In Concert Performance

by Nikolai Dezhnev

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

In Concert Performance has earned Nikolai Dezhnev praise and international success that is unrivaled by any other contemporary Russian writer. A bestseller in Russia, it brings us, with wit and insight, into Russia's distressful past and perhaps equally distressful present, while telling a brilliant love story that surpasses time and space.

Lukary is a fallen angel sent back to earth to atone for his past. In the form of a domovoi, a good domestic spirit of Russian folklore, he is sent to inhabit the apartment of an old Bolshevik woman, who dies almost immediately. At the old woman's funeral, in the disguise of a dashing middle-aged gentleman, he encounters her niece, Anna, and falls madly in love with her, interrupting the successful course of his penance. Forced to choose between his journey to higher lucidity and earthly love, he chooses the latter.

Fortunately for Lukary, Anna and her husband--a conceited, no-nonsense Russian physicist--move into the deceased aunt's former home, where Lukary proceeds to wreak supernatural havoc upon their daily lives in his effort to simultaneously woo Anna and badger her into ending her marriage. Unfortunately for Lukary, a demon sent to watch over him on earth has begun to conspire against him with Anna's husband. And soon the havoc spreads far beyond the confines of a simple Moscow apartment.

In Concert Performance travels from contemporary Moscow to the times of the Spanish Inquisition and back again, hitting more than a few points in between. It is a fantastic tale, a truly unique novel that is part romantic fantasy, part meditation on love and time, and part historical satire, echoing the mixture of genres and stylistic sophistication of its only worthy comparison, Mikhail Bulgakov's masterpiece The Master and Margarita.

Release date: April 18, 2012

Publisher: Nan A. Talese

Print pages: 288

Sample

In March, during the first days of spring, the old woman Kovalevskaya died. Some might say she made up her mind and then died, but had she been alive Kovalevskaya would never have agreed. She'd been a member of the Communist Party since 1932 and didn't believe in mysticism. She had spent her life in the objective world of matter, perceived through the senses, and it was proper for death to come to her in an equally simple and lucid way. "May our dear country live on," Kovalevskaya had sung along with the rest of the people, and the country lived, but she never aspired to such a luxury for herself. She didn't have time--she was too active in the struggle. And even though her husband, a fellow Party member, went to the grave straight from prison, and even though she had never made any distinction between personal life and civic duty, Kovalevskaya had an unconquerable thirst for life, a childish interest in its absurd and exhausting process. She kept her sharp analytical mind into old age; she read all the newspapers she could get and understood the fine points of the confusing political situation, which significantly contributed to her untimely end, by the way. When you've been accustomed to clear-cut goals and predictable events your whole life, it's hard not to lose your mind when you encounter the madness mistakenly called modern-day politics. The old woman couldn't bear it. On the day of her death Kovalevskaya listened to the morning edition of the latest news and then she phoned Anna, her only relative, and dryly informed her that she would probably die soon.

Later, it became clear that she had no longer trusted the state and had bequeathed her only property, a two-room apartment, to her niece. Kovalevskaya looked tall and withered in her coffin, wearing the same calm and stern expression she'd had while alive. Frank to the point of rudeness, she had made few friends. Some six or seven people came to bury the old Bolshevik, all equally severe and stiff, dressed in modest but clean clothes in the style of the fifties. The painful job of funeral arrangements fell to Anna Alexandrovna--Telyatnikova by marriage--and partly to her husband, Sergei Sergeyevich, though he was extremely busy at his institute. The deceased was buried in her husband's plot in Vagankov, and afterward a service was held in the church there.

Snow fell abundantly that year; it lay in ragged drifts on the roof of the kiosk with pictures of Vladimir Vysotsky and on top of the hall for civil ceremonies; it covered all the small side paths leading off the cleared avenues. The mourners made their way to the grave through a maze of fences, trying to stay in the track of footprints ahead. Tired out, the gravediggers from the state funeral agency demanded one more bottle of vodka than they'd agreed on earlier. Quietly twilight began to fall. The gray mist of the bleak Moscow thaw thickened between the bare branches of the trees. The mourners returned the same way--in single file. When they reached the central avenue, Anna shook the snow off her coat, and as she cast a farewell glance at the distant fresh grave, she saw a tall man with a wreath in his hands standing beside the dark mound. Anna was bewildered.

