The Conductor Read Online Free Page B

people’s. It was strewn around with piles of paper, and dust-balls skittered under the sofa like mice. Secretly she thought that if Papa were a little more orderly, there would be fewer grey streaks in his brown beard and fewer lines on his forehead.
    Now, breathing deeply, she’d reached sixty, so now — now! — she sat up and looked. There it was, leaning against the window: only one dayknown, but two centuries perfect. Its neck was graceful in the moonlight, the scroll bending towards her like the head of a swan.
    From what she’d heard, Aunt Tanya hadn’t wanted her to have it. ‘Are you sure you’ve thought this through, Nikolai?’ Her aunt had pulled Papa into a corner and they stood there, too close, wedged between the piano and the tall fringed lamp. ‘She’ll drop it,’ hissed Aunt Tanya. ‘She’ll smash it. She’s too small for it.’
    ‘She’ll treasure it,’ contradicted Papa. ‘She’ll master it. She’ll grow into it.’
    It was true, Sonya was still a little short for the cello, but if she placed a cushion on her chair and stretched her neck (imagining herself as one of the tall buildings on Nevsky Prospect), and if she made her arms as long as possible (thinking of orang-utans in the zoo) — well, then she became bigger than her years, and her birthday present was a perfect match.
    ‘It’s foolish,’ said Aunt Tanya, her cheeks even redder than usual. ‘A genuine Storioni! To think of giving such a valuable instrument to a mere child!’
    ‘There is nothing mere about Sonya.’ Papa had sounded quite angry. ‘At any rate, I can’t help thinking that you’re objecting for entirely the wrong reasons.’
    ‘Such as?’ Aunt Tanya’s neck was slightly mottled.
    Sonya had stopped cutting up small blocks of sausage and placing them on squares of bread; she moved into the doorway to get a proper look.
    ‘You’re scared that I’m forgetting —’ Papa cleared his throat. ‘That I’m trying to replace —’ He stopped and slammed his hand down on the piano, making the metronome ting and start to tick prestissimo. ‘As if!’ he said, silencing the metronome and Aunt Tanya with one angry hand. ‘As if I could ever forget her!’
    ‘Look!’ Sonya nudged Konstantin, who’d come early to help with the party food. ‘Look at Aunt Tanya’s neck!’ She stared, fascinated, at the blotches above her aunt’s collar, merging like the pools of blood under the pigs hanging in the market. ‘Oh, would you just look at that!’
    But Konstantin was too busy unwrapping candies, cramming several into his mouth at a time.
    ‘Talk about pigs,’ she said, though in fact no one had been talking about them, it was only in her mind that she’d taken a quick trip over the bristle-covered cobblestones to see the bloated bodies hung in rows. ‘You’re no better than a pig!’ she repeated severely, looking at Konstantin, who stood with drifts of coloured fantiki wrappers at his feet like asturdy oak that had lost its leaves. ‘What about the Shostakoviches? You’d better leave some sweets for them.’ She snatched the brass bowl away from Konstantin and took it into the living room, where she placed it on the sofa and covered it with a cushion.
    ‘Why are the Shostakovich kids coming?’ Konstantin trailed after her. ‘They’re nothing but babies.’ His ten-year-old face was shiny with sugar and radiant with scorn.
    ‘They’re sweet,’ said Sonya. ‘It’s not their fault they’re young. As for Mrs Nina Shostakovich, she’s the most beautiful woman in Russia.’ She looked over at the window standing open to the hot afternoon. The light through the glass formed a perfect white square on the carpet, marked with a shadowy cross. ‘The most beautiful living woman,’ she corrected herself.
    Konstantin took a step closer. He’d forgotten his ill temper and the sudden removal of the sweets, but the sugar rush was still in him. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. ‘I could make you a