One-act play for one actor
by Leon Agulansky
Dedicated to Maestro Misha Katz
Synopsis
A Monologue by Leon Agulansky based on the life of internationally acclaimed Maestro Misha Katz, The Conductor is a documentary one-person play about the destiny of an artist, the power of music, and the price of creative freedom.
Standing between memory and reality, Katz retraces his extraordinary journey from a young cellist in the Soviet Union through persecution, emigration, poverty, artistic triumphs, and international recognition. Recalling encounters with great musicians, the love of his life, Anita, and his lifelong search for artistic truth, he reflects on the responsibility of carrying a God-given gift and remaining faithful to it despite fear, temptation, and adversity.
Blending humor, passion, and profound spiritual insight, The Conductor is ultimately a story about freedom of choice, the divine nature of music, and the search for the light that lives within every human soul.
Running time 75 min
THE CONDUCTOR
One-act play for one actor
by Leon Agulansky
Dedicated to Maestro Misha Katz
SETTINGS
The conductor is on the foreground. He is simultaneously the conductor and the character of the one-man performance.
Opposite the conductor, facing him and with their backs to the audience, can be the orchestra: 21 persons (the instrumentation needed for performance of Carmen Suite by Bizet-Shchedrin). The orchestra is like the second personage in the play and, at the same time, part of the audience. The play may be performed without a live orchestra, using pre-recorded audio tracks specifically prepared by the author and identified throughout the script.
The conductor stands facing the audience. He is in his flat (apartment).
Music plays (audio track 1)
THE CONDUCTOR.
What a strange morning. Music wouldn’t let me sleep all night. This fragment from Carmen Suite again and again. Why? I’m playing the Pathétique by Tchaikovsky in Bucharest in a week. Great hall. Best acoustics in Europe. And the orchestra is wonderful. Everything will be fine. Everything… will… be… fine…
Strange. No cars at all. And very few passers- by. Oh, there’s monsieur Bécaud toddles toward the sea. Same time every day… Same time every day… Leather hat on the back of his head.
Heels are obliquely worn out… Same time every day. About time for me too. Time to get out of my lair. I always pass him by, greet him, and throw on-the-go: «Comment ça va, monsieur Bécaud?»
(A pause.)
It’s good here. Cheese, wine, literature, music. Elegance…
(A pause.)
Empty sidewalk. Past the little grocery stores. Down to the shore. Clothes off. Into the sea. And there — peace, rest, truth. And every day is like that, in any weather, winter or summer, for many years.
I don’t feel like doing it today. I have to collect myself. I HAVE to go. You show your weakness once — and all is lost.
(A pause.)
The sea is hazy. It must be ill. Caught flu. It ought to take some tea with honey.
Why Carmen Suite after all?!
I’ve been struggling with the «Pathétique» for a week. The score is usual. But something’s wrong. The main screw cannot be put in its proper place.
Recalls with a smile.
All in the head and score you do not need…
All right. I have to go.
Turns the glass as if opening the window and breathes in the sea breeze. Not too cold.
Stupid premonition! Something is about to happen, here and now.
Moves along the stage anxiously.
Something important, very important. That is why Carmen Suite stole my dream. The percussions are like shots there. Execution? A signal? A shot from behind, in the back?
Ok, calm down now, maestro.
Mom’s got a nurse now, the housemaid comes at eleven, I come later, it’s a ten minute walk.
Reflecting.
Then… Anita? She’s at her father’s in Mexico. He’s in his eighties, but still works as a doctor at home. Fine fellow. It’s all fine there. Everything is under control.
Then it’s me. This something is all about me. That is why I am here and now.
Monsieur Bécaud is around the corner already. He will miss my greeting.
Recalls. Rubs his temples.
My head is aching after this tour. The tour! I had come four days before the concert. And instead of an orchestra… an orchestra. (Points at the orchestra.) There’s an asshole choir. I give them the great music, and all they return is farts and grunts.
(A Pause.)
Imitating someone else’s speech. Rapidly.
Maestro, this is all we’ve got. But you can. You are the great maestro… Great maestro…
(Smirking.)
(CONT’D)
Great maestro my ass!
(A Pause.)
They want a miracle? They’ll have it. It’s not the first time… Not the first… (Pause.)
Points at the orchestra.
My Anita “set the hands” to all the string players. Oh yes! She did! They don’t know that the bow must lie at an angle, not flat! Or it will not incise into the strings like the skate into the ice! The hand must be light, free, mellow like a melted aspic.