She left the old people to her husband's care and went back. She felt obligated to invite the stranger to the wake, but oddly enough, when she reached the grave no one was there. Nor were there any footprints, except the ones the funeral procession had made. There was a small wreath of fresh red roses tied with a black ribbon on which someone had carefully written in old-fashioned script: "We got along well." All the way home, shaking in the cold half-empty bus, Anna couldn't stop thinking about what she'd seen, but she didn't tell anyone about it.

There was little drinking at the gathering; instead the old people all reminisced about their youth, their work in the prewar state agencies, and the war itself. They criticized the decline of public morality and the lack of ideals among today's youth. But they didn't complain about the constant rise in prices--they were above that. The old women smoked. The only man among the survivors watched everything in wonder with lusterless moist eyes and was silent. The fork in his hand trembled slightly. Anna sat pensively at the table. From time to time she looked up at the photo of her aunt on the sideboard in a black frame, and strange thoughts began to float in her head. She wasn't picturing the life of the deceased--it was the man at the cemetery who occupied her imagination, and it seemed to Anna that not only did she know this man but--and this was completely absurd--he was near and dear to her. A strange languor came over her and touched her heart with a presentiment of joy and a fullness of life which seemed out of place at a wake. But she didn't want to let go of this sensation, so like a sweet morning dream full of hope and promise.

After everyone had left and the dishes were washed, Anna stood at the window for a long time and stared at the Moscow courtyard flooded with cold moonlight and at the coal-black tree shadows that sliced the yard into pieces. She was sad, but a sense of something fleeting, surprisingly gentle and pleasant, promised happiness to her apprehensive soul. The only person Anna told what had happened was her best friend Mashka. She didn't even try telling her husband--he was preoccupied with his research, he wouldn't have understood.

Life went on, however, and very soon Anna's feeling faded and she only remembered it as something pleasant which, alas, bore no relation to dreary reality. Her thoughts were more and more consumed by completely practical matters. The apartment she inherited from her aunt had come at just the right time: despite the fact that they were no longer young the Telyatnikovs were cooped up in a communal apartment with no possibilities for moving out. Sergei Sergeyevich was respected at his institute, but not enough to help him get a better position or anything more than vague promises. True, the inheritance turned out to be no easy matter, and it took a good deal of persistence and energy, not to mention time and bribes, before the legitimate heiress could come into her own. But finally Anna's victory was secured. After waiting for a proper period of time, the Telyatnikovs moved to their new apartment and, still euphoric from their victory over the bureaucracy, they decided to exchange it immediately for a good three-bedroom apartment somewhere in a quiet and respectable part of the capital. It was the end of April, the second month of spring, a time of hope and expectation . . .In March, during the first days of spring, the old woman Kovalevskaya died. Some might say she made up her mind and then died, but had she been alive Kovalevskaya would never have agreed. She'd been a member of the Communist Party since 1932 and didn't believe in mysticism. She had spent her life in the objective world of matter, perceived through the senses, and it was proper for death to come to her in an equally simple and lucid way. "May our dear country live on," Kovalevskaya had sung along with the rest of the people, and the country lived, but she never aspired to such a luxury for herself. She didn't have time--she was too active in the struggle. And even though her husband, a fellow Party member, went to the grave straight from prison, and even though she had never made any distinction between personal life and civic duty, Kovalevskaya had an unconquerable thirst for life, a childish interest in its absurd and exhausting process. She kept her sharp analytical mind into old age; she read all the newspapers she could get and understood the fine points of the confusing political situation, which significantly contributed to her untimely end, by the way. When you've been accustomed to clear-cut goals and predictable events your whole life, it's hard not to lose your mind when you encounter the madness mistakenly called modern-day politics. The old woman couldn't bear it. On the day of her death Kovalevskaya listened to the morning edition of the latest news and then she phoned Anna, her only relative, and dryly informed her that she would probably die soon.

