Shostakovich: String Quartet No.2 in A major Op.86 [1944]

LIGHTING RESUMES AT A SLIGHTLY BRIGHTER SETTING

The composer is lying on the bed grasping an unlit cigarette.

I’m talking to myself.

I live upstairs where the lights stay on late.

And lying wide awake I dream of faces.

The marbled surface of memory.

He stands and walks forward as proscenium dissipates.

SPECIAL LIGHTING CASTS SILHOUETTE OF ROUGH WOODEN OUTDOOR STAIRWAY

Faces in the sky.

He takes a deep breath.

STAIRWAY SHADOW DISAPPEARS

AS LIGHTING BECOMES SIGNIFICANTLY DARKER, MORE TEXTURED

Another vodka episode.

Alone I wrote in the air with my finger.

So that no one could detect precisely what it was I was up to.

He faces to one side, speaking in profile.

Slowly I will walk to the dam and listen to its dynamos.

Almost imperceptible, in the rain and fog.

I am a man but look at me a boy in shirtsleeves and collar.

Ink-stained fingers adjusting spectacles.

I am capable of introspection

Every bit as much as Rilke

He gives a start and turns abruptly 180 degrees, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, gasping for breath.

Vsevolod.

Meyerhold.

Pinned to a filthy wall.

The moon is filled with pus.

A long sigh, and again he removes his glasses, but now he wipes his eyes and blows his nose. Stuffing the kerchief in his pocket, he clears his throat and addresses the audience with slightly restored composure.

My black brothers call this “blues”.

I’m not giving it a name tonight.

Besides, it runs back across centuries.

Like acres of Flemish linen bleaching in the sun.

This peculiar sense of life and death.

It’s as simple as a waltz.

He begins to dance, somewhat awkwardly.

What was it Mahler said?

Death takes the fiddle!

Jump, you rascal, jump.

Stops abruptly.

Holds out his hands which are unsteady.

Like my hands with nothing to calm them.

Puts his hands in his pants pockets.

Begins to pace the floor.

What is the music saying?

What does it mean?

What’s it tell you that I cannot?

One doesn’t set off magnesium flares.

With resignation:

Cross the street when you see me approaching.

Angrily:

They have the unmitigated gall.

To insist upon contrition and accessibility.

As if I were adjustable.

As if my voice were something out of a tap.

I cannot speak to anyone just now.

Tomorrow perhaps but not at this moment.

You’ll see me walking away, don’t ask.

It’s cumulative, you see? And protracted.

Whimsically:

We’re possibly waltzing again perhaps

And none of us carry pistols

We are simple enough for regular weapons:

Cigarettes mostly.

And warm enough in winter.

And verses memorized by heart.

And decent meals shared with friends.

From behind the armchair he produces a small suitcase and embraces it with both arms.

I keep this packed all the time

In case I have to leave in a hurry

Squeezing the suitcase like a life preserver

At any moment I could be summoned for questioning

Sometimes I wait half the night on a chair in the hallway

So my family won’t be disturbed by the noise

Places the suitcase back behind the chair

Returns to stand at the window

Closes the blinds entirely but holds them away from the glass and carefully peers outside.

LIGHTS GRADUALLY FADE TO BLACK

© arwulf arwulf 2015