The Noise of Time

  But that was no matter. What mattered was that Pospelov was his interlocutor in his final, and most ruinous Conversation with Power.

  ‘I have excellent news,’ Pospelov announced, drawing him to one side at some reception he had only attended because they had never stopped inviting him. ‘Nikita Sergeyevich has personally announced an initiative to have you appointed Chairman of the Russian Federation Union of Composers.’

  ‘That is far too great an honour,’ he had instinctively replied.

  ‘But not one, coming from the First Secretary, that you could possibly refuse.’

  ‘I am not worthy of such an honour.’

  ‘Perhaps it is not for you to judge your worthiness. Nikita Sergeyevich is better placed than you in this regard.’

  ‘I could not possibly accept.’

  ‘Come, come, Dmitri Dmitrievich, you have accepted high honours from across the world, which we have been gratified to see you accept. So I cannot possibly see how you can reject one offered by your own homeland.’

  ‘I regret I have such little time. I am a composer, not a chairman.’

  ‘It would take very little of your time. We would see to that.’

  ‘I am a composer not a chairman.’

  ‘You are our greatest living composer. Everyone acknowledges you as such. Your difficult years are behind you. That is why it is so important.’

  ‘I do not follow you.’

  ‘Dmitri Dmitrievich, we all know how you did not escape certain consequences during the Cult of Personality. Even though, if I may say so, you were more protected than most.’

  ‘I can assure you that it didn’t feel that way.’

  ‘And this is why it is so important that you accept the chairmanship. To demonstrate that the Cult of Personality is over. To put it straightforwardly, Dmitri Dmitrievich, the changes wrought under the First Secretary, if they are to be made secure, need to be supported by public declarations and appointments such as the one proposed.’

  ‘I am always happy to sign a letter.’

  ‘You know that is not what I am asking.’

  ‘I am unworthy,’ he had repeated, adding, ‘I am nothing but a worm beside the First Secretary.’

  He doubted the allusion would be picked up by Pospelov, who indeed chuckled disbelievingly.

  ‘I am sure we shall be able to overcome your natural modesty, Dmitri Dmitrievich. But we shall talk more at another time.’

  Each morning, instead of prayer, he would recite to himself two poems by Evtushenko. One was ‘Career’, which described how lives are led beneath the shadow of Power:

  In Galileo’s day, a fellow scientist

  Was no more stupid than Galileo.

  He was well aware that the Earth revolved,

  But he also had a large family to feed.

  It was a poem about conscience and endurance:

  But time has a way of demonstrating

  The most stubborn are the most intelligent.

  Was that true? He could never quite decide. The poem ended by marking the difference between ambition and artistic truthfulness:

  I shall therefore pursue my career

  By trying not to pursue one.

  These verses both comforted and questioned him. He was, for all his anxieties and fearfulness and Leningrad civility, at base a stubborn man who had tried to pursue the truth in music as he had seen it.

  But ‘Career’ was essentially about conscience; and his own accused him. What use, after all, is a conscience unless, like a tongue probing teeth for cavities, it seeks out areas of weakness, duplicity, cowardice, self-deception? If he went to the dentist every two months, always suspecting that something was wrong in his mouth, then he examined his conscience on a daily basis, always suspecting that something was wrong in his soul. There were many things to accuse himself of: acts of omission, fallings-short, compromises made, the coin paid to Caesar. At times he saw himself as both Galileo and that fellow scientist, the one with mouths to feed. He had been as courageous as his nature allowed; but conscience was always there to insist that more courage could have been shown.

  He hoped, and tried, in the subsequent weeks, to avoid Pospelov, but there he was again one evening, coming towards him among the chat and the hypocrisy and the brimming glasses.

  ‘So, Dmitri Dmitrievich, have you thought the matter over?’

  ‘Oh, I am quite unworthy, as I told you.’

  ‘I have passed on your agreement to seriously consider the chairmanship, and told Nikita Sergeyevich that only your modesty is holding you back.’

  He paused to consider this distortion of their previous conversation, but Pospelov was hurrying on.

  ‘Come, come, Dmitri Dmitrievich, there is a point at which modesty becomes a kind of vanity. We are counting on you to accept, and you will accept. Of course, as we both know, the chairmanship of the Russian Federation Union of Composers is not what this is about. And that is why I completely understand your hesitation. But we are all agreed that now the time has come.’

  ‘What time has come?’

  ‘Well, you cannot become chairman of the Union without joining the Party. It would be against all constitutional rules. Of course you knew that. It was why you hesitated. But I can assure you, there will be no obstacles put before you. It is really no more that a question of signing the application form. We shall take care of the rest.’

  He felt, suddenly, as if all the breath had been taken out of his body. How, why had he not seen this coming? All through the years of terror, he had been able to say that at least he had never tried to make things easier for himself by becoming a Party member. And now, finally, after the great fear was over, they had come for his soul.

  He tried to collect himself before replying, but even so, what he said came out in a rush.