Later, it became clear that she had no longer trusted the state and had bequeathed her only property, a two-room apartment, to her niece. Kovalevskaya looked tall and withered in her coffin, wearing the same calm and stern expression she'd had while alive. Frank to the point of rudeness, she had made few friends. Some six or seven people came to bury the old Bolshevik, all equally severe and stiff, dressed in modest but clean clothes in the style of the fifties. The painful job of funeral arrangements fell to Anna Alexandrovna--Telyatnikova by marriage--and partly to her husband, Sergei Sergeyevich, though he was extremely busy at his institute. The deceased was buried in her husband's plot in Vagankov, and afterward a service was held in the church there.

Snow fell abundantly that year; it lay in ragged drifts on the roof of the kiosk with pictures of Vladimir Vysotsky and on top of the hall for civil ceremonies; it covered all the small side paths leading off the cleared avenues. The mourners made their way to the grave through a maze of fences, trying to stay in the track of footprints ahead. Tired out, the gravediggers from the state funeral agency demanded one more bottle of vodka than they'd agreed on earlier. Quietly twilight began to fall. The gray mist of the bleak Moscow thaw thickened between the bare branches of the trees. The mourners returned the same way--in single file. When they reached the central avenue, Anna shook the snow off her coat, and as she cast a farewell glance at the distant fresh grave, she saw a tall man with a wreath in his hands standing beside the dark mound. Anna was bewildered.

She left the old people to her husband's care and went back. She felt obligated to invite the stranger to the wake, but oddly enough, when she reached the grave no one was there. Nor were there any footprints, except the ones the funeral procession had made. There was a small wreath of fresh red roses tied with a black ribbon on which someone had carefully written in old-fashioned script: "We got along well." All the way home, shaking in the cold half-empty bus, Anna couldn't stop thinking about what she'd seen, but she didn't tell anyone about it.
There was little drinking at the gathering; instead the old people all reminisced about their youth, their work in the prewar state agencies, and the war itself. They criticized the decline of public morality and the lack of ideals among today's youth. But they didn't complain about the constant rise in prices--they were above that. The old women smoked. The only man among the survivors watched everything in wonder with lusterless moist eyes and was silent. The fork in his hand trembled slightly. Anna sat pensively at the table. From time to time she looked up at the photo of her aunt on the sideboard in a black frame, and strange thoughts began to float in her head. She wasn't picturing the life of the deceased--it was the man at the cemetery who occupied her imagination, and it seemed to Anna that not only did she know this man but--and this was completely absurd--he was near and dear to her. A strange languor came over her and touched her heart with a presentiment of joy and a fullness of life which seemed out of place at a wake. But she didn't want to let go of this sensation, so like a sweet morning dream full of hope and promise.

After everyone had left and the dishes were washed, Anna stood at the window for a long time and stared at the Moscow courtyard flooded with cold moonlight and at the coal-black tree shadows that sliced the yard into pieces. She was sad, but a sense of something fleeting, surprisingly gentle and pleasant, promised happiness to her apprehensive soul. The only person Anna told what had happened was her best friend Mashka. She didn't even try telling her husband--he was preoccupied with his research, he wouldn't have understood.

Life went on, however, and very soon Anna's feeling faded and she only remembered it as something pleasant which, alas, bore no relation to dreary reality. Her thoughts were more and more consumed by completely practical matters. The apartment she inherited from her aunt had come at just the right time: despite the fact that they were no longer young the Telyatnikovs were cooped up in a communal apartment with no possibilities for moving out. Sergei Sergeyevich was respected at his institute, but not enough to help him get a better position or anything more than vague promises. True, the inheritance turned out to be no easy matter, and it took a good deal of persistence and energy, not to mention time and bribes, before the legitimate heiress could come into her own. But finally Anna's victory was secured. After waiting for a proper period of time, the Telyatnikovs moved to their new apartment and, still euphoric from their victory over the bureaucracy, they decided to exchange it immediately for a good three-bedroom apartment somewhere in a quiet and respectable part of the capital. It was the end of April, the second month of spring, a time of hope and expectation . . .

You'd think Lukary wouldn't have cared about any of this fuss. But these events in the lower, three-dimensional world of man had roused him. He lost his peace of mind, and from his place in the astral plane he would often catch himself thinking, not of the nature of time, as was his habit, but of something very different.



