Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [477]
He was four when the first clear signs of his musical talent appeared. His mother spotted them at once. By the age of six, at his own request, he was learning both the piano and the violin. When he was seven his father declared: ‘Perhaps he’ll be a concert pianist.’ But at eight Rosa had said: ‘I don’t think so.’ And it was true, as time passed, that though he had a remarkable gift for playing, young Dimitri would often prefer to compose little tunes of his own than spend the extra hours needed each day if he were to climb the rocky path to the performer’s art. Now, at twelve, he went to the excellent Fifth Moscow Grammar School near Arbat Square and studied music voraciously in his spare time.
And prepared for the revolution. There was never any question about that in Professor Peter Suvorin’s home. They all worked for it. Two years ago, they had been up many times all night while Rosa typed out revolutionary articles on her typewriter, and young Dimitri had often been used to take them to various distribution points. It was thrilling to know that he was aiding the great cause.
And now something even more exciting had happened. His father was in the Duma. He had gone to St Petersburg.
It had been a great step. After boycotting the first Duma, the Socialists had decided to participate in the second. ‘If we can get a large number of Socialists in,’ Peter had explained, ‘we can smash the Tsar and end this farce once and for all. Use the Tsar’s own Duma to abolish him!’
‘And then?’
‘A Constituent Assembly elected by all the people. A democratic government. All the Socialists agree about that.’
Freedom. Democracy. The new world was about to begin. And his father, the distinguished Professor Suvorin, was a part of it. Life was wonderful.
Yet there were still things that were puzzling. Why was it, for instance, that his Uncle Vladimir was so rich while they lived so simply themselves? ‘Your father has no interest in all that,’ his mother told him with a dismissive gesture. But as he got older this explanation did not seem quite enough. Though he and Nadezhda were like brother and sister, he knew their parents were not close. ‘If your father had his way,’ the little girl had once remarked, ‘Mama says you’d put us all in the street.’ And then, with perfect innocence: ‘If that happens, Dimitri, can I come and live with you?’ He had promised she could, but it had always seemed odd to him that his kind Uncle Vladimir did not understand the need for revolution.
And then there was his mother. Why was she always so anxious? Was it possible, Dimitri had wondered, to love people too much? When his father left for St Petersburg, Uncle Vladimir had offered to let Dimitri stay with them so that Rosa could accompany Peter. She had refused; yet ever since, each day, had constantly moaned: ‘Do you think your father is safe there? I’m sure something will happen to him.’ She would even fret at night so that, by morning, there were dark rings round her large eyes.
It was late March when the incident occurred. Peter Suvorin was away in the capital and Dimitri was returning from school one afternoon when, having followed an unusual route, he found himself in a long narrow street.
The street was empty. A few bare trees could be seen down the sides; here and there were patches of dark ice in the gutters. A dull grey light pervaded the place.
He was halfway down before he heard