My recently published short story from The MacGuffin Literary Magazine – volume 40, number 1, November 2024:

 

 


Maggie Whiteman rarely felt anxious before a concert. Now there was a definite sense of foreboding when the driver, picking her up at Pulkovo Airport in Saint Petersburg, held up a placard with a scribbled “Margo Woman.” He barely spoke English, which worried her even more, despite the fact that she often couldn’t understand cabbies in New York either. She had the name and address of the Grand Hotel printed in bold, 36-point font on a sheet of paper. The driver barely looked when she showed it to him. She tried to distract herself by leafing through her guidebook about the hotel, which had opened 130 years ago in 1875 and was one of Russia’s finest. It was where Clinton stayed after he met Yeltsin in Moscow a decade ago.

Melding into the city traffic, the driver just shrugged when she asked him to turn up the heat. It should be cold here this close to Finland and the Baltic Sea, she thought to herself, but not in the Zal luxury car they sent for my use. If Diana, her manager and close friend, were here, Maggie would be chauffeured in a tropical cocoon. Maggie, however, avoided confrontations and just pushed her hands into her pockets and tried to read the now-jiggling guidebook on her lap.


Yesterday, Diana sent an email telling Maggie she might not be able to practice on Tchaikovsky’s personal piano. “They’re working on it.” Before that, Maggie had given only fleeting thoughts to playing that instrument. Now, knowing she couldn’t use it, she wondered if it was some sort of bad omen. You are not superstitious, Maggie Whiteman,
so stop that, she thought.


Then, the ever-so-brief finger spasms she had experienced in Prague and in Barcelona when she played Brahms’s second, came to mind. Was she developing a pianist’s version of hand dystonia, otherwise known as writer’s cramp? Would it happen again? When? Where? Not during Tchaikovsky’s first, she moved her lips.


The hotel was opulent, almost to the point of decadent. In front of the check-in desk, a quite noisy dozen or so people stood in a half circle, voices raised as they spoke to each other in Russian while smiling. The noise wasn’t the problem; but the fact that the receptionist did not find Maggie’s reservation suggested another bad sign. You’re not stuperstitious, Maggie, she told herself again. Fortunately, everyone spoke English reasonably well, and Maggie felt more at ease when one of the women —Olga—at the desk recognized Maggie’s name.

“It is so exciting to meet you, Madame Viteman,” the receptionist gushed with a noticeable accent as she told Maggie that she would herself attend the concert Friday night. When the original registration was found, filed under “Margar” with “Whiteman” as the first name, a suite was assigned. Olga lowered her voice and said, “Suite courtesy of Mr. Rublovsky.” Serge Rublovsky was the most powerful impressario in Russia, and the man who originally contacted Diana almost three years ago to arrange the concert.


When she got to her suite, a large crystal vase stuffed with dozens of fresh red and yellow and orange tulips sat in the middle of the sitting room’s credenza. Next to it was a bottle of French champagne and an elaborately decorated silver ice bucket, and a basket of fresh fruit next to an ornately carved charcuterie board with several cheeses and squares of dark Russian bread. The scribbled note on the cheese board was signed simply, “Rublovsky—will call in morning.” The decorations, wallpaper, upholstery, and bed coverings were distinctly baroque and, despite being in pristine condition, looked genuinely antique. Maggie wondered if Peter the Great or Catherine or some other member of Russian royalty had stayed here.


When she checked her email, there was a new message from Anne, her mother, telling her that Tchaikovsky came to this same hotel for his honeymoon, along with a postscript: “I just remembered. It was The Horse’s Mouth with Alec Guinness. Very funny. Alan always loved it.”


Maggie replied, asking her mother what she was talking about, and then with her own postscript: “You are amazing. How do you know where Tchaikovsky came for his honeymoon? I thought he was gay and hiding it.” After rereading her mother’s previous message, she understood the postscript: Anne had previously alluded to “that movie with the Prokofiev music.” The music in that film, that Maggie watched three or four times with her father, was Prokofiev’s Lieutenant Kijé.


