want to regard me as a composer and contemporary only, then let us discuss my music. My music is me—when it is my time, I will become my music. How do you feel about my music, Sergeyevich?”

He barely moves. “I’ve already said this. Your music is good. I do not wish to elaborate further. Allow me this peace.”

“There are things that I have confessed to you that I would have taken to my grave. I ask you to do the same for me.” I regard reciprocity as a law of nature. “You are the one who has never allowed me peace.”

He turns to glance at me, then away again. “No matter how you feel, no matter how dear to you I am, you willingly confessed them to me. You never learn: this world is transactional.” In the words of the capitalist, this world is transactional, Dmitriyevich. “No one owes you anything. I do not owe you anything. That was your choice to make, and one I do not have to follow.”

"Transaction" is such an ugly word for reciprocity. But he is right. This is what I detest about him: in some way, he is always right. I can never be right. We both cannot deny the truth. When he pouts, I sulk. No—I plead.

“Then, out of what good will you have left in you; out of my status as your dearest contemporary, as a friend,” I emphasize, “I want your opinion. You can be as brutal or horrible as you want. Just please, be honest.”

No response. Unfortunate for him, desparation often fuels the flames for anger. 

“Fine. Then a different question." I feel my forehead burn. "Tell me why you repatriated. Not the official version, the true version. Why would you want to come back to this godforsaken country?”

I know the answer, but I want to hear it clear and true from his mouth. Sergei Prokofiev came back seventeen years ago, the year of Lady Macbeth and my first downfall. The dates are too perfect to be a coincidence. He exists to taunt me.

This one warrants another pause. “No. I cannot,” he finally says. He crosses his arms. “You have every right to be angry. But the matter is settled.”

He treats this like an interview, as if I am no different from the West, from his drooling audiences, from the eagle-eyed press. As if I were Zhdanov.

“I’m not angry. I’m not angry, I cannot be angry.” I repeat this phrase like scripture, trying to convince myself of its truth. I cannot lash out at a dying man. “I can never be angry at you. You can never understand me, and I can never understand you; this is why we are doomed. But just this once, I want your honesty. I want you to be honest with me. Do the one thing that I have asked of you.”

He holds his silence, refusing to even turn. I am met with his shoulder. He is a wall, a log, a boulder. I am trying to reason with an object.

The words reprise, a proverb, a prophecy—I spend far too much effort to affect what I cannot. It is all the same. Him and me, my life and work, my music. It is all hopeless.

But, I refuse. It is all I can control. I refuse to accept that this is my fate.

“I’ll start then. Sergei Sergeyevich Prokofiev, you are the worst and most wretched creature I have ever had the displeasure of acquainting. I cannot stand your practicality, and you cannot stand my sentimentality. This is what you had frowned upon in my music: my sentimentality, my honesty, my vulnerability. I do not love you; love is too broad of a word to encompass how I feel about you. In fact, I detest you. I do not know if I want you or want to be you. I wish you could have knelt and humbled earlier, or I had been born sooner, because then you would finally regard me as your equal. If I had been made a stronger and bolder man, if I were gifted with arrogance, the same as you, then I would make it just as hard for you to address me as it is for me to face you. You have damned me, and I detest you for it. But yet you remain dear to me. Years ago, I had concluded that it was out of pity, but now I know that it is envy. I envy you: your arrogance, your confidence, your ignorance. How you can come and go from my life as you please. How I have given you half my soul while you have brought me nothing but grief.”

I draw a breath. “I do not ask for much. I never have. I do not ask for wealth, fame, nor power.” Nor love. “I once asked for your respect, but even that is meaningless now. I merely ask for your honesty. You are on your deathbed. Why can't you be sincere with me? Why can’t you be vulnerable?”

Prokofiev would have, should have interjected at this point. I’m not sure if the man sitting across from me is Prokofiev. He stares off to the side, daring not to meet my eyes.

Briefly, his bottom lip quivers. But he remains quiet. After everything.

I cannot bear it anymore.

I lift off from the bench, reaching towards him. My foot slips, legs buckling. I am holding his hands, burying my head into his palms, kneeling at his feet. The gravel stabs at my knees, but there are more painful things. His soul hurts. My soul hurts.

“God help me, Sergei. Help me. Why do I struggle? Why do I write? What is the point? Insult me, criticize me, tear me open, rotten and bare. But make sense of this wretched life. Make sense of me.”