The death of the old Bolshevik had occurred in March, and by the beginning of May so many strange incidents had taken place that Assistant Professor Telyatnikov was forced to stop and analyze things. Such an analysis fully corresponded to his natural inclination, for Sergei Sergeyevich had reached the age when a man begins to feel the need for reflection, or, more to the point, the need to convince himself that his life has meaning. At this age ambitions are still alive and hope may stir the soul with an errant youthful dream, but the blurry silhouette of old age is looming on the horizon, and when the sunset of life begins you occasionally feel a cold breeze of indifference toward yourself, not to mention the world. It's then that a man begins to understand a lot of things he's only glimpsed before. He begins to see that nature, with a maniacal persistence, reproduces the very same types of people, mixes them up in different combinations, and pretends that this constitutes the diversity of life. Then the day comes when with autumnal clarity you see the superfluousness and mediocrity of what's going on, and this knowledge makes you want to bury your head in the protective bleakness of ordinary life, walk around half asleep, and slowly and inconspicuously slip into a different world. The soul calcifies with age and you no longer have the strength or hope to respond to feelings. Getting no answer, love passes by. You watch it go and, echoing the Hindus, whisper: love is a great misfortune, love is a distraction from the quest for perfection, love . . . You keep trying to believe this. Still, all would be well, everything would be peaceful, except for the hidden danger that exists at this age. The beast of vanity, which until now has fed on hope, suddenly goes on the warpath. Everything has fizzled out, everything is past its prime, and what's left is the one thing you can't accept--you're nobody and you haven't lived at all!

As for the troubles that had fallen on Telyatnikov--Sergei Sergeyevich was sure that they had all begun with the move to the new apartment. He didn't accuse the old woman herself, even though when she was alive his relations with her were extremely cool. As a physicist and scholar, Telyatnikov flatly discarded the possibility that a ghost or apparition had interfered--evidently he didn't take after Pushkin's Hermann, but at times, in a moment of weakness, he too was visited by the thought that not everything going on here was innocent. As a joke, and mostly for amusement, he dropped in at the library and looked through some material on witches but he didn't find anything that resembled the deceased. Kovalevskaya's character was better suited for the role of Inquisitor.

Turning his thoughts back to when the troubles had started, Sergei Sergeyevich remembered that on the very first day a sheet of water had rained down on him from the new apartment's ceiling. Just like that--for no reason at all, and without any provocation on his part. Immediately thereafter the Czech glass chandelier began behaving strangely. Defying the law of gravity, it slipped off its hook and almost hit him in the head. For a long time afterward Telyatnikov walked around with his neck extended and glanced uneasily at the ceiling.
In due course it turned out that all of these strange natural phenomena, including the arbitrary flight of objects and the fact that the refrigerator worked like a microwave, were somehow tied to the theme of exchanging the apartment, which was clearly beginning to seem a mistake. But even after he stopped talking about it, Telyatnikov would get electric shocks as a warning, and not only from the wall sockets, which would have been understandable, but also from such confirmed insulators as his own toothbrush and condoms--and often at a bad moment. These spontaneous natural phenomena clearly had nothing to do with fairness, for the punishments were exclusively imposed upon the apartment's master. Only once, when Anna first started to discuss the move, did an object fly at her--and it was a pillow. On the other hand, the buttons on all of her dresses and housecoats began to pop off with the sound of gunshots, and various belts and ribbons were incessantly coming undone.

"He has fallen in love with you! He's in love with you and he's making my life miserable!" the raging Telyatnikov bawled. But to Anna's question, "Who's he?" Sergei Sergeyevich couldn't answer and just glanced around from side to side with a badgered look. Now, before opening his mouth, he carefully weighed everything he meant to say--a benefit to him in all respects.

They tried to discuss the matter of the apartment exchange metaphorically, even using broken English and sign language, but all of these tricks were deciphered right away and punishment followed inevitably. As a light, friendly warning all the gears on the wall clock would whirl off like fleas, and the television would suddenly begin to speak in Chinese. That was fine--they could have adapted to it, had there been anything on television besides ads for an American laxative. Life had become absolutely unbearable, however, and he knew they had to make the exchange and move quickly.

