At the reception to the Moscow Conservatory, Leo asked for Piotr Orlov, one of the country’s most promising young violinists. He was directed to a rehearsal room. Orlov, in his late twenties, opened the double, soundproofed doors, remarking brusquely:
– Yes?
– My name is Leo Demidov. Frol Panin said you could help.
Hearing Panin’s name the violinist became more amiable.
The rehearsal room was small. There was a music stand, an upright piano. Orlov was holding his violin by the neck. His bow was on the stand, along with a stub of wax.
– What can I do for you?
Leo opened his folder, taking out a single sheet of paper, a hole burnt through the middle. The hole had been burnt seven years ago using a candle in Lazar’s church. As the paper had turned black, Leo had impulsively changed his mind. He’d placed it on the stone floor, stamping out the flames. The charred music-all that remained of the arrested composer’s work-had been stored in Lazar’s file, evidence of his counterrevolutionary associations.
Orlov stepped up to the stand, examining the few surviving notes. Leo commented:
– I can’t read music so I don’t know whether there’s even enough to get a sense of the whole piece. I wanted to hear it played aloud, as much as is possible.
Orlov raised his violin to his chin, picked up his bow, and began to play. Leo was not in the least bit musically minded. He’d expected it to be slow and sad. But it was fast and fun and he liked it very much.
It took him a moment to realize that there was no way Orlov could play for so long with the few notes he’d been given. Confused, he politely waited for Orlov to stop. Eventually, he did:
– This is very popular, one of the most successful recent compositions.
– You must be mistaken. The music was thought to be lost. The composer died before it was ever performed.
Orlov was puzzled:
– It was performed last week. The composer is alive.
In the hallway of an exclusive apartment block Leo knocked on the door. There was a long delay before a middle-aged man opened the door, a servant, dressed in a neat black uniform.
– Can I help you?
– I’m here to see Robert Meshik.
– Do you have an appointment?
– No.
– He won’t see anyone without an appointment.
Leo handed over the burnt sheet of music:
– He’ll see me.
Reluctantly, the man obeyed:
– Wait here.
Some minutes later the man returned, without the music:
– Please follow me.
Leo followed him through the expensively furnished apartment, to a studio at the back. The composer Robert Meshik was standing by the window, holding the single burnt sheet of music. Addressing his servant he said:
– You may leave us.
The man left. Leo remarked:
– You have done well for yourself.
Meshik sighed:
– In some ways I am relieved. I have been waiting for this moment for many years, for someone to appear, with the evidence, and announce me a fraud.
Leo asked:
– You knew the real composer?
– Kirill, yes, we were friends. We were best friends. We would practice together. I was jealous of him. He was a genius. I am not.
Leo asked:
– You denounced him?
– No, never, I loved him. That is the truth. You have no reason to believe me. When he was arrested, of course, I did nothing. I said nothing. He and his music tutor were sent to a labor camp. After Stalin died I tried to find them. I was told that they had not survived. I grieved. I had the idea to copy one of Kirill’s pieces, as a memorial to him. They’d been lost but that didn’t matter, I’d heard him play them many times. They were in my blood. I made some minor changes. The composition was a success.
– But you didn’t declare its origins?
– I was seduced by the praise. Since then I have copied every piece I could remember, making minor variations, taking all the credit for them, enjoying all the perks. You see, Kirill had no family. He had no one. No one believed in him. No one knew his music except his teacher. And me.
– There was one other person.
– Who?
– The wife of a priest.
– She is how you found me?
– In a way, yes.
After a silence, the composer asked:
– Are you going to arrest me?
Leo shook his head:
– I don’t have the authority to arrest you.
Meshik seemed not to understand:
– Then tomorrow, first thing, I will tell the world the truth.
Leo walked across the room, staring out of the window at the snow that had begun to fall. There were children playing in it.
– What will you say? That the State murdered a genius and you stole his music? Who will love you for that confession? Who wants to hear it?
– What would you have me do?
The snow was beginning to settle.