The Conductor Read Online Free

catching him, stopping his fall. The low repeated notes of the trumpet — full of hope, or foretelling tragedy? The possibility of both was there in that urgent, repeated brass voice. Then the lift to the minor third and the rise to the octave — and then the descendingnotes, the repeated fall, the rising up again. And the crash! That beautiful, all-encompassing, full and worldly sound , shutting out critical faces and marching feet, ominous news, guilt and fear. All of it gone, gone —
    ‘What?’ Distantly he heard something behind him. He turned, but the breeze from the window was full in his hair and Mahler was still crashing in his head like the sea. He saw that his mother’s mouth was moving, yet he could hear nothing except the trumpet, falling in brassy rain onto the embroidered tablecloth. His hands had floated up off the windowsill, were moving in the air, giving shape to what he was hearing.
    ‘What did you say?’ he said, dazed.
    ‘I was saying —’ His mother’s voice came from a great distance away. But just as the string melody emerged, sweeter than a nightingale, he returned to his real life: caged in the front room of his apartment, listening to his invalid mother. He shut the window, closing out the wind and the possibility of what lay beyond the city — sights he’d never seen, music he’d never heard — and he turned, with customary self-imposed politeness, to his mother.
    ‘I was asking,’ said his mother, ‘whether you might begin thinking about children? You’re not a young man any more; thirty-five has been and gone. And before the Germans or the English blow this world to smithereens, I’d like to see a grandchild with your dear father’s face.’
    ‘Mother,’ he pointed out, ‘I don’t have a wife yet. Not even a suspicion of a wife.’
    She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Surely in the orchestra? There must be plenty of girls in search of a handsome husband. A nice viola player, a pretty flautist?’ She stopped in sudden concern. ‘But perhaps a musician is not the best choice for a wife. They can be temperamental, so I’m told.’
    Elias saw his chance. ‘Yes, they can certainly be temperamental — all the more so if I’m late to rehearsal. What woman could love a man who’s unable to be punctual?’
    ‘You’re right!’ Mrs Eliasberg rolled her chair over the uneven floor and seized his gloves off the music cabinet. ‘Put on your outdoor clothes! Don’t waste your time here with me.’
    Elias accepted his gloves. ‘Let me put your chair here by the window. Is the sun in your eyes?’
    ‘No, no!’ His mother waved him away. ‘I’ll be perfectly comfortable. If you will pass me my sewing basket on your way out, I can begin darning your socks. It’s not a good start to a courtship if the man has holes in his toes.’
    All the way down four dark flights of stairs and out the front door, Elias kept a steady pace, walking as a soldier would, head erect, feet straight. At the intersection where the trams swung around with a clanging of bells, he turned, shielding his eyes against the sun. His mother’s white handkerchief waved from the window, and he lifted his heavy briefcase in a kind of salute.
    Once around the corner, he broke into a much faster walk: almost a run. Dignity , he reminded himself, sweating a little between his shoulder blades. Dignity must be maintained at all costs . There was the newsstand, directly across the street. Elias was blind to anything but the stack of newspapers displayed at the front.
    ‘Morning.’ The man in the kiosk was casual, almost insolent. The stub of a cheap cigarette stuck out the side of his mouth like an errant tooth. ‘Anything else?’
    ‘Nothing.’ Elias stepped away from the kiosk and shook open the newspaper — and there it was.
    ‘Angular … More farce than comedy …’ The sun was so bright the words were almost impossible to read. ‘A light-hearted romp in which style is sacrificed for the sake of