Shows how light can be a hand.
(A Pause.)
Pointing at the orchestra. Yells.
They don’t want to learn. They know it all, they can do all. Conservatory! Traineeship!
They were torturing their instruments while their friends, with rosy cheeks, were playing ice hockey outside! (Calmer.) Great musicians, might-have-been soloists and laureates (points at the orchestra), have to face whims of some, God save the mark, Katz… Maestro Katz… They might have ill kids or old parents. They’ve got to get home and maybe do a quickie.
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
A good conductor may let them go in two hours.
(CONT’D)
(Yells.)
But I’m a bad conductor! Bad! I have no friends in arts. I am merciless and blood-thirsty by the desk! I’m here to make a miracle…
(CONT’D)
(Quietly.)
Even if it’s an asshole choir!
(A Pause.)
(Calmer.)
And the producer in the heat of the moment…
(CONT’D)
(Imitating someone else’s speech.)
Maestro, can I be of any help to you?
Find me a good cardiologist. My heart won’t stand the sound of your orchestra.
(A Pause.)
Strange morning. Wicked emptiness. It will be filled with something soon. But with what? What?
(Points at the orchestra.) My heart won’t stand the sound of the orchestra.
Alarm clock rings.
It’s time! I’m coming! Coming!
Music plays (audio track 2)
(Looks at the Heaven. Meditating. Slowly walks to the forestage.) Grabs a knife (probably picks it up from the floor). In tact with the music, at the end of a musical fragment with the sound of percussions stabs it into his stomach.
Falls on his knees. With a fling commits seppuku (hara-kiri). Throws away the knife. Falls on his side.)
(FADE OUT)
(FADE IN GRADUALLY)
The conductor stands on his knees and looks at his hands as if there is blood on them.
The same thing is every morning. I die to be born again. Seppuku is a good remedy. My recommendations. Does it hurt? Yes, undoubtedly. You have to do it quickly. You open up your stomach and let everything out… everything that’s accumulated inside: anger, hate, offense, envy, disappointment. Rinse your internals till they’re clean.
(CONT’D)
(Sharply.) All clean!
(CONT’D)
(Calmer.) And then…
Music starts (audio track 3)
(CONT’D)
the divine light will penetrate you.
The conductor rises from his knees.
(Returns to the real world. With characteristic gesture stops the orchestra. Takes a cellphone out of his pocket.)
How can they call me if my cellphone is off? It doesn’t need any seppuku. Only press of a button.
(Presses button on the phone. Looks at the display.)
Nobody’s called. Nobody.
(Puts dawn the Cellphone.)
(Recalls.)
I was performing Mendelssohn in Paris. It is a tricky piece. What an orchestra! One more second and the huge hall would have dissolved in the sound… But then in the audience there was a short burst… of a mobile phone. Its odious twiddle was a stab between the shoulder blades. Lethal pain! Not for me, no, for the seventy musicians who played splendidly, and for a thousand watchers who also played, but without instruments…
(A Pause.)
The ringing wouldn’t stop. They were getting louder and they cut the orchestra into two! The musicians stopped watching into my eyes. They were ashamed too.
(CONT’D)
(Quietly.)
Ashamed. But it kept on ringing. I seemed it would never end.
The movement of his lips shows that he is cursing.
I turned to the audience and yelled…
(CONT’D)
(Yells.)
I’m busy! Busy!
(CONT’D)
(Quietly.)
Busy.
(Short Pause)
I’m not angry. Nothing happens in vain. The Lord tests us. We are grateful to Him for that. Tests are all we have. All we have…
(A Pause.)
I have no orchestra. I travel around the world. Work with different people. Once… Sometimes they call me twice, but seldom. I have nasty temper. Yes, nasty. I cut throats and spill blood. Mine first of all. But then, at the concert…
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
…there is a miracle.
(Conducts.)
Music plays (audio track 4)
Musicians play like never before. They’ve got amazement, admiration in their eyes, and this is huge, powerful, boundless!
(Stops the orchestra with a gesture.)
(Music stops.)
Morning comes. The principal conductor opens a newspaper at a cup of coffee. And there: «Our orchestra has never sounded better!»
(A Pause.)
Imitates how an enraged principal conductor closes, crumples and throws away the newspaper, imitating his speech.
(Quietly with his own voice.)