  ‘Pyotr Nikolayevich, I am quite unworthy, quite unsuitable. I do not have a political nature. I have to admit that I have never truly grasped the basic tenets of Marxism–Leninism. Indeed, they once appointed a tutor for me, Comrade Troshin, and I dutifully read all the books they provided, including, as I remember, one of yours, but I made such poor progress that I fear I must wait until I am better equipped.’

  ‘Dmitri Dmitrievich, we all know about that unfortunate and – if I may say so – unnecessary appointment of a political tutor. So demeaning for you, and such a characteristic of life under the Cult of Personality. All the more reason to show how times have changed, and that members of the Party are not expected to have a deep grasp of political theory. Nowadays, under Nikita Sergeyevich, we all breathe more freely. The First Secretary is still a young man, and his plans extend over many years. It is important to us that you are seen to approve these new paths, this new freedom to breathe.’

  He certainly felt little freedom to breathe at the moment, and reached for another defence.

  ‘The truth is, Pyotr Nikolayevich, that I have certain religious beliefs which, as I understand it, are quite incompatible with Party membership.’

  ‘Beliefs which you have wisely kept to yourself for many years, of course you have. And since they are not publicly known, this is not a problem we need to overcome. We shall not be sending you a tutor to help you with this … how shall I put it, this old-fashioned eccentricity.’

  ‘Sergei Sergeyevich Prokofiev was a Christian Scientist,’ he replied musingly. Aware that this was not strictly apropos, he then asked, ‘You do not mean that you are going to reopen the churches?’

  ‘No, I am not saying that, Dmitri Dmitrievich. But of course, now that sweeter air surrounds us, who knows what we shall soon be free to discuss. Free to discuss with our new and distinguished Party member.’

  ‘And yet,’ he replied, swerving from the numinous to the particular, ‘and yet – you will correct me if I am wrong, but there is no overriding reason why a Union chairman has to be a Party member.’

  ‘It would be inconceivable for this not to be the case.’

  ‘And yet Konstantin Fedin and Leonid Sobolev
were high up in the Union of Writers, and they were not Party members.’

  ‘Indeed. But who has heard of Fedin and Sobelev compared to those who know the name of Shostakovich? This is not an argument. You are the most famous, the most celebrated of our composers. It would be inconceivable for you to be Union chairman without being a Party member. All the more so as Nikita Sergeyevich has such plans for the future development of music in the Soviet Union.’

  Scenting a way out, he asked, ‘What plans? I have read nothing about his plans for music.’

  ‘Of course not. Because you will be invited to help the appropriate committee formulate them.’

  ‘I cannot join a party which has banned my music.’

  ‘What music of yours is banned, Dmitri Dmitrievich? Forgive me for not …’

  ‘Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. It was banned first under the Cult of Personality, and banned again after the Cult of Personality was overthrown.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Pospelov soothingly, ‘I can see how that might appear to be a difficulty. But let me speak to you as one practical man to another. The best way, the likeliest way, for you to get your opera performed is for you to join the Party. You have to give something to get something in this world.’

  The man’s slipperiness enraged him. And so he reached for his final argument.

  ‘Then let me reply to you as one practical man to another. I have always said, and it has been one of the fundamental principles of my life, that I would never join a party which kills.’

  Pospelov did not miss a beat. ‘But that is precisely my point, Dmitri Dmitrievich. We – the Party – have changed. No one is being killed nowadays. Can you name me one person you know who has been killed under Nikita Sergeyevich? One single person? On the contrary, victims of the Cult of Personality are returning to normal life. The names of those who were purged are being rehabilitated. We need such work to continue. The forces of the camp of reaction are ever-present, and should not be underestimated. That is why we ask for your help – by joining the camp of progress.’

  He left the encounter exhausted. Then, there was another meeting. And another. It seemed that, wherever he turned, he saw Pospelov, glass in hand, coming towards him. The man even began to inhabit his dreams, always speaking in a calm, rational voice, and yet one driving him to madness. What had he ever wanted except to be left alone? He confided in Glikman, but not in his family. He drank, he was unable to work, his nerves were shredded. There was only so much a man could bear in his life.

  1936; 1948; 1960. They had come for him every twelve years. And each of them, of course, a leap year.

  ‘He could not live with himself.’ It was just a phrase, but an exact one. Under the pressure of Power, the self cracks and splits. The public coward lives with the private hero. Or vice versa. Or, more usually, the public coward lives with the private coward. But that was too simple: the idea of a man split into two by a dividing axe. Better: a man crushed into a hundred pieces of rubble, vainly trying to remember how they – he – had once fitted together.

  His friend Slava Rostropovich maintained that the greater the artistic talent, the better able it was to withstand persecution. Maybe that was true of others – certainly it was of Slava, who had in any case such an optimistic disposition. And who was younger, and did not know how it had been in earlier decades. Or what it was like to have your spirit, your nerve, broken. Once that nerve was gone, you couldn’t replace it like a violin string. Something deep in your soul was missing, and all you had left was – what? – a certain tactical cunning, an ability to play the unworldly artist, and a determination to protect your music and your family at any price. Well, he finally thought – in a mood so drained of colour and resolution that it could scarcely be called a mood – perhaps this is today’s price.

