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THE FLICKERING GASLIGHT OF THE ANACHRONISTIC PARLOR CAST LONG SHADOWS ACROSS THE HEAVY, BROCADED WALLPAPER. JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH, POWDERED WIG SLIGHTLY ASKEW, METICULOUSLY ADJUSTED THE QUILLS OF A HARPSICHORD. HE HUMMED A SNIPPET OF A GOLDBERG VARIATION, HIS BROW FURROWED IN CONCENTRATION.
THE DOOR CREAKED OPEN, ADMITTING A GUST OF WHAT FELT LIKE A SIBERIAN WIND. DMITRI SHOSTAKOVICH, HIS SPECTACLES PERCHED PRECARIOUSLY ON HIS NOSE, BLINKED INTO THE DIMLY LIT ROOM. HE CLUTCHED A WORN LEATHER BRIEFCASE TO HIS CHEST, HIS SHOULDERS HUNCHED AS IF AGAINST AN INVISIBLE BURDEN.
BACH LOOKED UP, HIS MILD EYES WIDENING SLIGHTLY. "GUTEN TAG, MEIN HERR. I CONFESS, I WAS NOT EXPECTING COMPANY."
SHOSTAKOVICH OFFERED A HESITANT, ALMOST PAINED SMILE. "GOOD DAY, HERR BACH. THE… CIRCUMSTANCES OF MY ARRIVAL ARE, SHALL WE SAY, UNUSUAL. MY NAME IS SHOSTAKOVICH. DMITRI." HE EXTENDED A TREMBLING HAND.
BACH ROSE, BOWING SLIGHTLY AS HE TOOK THE OFFERED HAND. "A PLEASURE, HERR SHOSTAKOVICH. DO FORGIVE MY ATTIRE; I WAS LOST IN CONTEMPLATION OF A NEW COUNTERPOINT." HE GESTURED TO A NEARBY ARMCHAIR, UPHOLSTERED IN A SURPRISINGLY GARISH FLORAL PATTERN. "PLEASE, BE SEATED."
SHOSTAKOVICH SANK INTO THE CHAIR, HIS GAZE DARTING AROUND THE ROOM, TAKING IN THE ANTIQUE INSTRUMENTS AND THE AIR OF SERENE, IF SOMEWHAT DUSTY, ORDER. "COUNTERPOINT," HE MURMURED, ALMOST TO HIMSELF. "A LUXURY, SOMETIMES."
BACH, OBLIVIOUS TO THE UNDERTONE OF WEARINESS, CHUCKLED. "A LUXURY? MY DEAR SIR, IT IS THE VERY BEDROCK OF MUSICAL TRUTH! THE INTERPLAY OF INDEPENDENT VOICES, EACH FOLLOWING ITS OWN DIVINE PATH, YET WOVEN INTO A TAPESTRY OF UNPARALLELED HARMONY..." HE GESTURED WITH AN ANIMATED HAND. "BUT TELL ME, WHAT BRINGS YOU TO THIS HUMBLE ABODE? ARE YOU, PERHAPS, A FELLOW MUSICIAN?"
SHOSTAKOVICH TOOK A DEEP BREATH, THE SCENT OF OLD WOOD AND BEESWAX FILLING HIS NOSTRILS. "I AM. OR I TRY TO BE. MY MUSIC IS… DIFFERENT, I SUPPOSE, FROM YOURS." HE PAUSED, SEARCHING FOR THE RIGHT WORDS. "IT OFTEN SPEAKS OF… STRUGGLE. OF THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD."
BACH TILTED HIS HEAD, A FAINT FROWN APPEARING ON HIS FACE. "STRUGGLE? THE WORLD IS INDEED A FALLEN PLACE, HERR SHOSTAKOVICH, BUT THROUGH MUSIC, WE ELEVATE THE SOUL, DO WE NOT? WE OFFER SOLACE, AND A GLIMPSE OF THE DIVINE ORDER."
"SOMETIMES," SHOSTAKOVICH SAID, HIS VOICE BARELY A WHISPER, "THE DIVINE ORDER FEELS VERY FAR AWAY. SOMETIMES, MUSIC IS ALL WE HAVE TO SCREAM INTO THE VOID. TO BEAR WITNESS." HE LOOKED DIRECTLY AT BACH, HIS EYES FILLED WITH AN UNSPOKEN DEPTH OF SUFFERING. "HAVE YOU EVER FELT, HERR BACH, THAT YOUR MUSIC WAS NOT ENTIRELY YOUR OWN? THAT IT BELONGED, IN SOME MEASURE, TO FORCES BEYOND YOUR CONTROL?"