And it never will! Never! Never…
Once they called me for the second time, under pressure from authorities. A philharmonic hall in a Russian city was, what they call, «sold out». After bloody rehearsals the musicians played wonderfully. Then, all of a sudden, I hear a hammer at the ceiling above the stage.
(Conducts the percussions, they play in tact: bang, bang, bang.)
(A Pause.)
Fixing a roof on Sunday? Working during a concert? It is horrible to see how musicians hide their eyes! I turned around and hissed into the audience: “Can you do something about it?!” The administrator rushed out. The hammering stopped.
(Conducts the orchestra.)
Music plays (audio track 5)
The chemistry started to return. The bows were moving lightly, the musicians were moving in tact with the marvelous music. We and the audience became one. United…
(Stops the orchestra with a gesture.)
The hammering started again. This time they were banging some tin plates… I burst out. I shouted
(CONT’D)
(Yells)
«Bastards!» and went out.
(A Pause.)
I left the stage.
(A Pause.)
I’m not angry. Seppuku in the morning and you can create again.
(A Pause.)
“A one-concert maestro”. I’m not angry. I’m not.
(Conducts the orchestra.)
Music plays (audio track 6)
I was raised in Rostov-on-Don. I was always afraid of disappointing my father—a conductor. My parents made me take up the cello.
It was a shame, really. Kids carry small violin cases. And me…
(A Pause.)
No.
My mother didn’t want that. Her boy carrying such a heavy burden?
She took me to piano lessons instead. The teacher asked her to take me away—he thought I would have a heart attack. So I went back to the cello.
My father always said a string player must understand conducting. He gave me my first lessons. The right hand — the baton — is rhythm: one-two-three, one-two-three-four. The left hand is emotion, Pain, Passion.
(He demonstrates.) You shape the sound.You send it into the hall.
From my father I learned something called auftakt.
(He signals silence.)
A breath before the beginning. A compressed moment. Everything that is about to explode.
(He gives a sharp cue. The orchestra starts. audio track 7)
(A beat between gesture and sound.)
(MUSIC plays)
(He stops it with a gesture.)
Later I learned another system. Three S’s: sight, sigh, and send from within.
(He focuses. Gives three subtle cues.)
(The orchestra begins. audio track 8)
I never wanted to study music. I used to hang out in the basement of an old building. I played on the cello criminal songs for local bandits. (Smiles slightly) My first audience. I taught them notes. They taught me how to hit properly.
(A Pause.)
Thank God my mother never knew where I was performing. And I wish my father had known how successful I was.
(He stops the orchestra.)
In the Moscow Conservatory, I discovered freedom. And I never left it.
(He conducts. audio track 9)
What a world. Women’s smiles. Waists. Hips. Everything felt alive. It embraced me.
(A Pause.)
When it came down to cello or sex… I chose sex. No hesitation.
I had a dorm room, technically. But I rarely used it. I moved through girls’ floors like a guest who never leaves. And when that ended, other institutes opened their doors.
(A Pause.)
I got tired of conflict with authority. So I turned to shop assistants from the delicatessen. They had medical checks, of course. But they were healthy. And always had stolen sausage and cheese at home. (He smiles.) At six in the morning I would return to the dorm. Happy. Ready for the next date.
(He stops the orchestra.)
It felt like it would never end. It ended.
The late 1970s. There was tension everywhere. Jews were being allowed to emigrate.
(He conducts.)
MUSIC: audio track 10
There were more of us than we thought. The news of departures filled the corridors of my conservatory. Names were whispered. People stopped greeting those who applied to leave. They turned away. “Ours” began to crack. Everyone thought of leaving. Everyone. Why would I leave my rosy Russian girls, smiling with rouged lips behind empty shelves?
(A Pause.)
It’s bad when musicians have to talk.
(A Pause.)
Komsomol meetings accused the traitors. They said the Motherland gave them education and medicine—and they repaid it by leaving. I still don’t understand why I said they were abandoning apartments and cars. I should have asked why.
(A Pause.)
At the next meeting, I was expelled from Komsomol. Then from the conservatory as well.
(A Pause.)
I decided to defend myself.
(He gestures, as if speaking passionately)
It’s bad when musicians have to speak.
(A Pause.)
From a new girlfriend’s apartment I was arrested and remanded in custody. The prison cellmates thought they were plastic surgeons. They tried to “operate” on my face without anesthesia.
That’s when I remembered the street lessons from Rostov’s bandits.
(He demonstrates fighting movements.)
The punches. The elbows. The knees.
(He stops himself.)