  And so, he submitted to Pospelov, as a dying man submits to a priest. Or as a traitor, his mind numb with vodka, submits to a firing squad. He thought of suicide, of course, when he signed the paper put in front of him; but since he was already committing moral suicide, what would be the point of physical suicide? It wasn’t even a question of lacking the courage to buy and hide and swallow the pills. It was rather that now, at this juncture, he lacked even the self-respect that suicide required.

  But he was enough of a coward to run away, like the little boy slipping from his mother’s grasp as they neared Jurgensen’s hut. He signed the application form to join the Party, then fled to Leningrad and holed up with his sister. They could have his soul but not his body. They could announce that the distinguished composer had proved himself a true worm and joined the Party in order to help Nikita the Corncob develop his wonderful, if as yet perfectly unformed, ideas about the future of Soviet music. But they could announce his moral death without him. He would stay with his sister until it was all over.

  Then the telegrams began to arrive. The official announcement would take place in Moscow on such-and-such a date. His presence was not just requested but required. No matter, he thought, I shall stay in Leningrad and if they want me in Moscow they will have to tie me up and drag me there. Let the world see how they recruit new Party members, by trussing them up and transporting them like sacks of onions.

  Naive, as naive as any terrified rabbit. He sent a telegram saying he was unwell and regrettably unable to attend his own execution. They replied that the announcement would therefore wait until he was better. And in the meantime, of course, the news had slipped out and was all over Moscow. Friends telephoned, journalists telephoned: of which was he the more scared? And so, there is no escaping one’s fate. And so, he returned to Moscow and read out yet another prepared statement, to the effect that he had applied to join the Party and that his petition had been granted. It seemed that Soviet power had finally decided to love him; and he had never felt a clammier embrace.

  When he had married Nina Vasilievna, he had been too scared to tell his mother beforehand. When he had joined the Party, he had been too scared to tell his children beforehand. The line of cowardice in his life was the one thing that ran straight and true.

  Maxim only ever saw his father weep twice: when Nina died, and when he joined the Party.

  And so, he was a coward. And so, one spins around like a squirrel on a wheel. And so, he would put all his remaining courage into his music, and his cowardice into his life. No, that was all too … comforting. To say: Oh, excuse me, but you see I am a coward, there’s really nothing I can do about it, Your Excellency, comrade, Great Leader, old friend, wife, daughter, son. That would make it uncomplicated, and life always refused simplicity. For instance, he had been afraid of Stalin’s power, but not of Stalin himself: neither on the telephone, nor in person. For instance, he was capable of interceding for others where he would never dare intercede for himself. He surprised himself at times. So perhaps he was not entirely hopeless.

  But it was not easy being a coward. Being a hero was much easier than being a coward. To be a hero, you only had to be brave for a moment – when you took out the gun, threw the bomb, pressed the detonator, did away with the tyrant, and with yourself as well. But to be a coward was to embark on a career that lasted a lifetime. You couldn’t ever relax. You had to anticipate the next occasion when you would have to make excuses for yourself, dither, cringe, reacquaint yourself with the taste of rubber boots and the state of your own fallen, abject character. Being a coward required pertinacity, persistence, a refusal to change – which made it, in a way, a kind of courage. He smiled to himself and lit another cigarette. The pleasures of irony had not yet deserted him.

  Dmitri Dmitrievich Shostakovich has joined the Communist Party of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. It can’t be, because it couldn’t ever be, as the major said when he saw the giraffe. But it could be, and it was.

  He had always loved football, all through his life. He had long dreamt of composing an anthem for the game. He was a qualified referee. He kept a special notebook in which he recorded the season’s results. In his younger days he had sup
ported Dinamo, and once flew thousands of miles to Tbilisi just to watch a game. That was the point: you had to be there when it happened, surrounded by crowds of people all going mad and screaming. Nowadays, people watched football on television. To him, this was like drinking mineral water instead of Stolichnaya vodka, export strength.

  Football was pure, that was why he had first loved it. A world constructed from honest striving and moments of beauty, with matters of right and wrong decided in an instant by a referee’s whistle. It had always felt far away from Power and ideology and vacuous language and the despoiling of a man’s soul. Except that – gradually, year by year – he became aware that this was just his fantasy, his sentimental idealisation of the game. Power made use of football just as it made use of everything else. So: if Soviet society was the best and most advanced in the history of the world, then Soviet football was expected to reflect this. And if it could not always be the very best, then it must at least be better than the football of those nations which had vilely abandoned the true path of Marxism–Leninism.

  He remembered the 1952 Olympics in Helsinki, when the USSR had played Yugoslavia, fiefdom of the revisionist Gestapo thug Tito. To general surprise and dismay, the Yugoslavs had won 3–1. Everyone expected him to be downcast by the result, which he heard on the early morning radio in Komarova. Instead, he had rushed to Glikman’s dacha and together they had demolished a bottle of finchampagne brandy.