The Noise of Time by Julian Barnes Read Free Book Online

in the spring of 1937, he had his First Conversation with Power. Of course, he had talked to Power before, or Power had talked to him: officials, bureaucrats, politicians, coming with suggestions, proposals, ultimata. Power had talked to him through newspapers, publicly, and had whispered in his ear, privately. Recently, Power had humiliated him, taken away his livelihood, ordered him to repent. Power had told him how it wanted him to work, how it wanted him to live. Now it was hinting that perhaps, on consideration, it might not want him to live any more. Power had decided to have a face-to-face with him. Power’s name was Zakrevsky, and Power, as it expressed itself to people like him in Leningrad, resided in the Big House. Many who went into the Big House on Liteiny Prospekt never emerged again.
    He had been given an appointment for a Saturday morning. He maintained to family and friends that it was doubtless all a formality, perhaps an automatic consequence of the continuing articles against him in Pravda . He barely believed this himself, and doubted they did. Not many were summoned to the Big House to discuss musical theory. He was, of course, punctual. And Power was at first correct and polite. Zakrevsky asked about his work, how his professional affairs were proceeding, what he intended to compose next. In reply, he mentioned, almost as a reflex, that he was preparing a symphony on the subject of Lenin – which might conceivably have been the case. He then thought it sensible to refer to the press campaign against him, and was encouraged by the interrogator’s almost perfunctory dismissal of such matters. Next he was asked about his friends, and whom he saw on a regular basis. He did not know how to answer such questions. Zakrevsky helped him along.
    ‘You are, I understand, acquainted with Marshal Tukhachevsky?’
    ‘Yes, I know him.’
    ‘Tell me about how you made his acquaintance.’
    He recalled the meeting backstage at the Small Hall in Moscow. He explained that the Marshal was a well-known music lover who had attended many of his concerts, who played the violin, and even made violins as a hobby. The Marshal had invited him to his apartment; they had even played music together. He was a good amateur violinist. Did he mean ‘good’? Capable, certainly. And, yes, capable of improvement.
    But Zakrevsky was uninterested in how far the Marshal’s fingering and bow technique had progressed.
    ‘You went to his home on many occasions?’
    ‘From time to time, yes.’
    ‘From time to time over a period of how many years? Eight, nine, ten?’
    ‘Yes, that is probably the case.’
    ‘So, let us say, four or five visits a year? Forty or fifty in total?’
    ‘Fewer, I would say. I have never counted. But fewer.’
    ‘But you are an intimate friend of Marshal Tukhachevsky?’
    He paused for thought. ‘No, not an intimate friend, but a good friend.’
    He did not mention the Marshal arranging financial support for him; advising him; writing to Stalin on his behalf. Either Zakrevsky would know this, or he wouldn’t.
    ‘And who else was present at these forty or fifty occasions at the home of your good friend?’
    ‘Not so many. Only members of the family.’
    ‘Only members of the family?’ The interrogator’s tone was rightly sceptical.
    ‘And musicians. And musicologists.’
    ‘Any politicians there, by any chance?’
    ‘No, no politicians.’
    ‘You are quite sure about that?’
    ‘Well, you see, they were sometimes rather crowded gatherings. And I did not exactly … In point of fact, I was often playing the piano …’
    ‘And what did you talk about?’
    ‘About music.’
    ‘And politics.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Come, come, how could anyone fail to talk about politics with Marshal Tukhachevsky of all people?’
    ‘He was, shall we say, off duty. Among friends and musicians.’
    ‘And were there any other off-duty politicians present?’
    ‘No, never. There was never any talk of politics in my