They decided to go live for a while in their old room in the communal apartment building in order to get some rest and calm their nerves, but that was not to be. Just as they showed up at their old apartment they were met with the smell of burning--a meticulous little fire had engulfed their entire room, sparing neither the furniture nor the wallpaper, and then had quietly died out by itself on the threshold of the common hall. Sergei Sergeyevich sat on a stool in the kitchen and laughed and sobbed until the building manager, who'd been called to the scene of the action, made him gulp down a full glass of vodka--this took away the stress but didn't change the situation one bit. After this their friends all stopped inviting the Telyatnikovs to stay with them, and from a human point of view you can understand why. Anna cried too, yet felt there was something flattering in what had taken place.

It's probably not even worth mentioning how they tried to discuss the notorious matter over the phone or outside their home. When they did, the telephone turned an ordinary seven-digit number into a connection to Brighton Beach in New York, where everyone spoke Russian, though without an American accent. The arrival of astronomical bills for international discussions came as a great surprise to the Telyatnikovs and was a heavy burden on their modest family budget. As for their attempt to talk about things in the open air, well, Sergei Sergeyevich's legs were bitten all over by stray dogs--and completely respectable ones as well, who kept running after him until he stopped them with a few curses about their doggone business.

In addition, there were hardships of a different kind that made intimate contact between the spouses impossible. Nothing abnormal, in the doctor's opinion, but something just didn't work and that was that! It even started to be funny and they laughed, but the inner tension mounted and Sergei Sergeyevich seriously began to worry about his mental health.

Assistant Professor Telyatnikov was thinking about all these troubles as he was walking one day past the main building of the institute. It was lunchtime and the student population was outside bathing in the sun and reclaiming life outside of the classroom. There was more than an hour before lectures began, and Sergei Sergeyevich took pleasure in exposing his pale face to the warm rays. Intelligent-looking students greeted him respectfully, and some female students who were still attractive smiled sweetly, secretly hoping that it would count for something during the coming exams. Telyatnikov proudly swam in this sea of universal respect. Sergei Sergeyevich was well aware of the reputation he'd earned as a mean ogre and pedant. But he liked his own image, and all would have been well in life, had it not been for his domestic troubles.

"Something must be done! Measures must be taken immediately!" Sergei Sergeyevich thought while on the move, giving his neat little doctor's beard a pinch and frightening the timid first-year students with his expression. "Maybe all of this is only the theory of probability run amok?" How many times had he asked himself this and right away, scientist that he was, he'd come up with some groundless hypothesis. Considering the variety of unruly incidents, he could only divine that a malevolent being was connected to the crazy apartment. "We have to move! We have to move at all costs! So I simply go home, take Anna by the arm, and leave as if for a walk. And don't return! As for a place to live--something will turn up!"

Having come to such a clear and logical decision, Sergei Sergeyevich cheered up and even began to whistle something not unlike the aria of the toreador. He even thought with animal pleasure of the lunch that awaited him, his appetite now whetted by his walk in the fresh air. He climbed the steps of his beloved institute and was just putting his hand on the massive door when he suddenly noticed a commotion and the students below crowding around a frail, strangely dressed man. Wearing a padded workman's jacket that had seen better days and clutching a cloth cap, the man gave the impression of an alien body that had somehow wormed its way into the colorful crowd of young people. The little man was pushing the students aside and, as if riding a wave, making straight for Telyatnikov. His destination was so obvious that Sergei Sergeyevich even took a step toward the stranger. "Probably some blockhead's parent," Telyatnikov guessed. "He'll intercede for the little fool, go on about his old mother and his worker-peasant background. He might even offer a bribe," the lecturer presupposed, getting ready to rebuff him, but this time he was mistaken. Staring with impudent eyes, and twitching the tip of his rosy rabbitlike nose as he moved, the tiny man suddenly broke into a radiant smile and, with open padded arms, literally threw himself at Telyatnikov.

"My dear Sergei Sergeyevich! How delighted I am to see you!" he said rapidly, for some reason winking the playful eye that slanted toward his nose. The little man took hold of Telyatnikov's hand, grasping it with both of his, and began to shake it as though he intended to tear it off.

"Excuse me"--Telyatnikov arched his brows stiffly--"but have we actually met?"