After unpacking, she opened the drapes and, checking the map in her tour book, looked out at Nevsky Prospect and, to the left, the Neva River. When the housekeeper knocked on her door and offered to unpack for her, she declined. Since she wasn’t quite as tired anymore after eating some grapes, and despite the chill she felt in the car, she tucked the tour book into her coat pocket and decided to walk along the Neva.


The late afternoon was brisk and invigorated her even more, with fallen leaves skipping along the water’s edge and onto the river’s surface; a fragile flotilla of browns, reds, and banana yellows urging itself toward the Gulf of Finland. A melody from Swan Lake came to mind as a few small boats, including a smoke-puffing tug, passed by, and many seagulls twisted through the sky overhead. She sighted the Oreshek Fortress on the other bank of the river and, after reading about it in the guidebook, turned back to her hotel. It had been along day. Thoughts about the Tchaikovsky piano came to mind again as her fatigue became too much to ignore.


She slept until almost nine the next day when Rublovsky called and asked if he could join her for breakfast. He could be there in five minutes. “How about eleven, Mr. Rublovsky? Or is Comrade Rublovsky still appropriate?”


“Serge is appropriate. I think you are making little joke, yes?” He had a deep, gruff, bear voice that seemed to rumble with every word. Although Diana once showed Maggie his photograph, she couldn’t remember what he looked like. She envisioned him as a thick-shouldered, gray-haired, shuffling older man with a mostly gray goatee and a black-striped Savile Row suit. “And eleven is okay-dokay, Mag- gee-ya. I may call you that, yes? We can meet in big dining hall. Is usual they have string quartet or harpist.”


Serge Rublovsky proved to be a slim, clean-shaven, handsome man. An inch or two shorter than Maggie, he was in his late fifties or early sixties, maybe older–Maggie thought of Melvyn Douglas in Ninotchka–with graying temples. Instead of looking as if he came from Bond Street, he was wearing a Fendi sweat suit and tennis shoes under a heavy brown parka, and he carried a small, maroon man purse. He kissed her hand.


“Peter said you are lovely and is so. Pictures in newspapers do you disservice.” He put one hand at the small of her back and gently pushed her to L’Europe, the art nouveau-decorated great dining hall. A soaring ceiling made her stop and stare, and then her eyes dropped to the grand stained-glass mural on the far wall. Rublovsky said, “Apollo in chariot.”


“Magnificent,” Maggie said before looking back at Rublovsky. “Peter who? Not Peter the Great, I presume.”


“Not.” His laugh was quite loud now and was followed by a raspy cough. He bowed slightly. “Maestro Leeds. You like making litle jokes I think. Peter Leeds. Maestro Peter Leeds.”


The restaurant looked as if every table, every booth, was filled, but the maître ‘d came to their side and said, “Monsieur Rublovsky. Madame.”


“Ah,” Maggie whispered, “‘Monsieur’ is so much more charming than ‘comrade.'”


They were seated at a round table large enough for four or even six, set with bone china dishes and crystal glassware. Rublovsky ordered for them both and champagne and a big bowl of fresh berries arrived almost immediately. He lifted his filled glass and, touching it to hers, said, “L’chaim.”


“Not nostrovia?”

He laughed, unconcerned about how loud he was. “No, Mag- gee-ya. No such word. That is California or maybe Texas version. Perhaps your President Gyorgy Double-You Boosh taught to you?” Emphasizing each syllable, he said, “Na zdrov-ie is what you mean, Na zdrov-ie. I like to say I’chaim, to life.” He leaned close to her. “Du bist ein Yid, nyet? A Jewish, yes?”


Not sure if he was saying “Jewish” or “Jewess,” she briefly considered if it could have been meant as a pejorative but didn’t say anything.

Two thickly bearded waiters came with domed platters, and Rublovsky named each dish twice as the silver dome covers were re-moved from exquisitely engraved serving dishes heaped with sturgeon with potato and horseradish, smoked sausages, blini, osetra caviar, crêpes suzette, a tureen of borscht, and more. The strongest aroma seemed to be emanating from the sausages, which were immersed in onions, and Maggie suddenly felt quite hungry. One of the waiters began transferring small servings of each selection to both of their plates as another waiter spooned the borscht into delicate bone china mugs decorated with cherubs and angels. Two crystal flutes were half-filled from a large bottle of Onegin vodka.