A man in civilian clothes told me I was brave.
He said he could get me back into the conservatory on one condition.
(A Pause.)
But I am a cellist, not a snitch.
He shouted at me.
(A Pause.)
I should have stayed silent. But I spoke again.
It’s bad when musicians have to talk.
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 11)
The locked ward of psychiatric hospital smelled of urine and dirty socks. My arm hurt from the injection site. My wrists and ankles itched under the straps. A drip fed something pink into my body…
(Slight gesture to his arm.)
(CONT’D)
…straight into my soul. A nurse — once sexy — inserted the needle into the IV port. Everything began to dissolve. Wind in my ears. Rain was washing me from head to toe. I woke up a loyal citizen.
Repentant. My body ached as if I had been in a car crash. My tongue was dry and useless. A patient told me what it was:
“insulin-shock”. They turn Napoleons into Kutuzovs and back again. If I didn’t improve, electroshock would follow.
So I improved. It was simple. Playing a broken man? No problem. They released me.
(He stops the orchestra.)
I went back to Rostov. My father helped me return to the conservatory. Poor man. Нe loved music too much. As orchestra director he can’t stand the drunken musicians on the rehearsal. He endured insults.
(A Pause.)
Years later, I saw the woman who had fired him. Old. Thin. Exhausted by age. Her eyes were full of tears. I hugged her, because she was there. I don’t kick people when they’re down.
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 12)
I didn’t know then why I was sent back to Moscow. Postgraduate studies are just an excuse to meet women. And other things.
At six in the morning, after long nights, I would return to the dormitory. And I saw her – a small young woman. Grey coat. Scarf. Knitted hat. Slight accent. She was always rushing to class.
(A Pause.)
Then our eyes met. I had never seen eyes like that. Black, deep, incredible eyes with a hidden warmth inside them. I started looking for her everywhere, waiting her at exits. I couldn’t speak. I thought I had known all women in Moscow. But I was not worthy of her. Only her.
She also didn’t know why she had been brought from Mexico.
(A Pause.)
The news of the wedding exploded across the conservatory. Her rivals formed a line to tell her what kind of man I was. Nothing worked.
(A Pause.)
We married in a small apartment in Chertanovo. My parents brought vegetables and fruit—rare luxuries in Moscow then. We couldn’t live together. After postgraduate studies, I had to return to Rostov. She remained in a Moscow dormitory as a foreign student.
Those were dark days. I climbed into her room through a drainpipe.
And the police came. Night after night. Night after night. Night after night.
(He stops the orchestra.)
A KGB officer looked at me like he was drilling through me. He tapped my request for transfer with a pen. I asked to be allowed to go to Rostov with my wife. He smiled. And I was losing my mind.
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 13 – short)
(He stops the orchestra with a gesture.)
It’s bad when musicians have to speak. I tried to be eloquent. His hand hit me so hard I heard ringing in my ears. I’ve been in fights in Rostov — broken jaws, teeth knocked out. But slap in the face in front of my wife!
(A Pause.)
“Don’t hit him!” Anita shouted. “What are you doing?!”
I looked into his small grey eyes.
(A Pause.)
We both understood: That the next slap would trigger something else. A response. Straight to the head. Then another. And another. Until someone one pulled me away.
(Yells, miming blows.)
Another one! Another one! And another! Until they drag me out! Or hit me with a stick! Until I…
(He stops the orchestra.)
He tore the document into pieces and threw them in my face.
“Get out.”
My legs wouldn’t move. My cheek was burning. We stepped toward the door. And then we heard:
(Imitating voice.)
“Señora… that’s a difficult surname. Why not change it to Katz? Come back.”
I still hear that tone. Anita took my arm.
“I’m leaving with my husband.”
(Imitating KGB officer.)
“Come back here. Now!”
Anita flinched and stepped forward.
“Why are you shouting at me? I’m a foreigner.”
(Imitating KGB officer.)
“You used to be a foreigner. Now you’re Katz’s wife.”
(Quietly.)
You asked for permission to go to Rostov. Granted. Leave Moscow.
Anita tried to thank him, but her lips were shaking. Tears made her eyes enormous.
“Within forty-eight hours, get out of the country.”
He threw her passport at her face.
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 14)
We walked toward the subway. Trams, trolleybuses, heels on the pavement — everything became alien. A strange Moscow, and strangers ourselves.
(A Pause.)