"No, of course not, but that doesn't matter! Shepetukha, Professor Shepetukha, Semyon Arkadievich!" the man in the padded jacket introduced himself and made several attempts to embrace the assistant professor. When he saw it was futile, he finally let go of his hand, reached into his pocket, and offered Telyatnikov a glossy card with a thin gold border. Sergei Sergeyevich took the little card and read that the frail Semyon Arkadievich standing before him was not only a full professor and doctor of science but a State Prize winner and Director of the Coordinating Center of Bio-Equilibristics. Overwhelmed by the number of titles and ranks, Telyatnikov put the card in his pocket and took a look at the doctor-director. The man's eyes seemed keen and lively now and his thin animated face had a look of importance. Even the sharp nose with its rosy tip in some strange way signaled its possessor's uniqueness. Telyatnikov was confused.

"I'm sorry, I don't have one with me. I must have left it in my office," Sergei Sergeyevich said--he'd never in his life had business cards, but he was embarrassed.

After the usual introductions, when questioned about the nature of his work, Telyatnikov simply answered that he was a physicist. "Assistant professor in the department of general physics" was too long and somehow degrading. It sounded academically dull and common, whereas the shorter "physicist" recalled the days when the profession was still revered. In spite of the job's security and his seniority Sergei Sergeyevich still couldn't reconcile himself to his fate and continued to dream that his talent would be recognized nationally.
"It's OK, it's no problem, my dear fellow," the professor reassured him. "Why would you need business cards! Who hasn't heard of Sergei Sergeyevich Telyatnikov! Right now the entire scientific world is talking about you!"

Sergei Sergeyevich was stunned when he heard this and didn't know what to say. Not that he was being asked anything, however. Taking the initiative, the professor briefly reported that he'd come to Moscow on a flight from Toronto and was heading for a congress in Montreal, where he was expected to give a paper on methods of oxidizing microleptons.

"But I kept hearing so very much about you, my friend, and--I won't deny it--I've dreamt of meeting you for a long time!" Taking the assistant professor by the arm, Shepetukha unobtrusively began leading him to a passage on the side of the institute. "And I read your article with the greatest attention, with pencil in hand!" he said, taking prim little steps while adjusting to Sergei Sergeyevich's gait. "A fascinating little piece! Simple in form, but revealing such depths to the scientist! I have to say it reminded me of one of Albert's first publications--Einstein, that is. They should give you a doctorate for that alone! Would you have any objections to defending your dissertation in my institute?"

Shepetukha looked up at Telyatnikov's face and saw the assistant professor had no objection.

You'd think Lukary wouldn't have cared about any of this fuss. But these events in the lower, three-dimensional world of man had roused him. He lost his peace of mind, and from his place in the astral plane he would often catch himself thinking, not of the nature of time, as was his habit, but of something very different.



The death of the old Bolshevik had occurred in March, and by the beginning of May so many strange incidents had taken place that Assistant Professor Telyatnikov was forced to stop and analyze things. Such an analysis fully corresponded to his natural inclination, for Sergei Sergeyevich had reached the age when a man begins to feel the need for reflection, or, more to the point, the need to convince himself that his life has meaning. At this age ambitions are still alive and hope may stir the soul with an errant youthful dream, but the blurry silhouette of old age is looming on the horizon, and when the sunset of life begins you occasionally feel a cold breeze of indifference toward yourself, not to mention the world. It's then that a man begins to understand a lot of things he's only glimpsed before. He begins to see that nature, with a maniacal persistence, reproduces the very same types of people, mixes them up in different combinations, and pretends that this constitutes the diversity of life. Then the day comes when with autumnal clarity you see the superfluousness and mediocrity of what's going on, and this knowledge makes you want to bury your head in the protective bleakness of ordinary life, walk around half asleep, and slowly and inconspicuously slip into a different world. The soul calcifies with age and you no longer have the strength or hope to respond to feelings. Getting no answer, love passes by. You watch it go and, echoing the Hindus, whisper: love is a great misfortune, love is a distraction from the quest for perfection, love . . . You keep trying to believe this. Still, all would be well, everything would be peaceful, except for the hidden danger that exists at this age. The beast of vanity, which until now has fed on hope, suddenly goes on the warpath. Everything has fizzled out, everything is past its prime, and what's left is the one thing you can't accept--you're nobody and you haven't lived at all!

As for the troubles that had fallen on Tel