When the waiter left, and Rublovsky started with the borscht, Maggie said, “Were you asking if I’m Jewish?”


His spoon still ini his mouth, Rublovsky looked at her over the top rim of his glasses. After putting the spoon on his plate, his brow suddenly wrinkling, he said, “Da. Yes. Of course. Is problem?”


“Why would you ask that?”


“Why not?”


“No one has ever asked me that before, at least not during any of my tours.” She put a little caviar on the edge of a small spoon and eased it onto her tongue, all the while keeping her own brow wrinkled and her eyes fixed on Rublovsky.


“You …” He touched the flute to his lips and drank the vodka in one gulp, a waiter rushing over to refill the glass. “You know in Russia is not such strange question. Is normal.”


Smiling, she mimicked his actions and similarly drank the cold vodka in one swallow, enjoying the deliciously burning sensation. Her eyes still on her host, she held up the glass as it was quickly re-filled by a waiter and swallowed it down, wondering if she was slipping into a game of traded flirtations.


“You prefer we talk music?”


“Yes.” Now she tasted each of the servings on her plate, ate the borscht and put her hand up, signaling the waiter she didn’t want it refilled. Leaning back against the plush velvet cushions, she watched Rublovsky devour everything on his plate, including two thick pieces of black bread layered with butter. He gestured for more of everything.


“I am Jew also. You know, the anti-Semitism is not so bad since the Soviet era ends. Now I think it is getting a little worse, although many people claim the Kremlin is run by Jews.” He shifted closer to her, leaning to whisper next to her ear, “I doubt Putin has so many Jews around. In any event, I bother no one and no one bothers me.”


She changed the subject. “I was informed I could not practice on the Tchaikovsky piano.”


“Okay, okay.” He raised his hands in surrender. “We talk about music only.” He drank another vodka and started eating the second food serving. “And, of course, you will play the Tchaikovsky piano. It has nice rich sound. You will enjoy playing. Tell me when. It will be moved out for you.”


“After we finish breakfast?”


Rublovsky frowned. “No tour of Saint Petersburg? Visit Hermitage? I will take you and there will be no lines. Short drive to Peterhof? You have today free and tomorrow. And then rehearsals.”


“Later this afternoon for touring perhaps? Or better tomorrow. I want to stretch my fingers first if you don’t mind. I took a short walk along the Neva yesterday and I am getting anxious to hear the sound of his piano.”


“Of course. I may listen?”


“As you wish. With pleasure.”


“A moment.” He took a cellphone from the side pocket of his sweat-pants, punched out a number, and said —almost yelled–something in Russian before putting it away. “Piano ready when we get there.” He laughed. “Tuned even.”


“Is that a joke?”

“A little joke.” He beamed. “I make jokes also.” He toasted her with his vodka and again drank it all in one swallow. “Sometimes one of piano tuners, Nikolai, has too much vodka before he tunes piano for concert. You understand?”


She nodded. “And Nikolai is not tuning anymore?”


“Not for this week. He has vacation.” He smeared some butter thickly on another slice of bread. “Whether he wanted vacation this week, I do not know. I do know, however, that Igor will tune your piano. He is best.”


Two hours later, Rublovsky led Maggie in from the back of the concert hall. She looked at the auditorium with its high-arched ceiling and crystal chandeliers, wondering about the acoustics despite its reputation as one of the best sounding concert halls in Europe. In her head she started a catalog of observations: There’s no stage. The audience and the musicians are at the same level. Floor-to-ceiling marble columns at the sides, with roomy recesses. Do they seat people there? Not my worry, she thought, I don’t have to sit in there and listen. Then she chided herself, Of course the acoustics will be fine.

