Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [478]
There were only half a dozen of them: four young men and two boys about his age. They came out of a courtyard and then walked along on each side of him for several yards before one of the young men spoke.
‘I think he’s one.’ They all continued to walk.
‘You do? Hey, boy, what’s your name?’
‘Dimitri Petrovich. Suvorin,’ he added as firmly as he could. He was not sure what this all meant.
‘Good Russian names, young Mr Suvorin. Shall we leave him, boys?’
‘Maybe. Look at his face though.’
‘True. We don’t like your face, Dimitri Petrovich. Why don’t we like his face, boys?’
‘Looks like a kike.’
‘Right, Dimitri Petrovich. That’s the problem. You sure you aren’t Jewish? Not at all?’
‘Quite sure,’ Dimitri answered with confidence, as they continued to walk.
‘What’s your mother’s name, boy?’
‘Rosa Abramovich,’ he replied.
‘Aha. Where’s she from?’
‘Vilnius,’ he replied, in all innocence.
‘A Rosa Abramovich from Vilnius. Then your mother’s a Jew, boy.’
‘She is not,’ he answered hotly. But they had stopped, and surrounded him. ‘She’s a Christian,’ he shouted furiously, not because he had anything especially against the Jews, but because the accusation was a lie. Seeing the boy’s genuine rage, the little gang hesitated.
And it was then that Dimitri did a very foolish thing. ‘Don’t you touch me,’ he shouted furiously. ‘My father’s a deputy in the Duma and you’ll be in trouble.’
‘Which party?’
‘The Social Democrats,’ he said proudly. And instantly realized his mistake. He had heard of the Black Hundreds of course – the gangs of right-wing thugs who beat up Socialists and Jews in the name of the Tsar. But somehow he had always thought of them as the large groups their name suggested; nor, since he was a good Russian, had he ever considered they could have anything to do with him.
‘Kike! Socialist! Traitor!’ The little fellow went down at once.
He had only received a black eye and several kicks in the ribs when a carriage entering the street caused his assailants to break off. Half an hour later he was safely back at home, and though shaken, was able to eat some supper.
But there was one aspect of the whole business that mystified him. ‘They said you were a Jew,’ he told his mother. And was therefore even more astonished when she confessed that it was true. ‘I converted when I married,’ she explained. They had never told him before.
And from that day, her nervousness seemed to get worse.
Strangely, whatever these events meant to his mother, they did not mark Dimitri; and this was due to an extraordinary aspect of his make-up.
It was to do with music.
Ever since he was a little child, Dimitri had thought in terms of music. From as long as he could remember, notes had suggested colours to him. As soon as Rosa showed him the different keys on the piano, each had possessed for him its own distinct character and mood. At first these discoveries belonged to a musical world which he associated with the instruments he played. But then, when he was nine, something else took place.
He had been in the little church beside his home one evening listening to vespers. The church had a fine choir, and the haunting melodies of the chanting were still with him as he left. It was sunset when he stepped into the street and the sky above Moscow was gold and red. For several minutes, he had stood gazing towards the glorious colours in the west.
And then, trying to express what he saw, he had chosen a chord. It was in the key of C Minor. After a moment, he had added another.
It was odd, he thought: he had chosen the chords. He had imposed them on that sunset. Yet as he looked, it was as though the sky were answering him, saying: ‘Yes, that is my sound.’ And in his mind the chords and the sunset became one.
He had walked back into the courtyard, next. There was the mulberry tree, the reddish light catching its upper branches, warm shadow below. And now he heard another chord and a little melody; and this time the music came so instantly that it