In dying, he has become the priest, while I have always been the beggar. I cannot bring myself to look at his face, or cinch his garments, so I grasp his palms.

His palms, thin and supple. His shaking palms. It is not just his hands. His person, his spirit, his whole being trembles. Sergei Prokofiev, trembling. Trembling and afraid.

He draws a sharp breath.

“I cannot.”

I squeeze his hands, flesh against bone. “Say it.”

“I…I cannot.”

I press harder. He understands.

“Stop. Allow me some time. Let me form my words.”

There had been enough time, whole decades in fact. But I finally understand. This has always been his strategy: for unanswerable questions, he stalls and stalls until it catches up to him. But where Zhdanov had pinned him, I allow him the grace to breathe. I always do.

I finally summon the courage to look at him. Prokofiev leans toward me, nose grazing mine. I see his irises lace with tears. It is the closest I have seen him to crying.

“I’ll answer the second question first. But the two are connected.” He pauses. “Fame is a fickle thing—and there was steep competition. It is agony, to have to compete with other musicians and composers. In this vein, I emphasize that ‘contemporary’ is not an insult; to have true contemporaries who would otherwise be competition is delightful. But my competitors could not repatriate. And I had received an open invitation back to Moscow.”

He bows, remorseful, but holds my gaze. “I did see the reports of what happened with your opera. I did not know you well then. I thought to myself, ‘Shostakovich cannot quell his style. But I can.’ The rest I think you understand. Now look at me, a dying servant. But yet you remain.”

His breathing steadies. “Now, for the first question: to be frank, your vulnerability disgusts me. It is morbid and grotesque like much of your music. But I reserve respect for your character. I say what I please; so what I say, I mean. You are my dearest contemporary. And when I said that you are an honourable man, I mean it. You are more honourable than me. Honestly, I greatly admire your artistic conscience. Against my best judgment, I wish you continue."

He is hysterical by this point. "When we first met—talked—reconnected at the Composers’ Union, I thought you were an idiot. I could not understand how you wrote, why you wrote. I still do not understand. You may still be an idiot. But what I know is that I too, am the idiot. You are the yurodivy, the holy fool, the court jester; insignificant, but conscious of your purpose, whatever that purpose may be. You will compose for many more years; this is not a wish, but a command. To borrow your words, I wish you another hundred more years to live and create.”

I think I see people staring. I reach to clamp his mouth shut, but he is faster still. I feel my chin tip backwards, neck exposed. Prokofiev simply brings his index finger against my lips, the universal sign for silence—a reminder of my place.

He thrusts me upwards so that I am at his level, gripping my shoulders, eyes embracing mine. I understand now: whether I like it or not, I am tethered to him. I am a statue, and he is the ivy that chokes me. I am a tree, and he is the arborist that prunes me. He is the sun, and I am the moon.

“It is too late for me now. But you are here, and you will be remembered. You are both bright yet stupid, blessed yet condemned, meek yet courageous. You are defined by your contradictions. And you will define us. Every one of your symphonies is a tombstone. You will chronicle our history, our suffering.” A single tear falls from his chin, landing on my cheek. “You must sing for us. Sing through your music.”

I am undone.

I crawl into his arms, Orpheus to Eurydice, a fetus to a womb, an artist to a muse, grasping for something I will never keep, grieving for someone not yet lost. I feel Prokofiev wrapping his coat around us. Our lips meet. He gently caresses my cheek, wiping away each tear, tracing each wrinkle—a scowl on my right lip, thin streaks on my forehead, plump bags beneath my eyes, pockets where my cheeks are beginning to sag. I learn that I have smile lines.

The kiss is too brief. I feel the tension of his cheeks release. Tenderly, we clasp hands—I warmly clasp your hand—and Prokofiev brings our palms towards my chest. I stare at my hand; once slender and petite, that of a pianist’s, now blossoms with calluses and blisters. I have grown. I feel my heartbeat drum—its rhythmic drive, ostinato, like a snare drum, the constant throughout my works. The music comes from my heart. I used the snare in my first, fifth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and now tenth symphony. The majority of my symphonies are tombstones—this quote is true, but an oversimplification. A symphony is what you need it to be. Some are requiems; others are eulogies. There were many others, and there will be many others. There are more that I am forgetting. I do not know it yet, but it will reprise in my second piano concerto. Each iteration carries a different meaning: progress, lament. Invasion, repression. Love. Love for my son, love for my country, love for its people.

