City of Ghosts by Ben Creed (most important books of all time txt) 📕

‘Felix, a lecherous soldier, Max, a depraved priest, Nadya, an inept spy, and Shevchuk, a hapless politician. It was only once I got them here that I realised I had assembled a cast filled with the moronic archetypes of cheap comic opera. It amused me greatly. So, I had Sofia dressed as the Snow Queen. My little joke, Rossel. And we know you’re a connoisseur of them.’

Vronsky struck right. One of the cages began to spin even faster.

‘At night, I would thrash the bars. Record their pleas and screaming. Little evidence of any baritone on the Magnetophon. Fear, it seems, makes sopranos of us all. They screamed out the dregs of their beings into the abyss they knew I would soon consign them to. I cut them differently, mutilated them differently, so my imagination might feast upon the differing sounds. Slice, slash, gouge, gash, each extracts its own particular melody. Cut off a hand and in that, I discovered, is little enough inspiration for a cheap tavern tune. But chop off a man’s prick and you have the beginnings of an epic symphony. And, even before that, they would growl and scurry and beg and plead, roll over on their backs and abase themselves in any way possible – anything for the smallest morsel.’

Vronsky stilled his hand, let it fall to his side.

‘By the end, just stretching out the tips of my fingers and simply listening – it was electric.’

43

Vronsky’s hands stretched out towards the unopened silver platter for a third time, letting them hover. His grin was ghoulish and terrifying.

‘Sofia was the hardest one to entice up here. She had no interest in my offer of a job in the chorus of the Kirov Opera. No interest in Marina’s offer of lessons and patronage. But your name, Lieutenant. That got her on the first train to Leningrad. I promised her a reunion with you at my dacha – and to use my influence so she would never have to inform again. And so, of course, she came.’

Rossel’s eyes remained fixed on the platter. There was no way he would let Vronsky know the pain of the wounds he was causing, no way he would grant him that satisfaction . . . but his fastened hands could not wipe away the treacherous tears that were pooling in his eyes.

‘How does it feel, Lieutenant Rossel, to not be the person you were supposed to be? To know you will never play your violin again?’

Under those silver bowls there could be . . . For Vronsky it had just been some sort of raw meat, he thought.

But this one was meant for him. This dish could contain anything.

‘You know how that feels, maestro,’ he said. ‘That’s what you’re trying to say, isn’t it? You missed out. I did, too. We are kindred spirits, you and I?’

Vronsky shrugged.

‘The thing that has eaten my heart,’ the composer said, ‘is knowing that if I came back to Leningrad in a hundred years and strolled down Nevsky, I would find Stalin remembered, I would find the siege remembered, but – and this above all I abhor – I would find Shostakovich remembered. A court bard, a modernist parrot, now fixed in the cultural memory of the nation as the keeper of its spirit. The guardian of its eternal flame. But not me, Rossel. No one would remember me.’

Rossel spat a little blood onto the floor.

‘I used to feel exactly as you describe,’ he said. ‘Imagine myself playing at the Kirov instead of opening a cell in the morning and gagging at the stench of shit. But no more, comrade. Militia station 17 is my destiny now. These days if I tried to tap my foot to the national anthem, I’d probably end up a half-step behind but it doesn’t really matter anymore. Because I get to hunt down people like you.’

‘You didn’t hunt me down, Lieutenant. I simply picked up my baton, extended my arms, and here you are.’

Vronsky lifted the lid of the salver.

The package was six inches square, brown with a yellow sticker the size and shape of a rouble stuck to the front. It read: AEG Magnetophon. Vronsky tipped it and out slid a spool of tape.

‘Only five cages, not six. I assume you noticed that immediately, on waking. So, why is he here, Lieutenant Rossel must have asked himself, if he is not to be part of Maestro Vronsky’s chorus? What is his purpose – his melodic function in the second part of this particular aria? Have you worked it out yet?’

Rossel did not even acknowledge the question.

No, Revol, not for you . . .

His eyes were on the salver where the reel lay but all he could see was Sofia’s face close to his.

‘At the Kirov,’ continued Vronsky, ‘I told you, gave you the answer to the entire riddle, and on our second meeting I also clearly reiterated it. I thought you might have an inkling then. And yet, you still haven’t worked it out.’

He stood and walked to the nearest of the three tape recorders squatting on the green metal shelf nearest the door. Pushing the tape onto the empty left-hand spindle, he wound the first strip onto the right-hand one and pressed a button. Then he walked back to the table and took his seat again.

‘They had food there. Can you imagine that? At the Leningrad State Mental Hospital, on the very night I was admitted – shortly after what I did to Landau, all of that – I ate a chicken seasoned with rosemary and salt, even some tinned beetroot. Imagine how that tasted? Whilst the city’s belly was round and empty, its madmen grew fat on contraband. The brother of the director was prepared to grant favours to those with a certain influence and a wallet full of roubles. So, I dined well. And each evening, once sated, I could stare out of a skylight at the searchlights of St