The Conductor by Sarah Quigley

breath, feeling immense relief.
    What had he expected to see on Shostakovich’s face? Recognition? An acknowledgement that the second-rate radio-master, Mr Eliasberg, was worthy of sharing the secrets of a great composer? What , he asked himself bitterly, did you expect? For somewhere in the middle of his outpouring, it seemed, Shostakovich had stopped listening. He was glancing into the street, then up at the blank windows of the Radio Hall; he was shading his eyes, shuffling his feet, rummaging in his pocket. He hadn’t listened . And when he looked at Elias the sun glinted off his glasses and Elias was shut out. Blinded, winded, wounded. Alone again.
    ‘You really must excuse me.’ Shostakovich spoke from behind his shield of glass. ‘I’ll be in terrible trouble if I’m not home soon. Once again, I apologise for —’ he stared at the dirty score in Elias’s arms — ‘for that.’
    Abruptly he turned on his heel and was gone.

At the fish market
    E lias made his way down Nevsky Prospect, trying not to think of anything at all. ‘I hate him,’ he muttered over and over again. ‘I hate him.’ His sweaty palm slipped on the handle of the briefcase, now filled with a crumpled mess of pages that he’d have to smooth out and press under heavy books once he’d put his mother to bed.
    He’d reached the crowded marketplace of Gostiny Dvor before his breathing returned to normal. Entering the Clock Line, he pushed through a mass of people, not looking at faces. ‘An arrogant human cannonball,’ he mumbled, experiencing again the moment of collision, the wind knocked out of him, the briefcase flying from his hand. ‘I hate him. An arrogant son of a bitch who happened to have been born with a gift. I hate him .’
    ‘You want to buy?’ Someone was pressing closely to his side: wrinkled face, glazed eyes, toothless open mouth.
    ‘I hate him,’ he said again to the old woman pushing a handle of candles at him.
    ‘What’s to hate?’ queried the crone. ‘These are quality candles, damn your eyes.’
    Elias shied away. ‘No candles. I’m not here for candles.’ He hurried on, straightening his jacket, attempting to remember that he was a professional working man. But there was a lament inside him: something had been lost. How could he ever listen to the soaring lines of the Quintet with the old appreciation? Even now, though the day was cooling, his cheekbones burned.
    Fish , he thought. Got to buy fish. Don’t cry. Fish .
    Turning into the Haymarket, he came face to face with none other than Nina Shostakovich. It took all his willpower not to turn and run. Don’t say it! he thought desperately. Don’t say , I hate your husband!
    ‘Mrs Shostakovich.’ He wiped his free hand on his jacket. ‘How do you do?’
    ‘Hello, Mr Eliasberg.’ Nina’s grip was cool and smooth. ‘How are you? I haven’t seen you for a very long time.’
    ‘My mother’s unwell. She’s in what you might call a decline.’
    ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ A small straight line appeared between Nina’s brows. ‘Is it serious?’
    Elias thought of his mother’s hands pushing him into the kitchen, pulling him away from his work. ‘Let’s say that it’s been serious ever since she decided she no longer wished to cook, clean or queue for food. The decline has already lasted an eternity, it shows no sign of ending, and it often results in me arriving so late at the fish market that there’s nothing left to buy.’
    Nina laughed. ‘You’re not so late. At least, not too late for codfish.’ She grimaced at the dry grey curls protruding from her basket.
    ‘One might say,’ joked Elias a little nervously, ‘that one is never late enough when it comes to codfish.’
    ‘Indeed.’ Nina laughed again. ‘Our domestic help, Fenya, often buys cod, and my husband loathes it. On the days when I come myself, I remember there’s often no other option.’
    ‘In these deprived times, codfish is as ubiquitous as the common cold,’