Reminiscent of the bygone Futurist era, the future brims with possibility. I will rise again. I will love again. I will fall again. The cycle continues anew. But this time, an invincible summer surges within me. His parting words become a poem, a command:

“Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich, my little sparrow. Let your heart sing.”

I am reading the papers. The news of his death is briefly discussed, on page 116. An afternote. The rest is devoted to Stalin.

I read the words. They suspend me in disbelief. I read them again. At first, I laugh. I laugh and laugh, snickering and hollering. I cannot do anything but laugh. It is too absurd, like a bad novella. They died fifty minutes apart from one another. I keep laughing, half out of triumph, half out of incredulity, like receiving the news that a god is dead. A worm had outlived a god.

Then, the realization cascades all at once. Prokofiev, dead. Sergei Prokofiev, at peace. Sergei Sergeyevich Prokofiev, composer-pianist, conductor, virtuoso, repatriated Soviet, People’s Artist of the RSFSR, Dmitri Shostakovich’s former and present idol, laying in a box of flowers.

I attend his funeral. I am photographed standing beside him. I look longingly past his face. There are no tears, no sobs. An empty frown hangs on my lips instead. This is how I feel: empty. I am burdened with emotions, but I will not show them. Another sign of growth—though I wish I used this newfound skill for a better purpose.

Slowly, one by one, the others leave. Some come and go. I wait and count as the minutes pass.

Every person that walks away, every movement is a razor against my skin. I choose to stand and hold nonetheless, until I am the last one remaining.

It ends as it had started: us alone, in the same cold and empty halls.

“Sergei Sergeyevich.” I let his name ring out, as if awaiting for a response.

“Stalin is dead. You have won.”

The body remains lifeless. I hold back tears.

“Perhaps it would be better for me to join you. I do not know how much longer I can endure living in this forsaken country. It is a futile struggle.”

The walls shudder at the weight of the gathering outside. The crowds are chanting—their muffled notes seeps through the walls like mildew. I notice but do not listen.

“At the very least, you were loved. Lina loved you. Mira loved you,” I say, trailing off. I cannot bring myself to admit the third person.

I kiss his hand and take a rose from his bed of flowers, wrapping the corpse’s fingers around its stem. Its petals are folded paper, and the stem a painted stick. This injustice would weigh on my heart. I will preserve all their injustices, their stories in song.

I refuse another glance backwards; he is no longer with me now. My feet carry me up the flooring, onto the creaking floorboards, and into the parade of mourners outside.

They say that musicians impart pieces of their soul in music. I pray this is true. I will search for his laughter in his Love for Three Oranges, his snarkiness in Suggestion Diabolique, and his virtuosity in his piano concertos. I will discover his childlike wonder and reserved kindness in Peter and the Wolf. I will trace his growth, from Visions Fugitives to Eugene Onegin to his Seventh. I will find his hidden appreciation for this cursed country in War and Peace. And I will unearth his vulnerability in his infamous piano sonatas, the War Sonatas.

I wonder if this is also how I will be remembered, if someone will do this for my music. If I will be remembered.

I am walking around the city, on the streets that we once walked down together.

There are crowds again. I pass by the Red Square. I pass by his apartment, by the alleyway that we had once squatted and hid in, then what remained of the figure that had led to that escapade. The statues are gone, beheaded. The portraits have been slashed. But I’m not entirely convinced. Someone or something will take their place. I’m just not sure what yet.

A few weeks ago, when I came back from the funeral, I spotted a sparrow. I saw its nest, a bowl of neatly stitched twigs and twine. It was perched in a tree, singing. Now, I am by the square where it once was. The tree has been cut, now a stump with its leaves trampled and flat. The sparrow is gone. It will eventually die, forgotten and insignificant.

But, I imagine something else. There is too much place for sorrow in its story. I choose to imagine it singing.

Somewhere in the city, among the bustle and noise, this sparrow sings. Its voice is buried under the cries of the townspeople below. The tree it has perched on will be chopped to pieces and divided for firewood. It will keep searching for places to perch, places to sing.

This is a hopeless task. It knows this fate well.

Yet the sparrow sings anyway.