BACH CONSIDERED THIS, STROKING HIS CHIN. "MY MUSIC BELONGS TO GOD, HERR SHOSTAKOVICH. AND THROUGH GOD, IT SERVES HUMANITY. I STRIVE FOR PERFECTION, FOR CLARITY, FOR A PURITY OF EXPRESSION THAT REFLECTS HIS GLORY. I AM BUT AN INSTRUMENT."
SHOSTAKOVICH NODDED SLOWLY. "AN INSTRUMENT. YES. BUT WHAT IF THE HAND THAT WIELDS THE INSTRUMENT IS… NOT BENEVOLENT? WHAT IF THE MELODIES YOU HEAR ARE NOT THOSE OF ANGELS, BUT OF… JACKBOOTS?" HE SHIVERED, DESPITE THE WARMTH OF THE ROOM.
BACH'S EXPRESSION SOFTENED. HE PICKED UP A SMALL, INTRICATELY CARVED WOODEN FLUTE FROM A NEARBY TABLE AND IDLY RAN HIS THUMB OVER ITS KEYS. "IT SOUNDS AS THOUGH YOU HAVE FACED TRIALS, HERR SHOSTAKOVICH, OF A KIND I CAN SCARCELY IMAGINE. MY OWN STRUGGLES HAVE BEEN WITH ERRANT CHOIRBOYS, PATRONS WITH SHALLOW POCKETS, AND THE ENDLESS PURSUIT OF A PERFECT FUGUE SUBJECT." HE OFFERED A GENTLE SMILE. "YET, EVEN IN THE DARKEST CORNERS, THE LIGHT OF BEAUTY CAN PENETRATE. DO YOU NOT FIND THAT TO BE TRUE IN YOUR OWN COMPOSITIONS?"
SHOSTAKOVICH CLOSED HIS EYES FOR A MOMENT. "SOMETIMES. THERE ARE MOMENTS OF FLEETING BEAUTY, YES. BUT THEY ARE OFTEN HARD-WON, WRENCHED FROM THE TEETH OF… OF DESPAIR. MY SYMPHONIES, THEY ARE NOT PSALMS OF PRAISE, HERR BACH. THEY ARE OFTEN EPITAPHS."
BACH PLACED THE FLUTE BACK DOWN. "EPITAPHS, YOU SAY? EVEN IN DEATH, THERE IS THE PROMISE OF RESURRECTION, HERR SHOSTAKOVICH. AND IN MUSIC, EVEN THE DEEPEST SORROW CAN BE TRANSFORMED INTO SOMETHING PROFOUND, SOMETHING THAT TRANSCENDS THE EARTHLY AND TOUCHES THE ETERNAL. PERHAPS YOUR EPITAPHS, TOO, ARE A FORM OF PRAISE, IN THEIR OWN WAY. A TESTAMENT TO THE RESILIENCE OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT."
SHOSTAKOVICH OPENED HIS EYES, A FLICKER OF SOMETHING AKIN TO SURPRISE IN THEIR DEPTHS. HE LOOKED AT THE SERENE, UNYIELDING FACE OF THE OLDER COMPOSER. "YOU BELIEVE THAT, HERR BACH?"
"I BELIEVE IN THE POWER OF MUSIC, HERR SHOSTAKOVICH," BACH SAID, HIS VOICE FIRM AND CLEAR. "TO COMMUNICATE WHAT WORDS CANNOT. TO HEAL, TO INSPIRE, TO ENDURE. EVEN ACROSS CENTURIES, IT SEEMS." HE OFFERED ANOTHER, MORE PROFOUND BOW. "PERHAPS, HERR SHOSTAKOVICH, YOU WOULD CARE TO HEAR A SMALL IMPROVISATION? I FIND IT OFTEN CLARIFIES THE MIND."
SHOSTAKOVICH HESITATED, THEN A FAINT, ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLE SMILE TOUCHED HIS LIPS. "I… I WOULD BE HONORED, HERR BACH." HE LEANED BACK IN THE ARMCHAIR, LISTENING AS BACH'S FINGERS, NIMBLE AND SURE, BEGAN TO DANCE ACROSS THE KEYS OF THE HARPSICHORD, WEAVING A TAPESTRY OF SOUND THAT, FOR A FLEETING MOMENT, SEEMED TO BRIDGE THE VAST CHASM OF TIME AND EXPERIENCE BETWEEN THEM. THE WEIGHT ON SHOSTAKOVICH'S SHOULDERS, FOR JUST AN INSTANT, FELT A LITTLE LIGHTER