Forty-eight hours. (Yells.) Forty-eight hours for her to leave the country! And how about me?! I’ll go to jail. They’ll find a reason. If I don’t die first someone will stab me in the night. What a loss for a great country. Some Katz.
(He stops the orchestra.)
(A Pause.)
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 15)
I thought that night would never end. But morning came. At ten o’clock I dropped a coin into a phone booth. Moscow dissidents had given me a number. I heard a voice — an officer with embroidered insignia. I spoke with a Spanish accent. I introduced myself as an attaché of the Mexican embassy.
(A Pause.)
We requested immediate departure approval for the daughter of the General Secretary of the Mexican Communist Party accompanied by her husband.
(A Pause.)
It worked. We were expelled. Together. Expelled from the country.
My cellos were confiscated at customs at airport. Why? (Yells.) Why?!
(He stops the orchestra.)
(Quietly.)
Why?
(A Pause.)
Anita’s house. January. Outside are sun and ninety-degree heat. News in Spanish on TV. Unfamiliar cars are honking outside. My Soviet passport is in a bedside drawer. “Katz-mic” happiness.
(A Pause.)
Her family was polite. Too polite. The conflict built slowly like an abscess. They sent a daughter abroad for a cellist. She returned without the diploma… but with a Jewish husband. Persona non grata. Beautiful phrase.
(A Pause.)
Persona non grata! (Yells.) Persona non grata! We bought an instrument. We earned money. Life improved. Plans. Future. And then—devaluation. Stacks of pesos turned into nothing. Into nothing. Into zero. A Katz-catastrophe.
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 16)
It was damp and cold in a Paris attic apartment. At least we didn’t waste hours commuting. Work was only downtown. But how was I supposed to find it? A couple of mediocre students are not a job. There were orchestras everywhere. But they could all manage without us.
(A Pause.)
Without us… (Quietly.) Without us… (Yells.) Without us!
(A Pause.)
I was rushing out of the subway. And I heard music ahead. A quartet. Not bad. Around the corner, a few down-and-out musicians were playing Vivaldi’s “Winter”.
Not bad at all. Around are few listeners and me. Only a few coins are in the violin case. Something about that Vivaldi “Winter” felt dangerous. Unstable. Do I pass by? Do I ignore it? Do I forget it? But I stepped out into the Paris cold. The violinist nodded slightly without looking at me. As if to say: don’t settle. It was Gregory — a formal student of Leonid Cogan. His face was swollen, his hair already gray in places. They were playing the final movement. Scattered applause. A few coins dropped into the case. I stepped toward him. I wanted to-But he smiled. Shook his head nodded toward the case. I checked my pockets. Empty. They kept playing. Gregory nodded again. And then I saw it. A crumpled newspaper. The last page: an audition notice for the Strasbourg Orchestra. I was sure the position was already taken. That audition was just a formality. But I went anyway.
(He stops the orchestra.)
I went.
(A Pause.)
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 17)
Afterward, Anita and I finished a bottle of dry wine. We couldn’t stop talking. We were laughing too loudly. At midnight, the neighbors called the police. They didn’t care that I had just been hired as cello concertmaster. We still had to pay a fine.
(He stops the orchestra.)
Work. Status. Salary. Strasbourg. What else could a person want?
(A Pause.)
What else could I possibly want? It wasn’t anything I had known before. The conductor was polite. Coldly polite. But inside he hated the musicians. He hated the music. And he hated himself.
Hypocrisy was everywhere. It was eating everything.
(A Pause.)
I couldn’t even drink to numb it. My body wouldn’t allow it. So I got sick instead. All of it at once: stomach pain, migraines, arrhythmia, joint swelling. The Blood pressure spikes. Doctors prescribed so many pills I could have killed myself by accident.
(A Pause.)
They signed my resignation immediately. My colleagues were shocked. They whispered about the “Russian soul.” The conductor said only one thing before I left: “You are nothing without the orchestra.” (Quietly, to himself.) I was, I am, and I will be a musician. And you wouldn’t survive one subway station without music.
(A Pause.)
Vivaldi in the subway wouldn’t leave me. It came back every night. Until one morning I knew what to do. A violinist was recommended to me. A remarkable player. Extraordinary technique. A Queen Elisabeth Prize winner in Brussels—no small thing. But more than that inside him was Gypsy-Jewish fire, which makes a violin to breath, to cry, to laugh, to live. I auditioned many pianists. Technically perfect. But they didn’t play. They performed. Performed cleanly, precisely, by the written down. (Yells.) You can’t just perform music. You have to live it.
