The Conductor [antikvár]

PrologueI was born without a heart.At least, that's what they believe. I hear what they say about me in rehearsals. They have little enough breath to make music whether I coax and implore, or shout like thunder, it makes no difference. But when they whisper about me, their voices sound through the hall as loudly as pickaxes on ice.Conductors are supposed to stand apart. It's part of the task, the privilege, the burden. Being separate is only one small step away from being disliked. I don't mind. To be more specific, I can't mind. These days, I have no energy for the luxury of taking offence. They may say what they like about my beaked nose, my thin lips, my unfashionable spectacles. They may joke about my insistence on punctuality. Surely, in all my harshness, I must be related to the great leader of our feared regime! (They've become used to mouthing such lines behind their hands, fearing that Stalin's men are listening at the door.) Or perhaps and this is said more loudly my inimical nature is more similar to that of Hitler, our country's greatest enemy. I hear these comparisons, and I find them tedious but unsurprising. Ever since my career began I've been accused of being strict, overly exacting, hostile and, yes, dictatorial.What can I not allow my musicians to see? That once, I, Karl Illyyich Eliasberg, was as emotional as any man. That on a long-ago June day, when the bright dust hung in the air like long quivering curtains, and the tall windows stood open, and sunlight filled the marble atrium, I stood for a long time on the curved staircase of the Conservatoire. As I listened, my heart split wide open. With jealousy, with admiration, with love.My adversary, my friend. Over the years, I've thought of him as both. It's because of him that I stand here today: talked of, despised, assumed to be a heartless man. Had I the strength to do so, I would laugh at the irony of it. Of course I have no heart! Many years ago, in that Leningrad stairwell, I gave my heart to Shostakovich.n