Shostakovich: String Quartet No.5 in B Flat Op.92 [1952]

DRAMATICALLY CONTRASTED LIGHTING

The composer sits rigidly in an armchair.

He speaks with concise gravity.

Judge me, judge yourself.

Look to your own hands.

It’s written in the psalm:

Blood shall be avenged.

The voices of victims will be heard.

Nobody is silent forever.

Not even me.

But I have a beautiful curse to deliver.

With almost surgical precision:

With this quartet Iosif Vissarionovich—Stalin

I do bring you to your death bed in its well-protected bunker

To arch your back in convulsions and stare with horror

At the phantoms on the ceiling as you die.

As he rises and moves forward,

THE LIGHTS CAUSE THE COMPOSER TO BECOME EFFULGENT.

IT IS ALMOST AS IF HE IS THE SOURCE OF THE EMANATIONS WHICH TRANSFORM THE SPACE.

A STREETLIGHT APPEARS PROJECTED ON THE WALL,

BUT IT IS THE COMPOSER WHO SEEMS TO GLOW.

It is past midnight again.

Once again I am at large.

The pulse of the entire continent is audible.

If one moves quietly and wanders at night.

I’m hearing all of you as you sleep and dare to dream.

I hear you.

I am the ears of night.

They think that they are the ears but I…

He smiles oddly and brandishes his cigarette, then plants it behind an ear.

This one here.

Smoking alone.

Beneath the lamps.

I am the ears of night.

But then I am the afternoons.

And early evenings as well.

I am all the time you’re given.

All the days and nights am I.

Wistfully, then with grim satisfaction:

It is possible I am the chance.

To hold hands and start to dance.

But then again…

He crosses back to the sink and opens the taps.

Excuse me…

Throws water in his face, dries off with a thread barren towel which hangs on a nail.

Ahem.

Straightening his necktie while gazing unhappily into a ridiculously small mirror:

Dress myself for dignity’s sake:

Naked for all state occasions.

Crosses back to the dresser, which he caresses absently

My friends who disappeared belong with me at least.

In the arms and legs of this little quartet with its heart opened.

I mustn’t obsess, it’s unhealthy.

I’ll simply live to another morning.

Then another.

And fill the drawer with music.

A hidden voice is best

for calling the names of friends

who cannot be brought to dinner again.

The hidden voice is necessary, and very personal.

I continue to call the names of my very own friends.

LIGHTS GRADUALLY FADE TO BLACK

They are summoned

With the cello

Violins and viola

I pass them invitations

And then they come.

© arwulf arwulf 2015