A year ago, when Maggie showed her mother the schedule for the tour, noting she would be playing at the Bolshoi Zal with the two-hundred-year-old Saint Petersburg Philharmonia, Anne whispered, “Wow.” Then, with more than a hint of wistfulness, she told about the great musicians who had performed here, including all the great nineteenth century Russians and countless non-Russians such as Clara Schumann, Mahler, Liszt, Berlioz, and many others. “I think Tchaikovsky liked Robert Schumann’s music best of all,” she said, before adding, “I always wanted to perform there. Of course, there weren’t that many cultural exchanges when I was performing. Cliburn helped the change. It’s just that an opportunity didn’t happen for me”.


Rublovsky walked to a seat about fifteen rows back as Maggie quickly stepped to the piano, standing there for a while before sitting down. The lid was up and, sniffing at the rich golden frame, she wondered if it had just been polished. At first, she held her hands a few inches above the keyboard, passing them from the treble to the bass and back again, not touching the keys, just looking at the piano, at the sounding board, at the keys. Tchaikovsky’s piano.


Putting her hands in her lap, she breathed deeply through her nose, thinking, don’t cramp, don’t cramp, don’t cramp, before starting to play Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 26. The gentle opening of the Les Adieux sonata always relaxed her. Eyes closed, she rocked slightly from side- to-side with the music, feeling the muscles of her shoulders slowly, almost imperceptibly, loosen, feeling the steady loss of tension from the center of her back, feeling the flow of her arms and the weightlessness of her fingers as they caressed the ivory keys. She knew her playing was at least as beautiful as any time she ever played this piece, and she wondered if Tchaikovsky also played Les Adieux on this same piano. Pausing very briefly between the first and second movement, she thought, My fingers feel fine. I love being here. I love playing this piano. Thank you, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, thank you.


When the last note of the second movement sounded, she turned and looked around for the first time. Rublovsky was no longer alone. There were a few dozen people scattered about–perhaps office staff, possibly passersby who came in to buy a ticket–and on one side, clustered below the great silver organ pipes, stood a few dozen others including many teenagers and some children.


No one said anything. No one applauded. No one moved.


She finished the third movement, which demanded that her fingers move almost faster than even she could see them. There were more people here and there, some now sitting in the first few rows of chairs. Without pausing, she started playing a very short Tchaikovsky solo piece, Ruines d’un Chateux, that her mother taught her, saying it was one of the first pieces he published.


The audience seemed transfixed, their eyes like lanterns, many with jaws slightly dropped. This was an obscure piece, hardly ever played, except perhaps–and she smiled with the thought–except perhaps by young Russians just learning to play the piano. Russians are great music lovers, Maggie thought as her eyes scanned the room, and then, after bowing her head to no one in particular, she started playing the Beethoven op. 27, No. 2, the Moonlight Sonata.


At the end of the Moonlight, she lifted her hands from the keyboard and began playing the first movement of the first Tchaikovsky piano concerto, the music she would play here again in front of a full audience in a few days. There was no great orchestra today, as there would be in the coming days. Still, she heard every instrument–the strings, the horns– in her head as she swayed and rocked in perfect collaboration with the conductor’s baton she alone saw so vividly behind closed eyes.


At the end, as before, there was no movement, no sound from the listeners until her shoulders slackened, and she folded her hands in her lap.


Then a sharp burst of applause and bravas erupted, with people rushing forward to surround the piano, some speaking in Russian, some French, some English, some possibly not even knowing who she was but all wanting to talk with her. She kept her hands clasped at her waist, not wanting to put them in anyone else’s. She half-bowed over and over again from the piano bench and repeated, “Spasibo, spasibo, spasibo.” Thank you, thank you, thank you.


Before everyone moved away, Rublovsky came up and said, to no one in particular, “Dovol’no,” enough, and almost everyone scurried out except for a half dozen young women who lingered near the back, just watching Maggie. After turning side-to-side to see who was still there, Rublovsky bowed deeply at the waist, one hand behind his back, one foot partly behind the other, and said, “Thank you, Mag-gee-ya, that was great privilege.” He stood up and stared at her for a second. There were tears easing themselves down his cheeks. “Thank you.” Feeling a slight flush in her cheeks, she tilted her head to him. She had played for more than an hour. The thought, my fingers are fine, my fingers are fine, kept sounding in her head. Then, once more, thank you, Pyotr Ilyich, thank you.