(CONT’D)
He has rented a small house one hour away from Frankfurt. So as not to annoy his neighbors he played in the basement…
(CONT’D)
(Quietly)
In-the-basement…
(CONT’D)
I asked him to play something.
(Conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 18)
(Signals the orchestra to stop.)
(CONT’D)
Yes. He was a master. He also played exactly what was written. A fine mechanic. No fine, a brilliant one.
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
“This is not the way to play it. Goodbye”. I went out, entered my car and started the engine. There was a narrow turn. I had to move backwards to make it. Knuckles knocked at the window.
“What do you mean by “not the way?” he grinned. I brought the cello. I played! I played! I played! I played! The sound warmed concrete walls and penetrated into the cracks in the ceiling.
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track19)
(Stops the orchestra with a gesture.)
(CONT’D)
We talked till the morning. I can’t remember the topics. Not music. That’s for sure.
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
Then he played.
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
This was what I needed — something personal, divine…
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
We called ourselves “Shostakovich Trio”. We worked till we dropped. The basement walls heard many rehearsals and Russian swear words.
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
Success came earlier than we had thought. In the country where it was easier to sell cheese, wine or perfume we could sell our trio.
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
Concerts, exhibitions, castles, prestigious festivals — we were on the road.
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
The health damaged in the Strasbourg Orchestra deteriorated with each day. Due to some inflammation I had complications on my liver. I thought I had complications on my whole body. I would wake up tired, could hardly walk. I was out of breath.
We continued our performances. The guys helped me to put my cello on stage. Anita accompanied me there holding my elbow so that I wouldn’t fall down and put me in front of the instrument.
During breaks I would lie down on the clothes scattered on the floor to catch my breath again.
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
I shouldn’t have to take a flight in such condition. I risked and I succeeded.
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
A Mexican shaman said something about a lot of damnation and curses that were on me… He spilled brandy around me and set it on fire… A hot spout embraced me for a moment… and…
(A Pause.)
That night I slept like a baby. Three days later my lab-tests showed some improvement. And Europe was waiting for us return! Contracts for a year ahead! Sold out halls! Ovations and Bravos! The audience! The audience! The audience!
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
End Europe was waiting for our return! Contracts for a year ahead, sold out halls, ovations and “Bravo’s”. The audience! The audience! The audience!
(A Pause.)
(MUSIC: audio track 20)
(CONT’D)
We rented a small flat in Paris suburbs and didn’t know that we lived only two steps away from the conductor Sergiu Celibidache himself.
We got to his concert by accident. Our friends had spare tickets. It was a richly layered play that challenges both performers and audiences.
I wanted to leave as soon as I had a chance. But I noticed that the body, heartbeat, breath, everything, absolutely everything was submitted to the conductor’s will. With his gestures he was favoring and sympathizing, executing and torturing.
A few minutes later I ceased to exist — I dissolved in the air thick as syrup, and space and time disappeared with me. Only music remained, penetrating and divine.
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
We were walking home in silence. We couldn’t realize what had happened. How could this conductor lead nearly three thousand people into his world?
I didn’t even try to sleep. I had seen conductors, cold technicians, cruel oppressors, high professionals. But they only performed. Only performed. Celibidache created real time music, created something powerful, huge, something that cannot be limited by a line.
That night I realized: music is not in the notes, but between them. It is in pauses, intonations, colors, moments before the sound. It is something alive, staining everything around, the whole world, each molecule of the universe. That is why each time sounds different…
(Stops the orchestra with a gesture.)
(CONT’D)
I understood: the cello was over with. I needed the whole music! All of it!
(A Pause.)
(CONT’D)
I was pretty sure that the trio guys could go on well without me. Only my and Anita’s future was hazy.
The month was almost over. The remaining money we spent on the feast. Chicken barbeque and wine! What else a couple of musicians needs on a rainy evening?!
(He conducts the orchestra.)
Music plays (with no text) (AUDIO TRACK 21)
(He stops the orchestra with a gesture.)
I put a wine cork on a skewer and started conducting.
(He conducts.)
She nodded. “You are a conductor.”
(A Pause.)
Only the talent is not enough. The talent is only an advance payment. You still have to earn it.
I worked. I worked until I was exhausted, unstable and barely mad. But the score stayed in front of me like a closed door. And behind it—a locked world perfect, real, alive. How do you get in? How?
(A Pause.)
The music I knew by heart kept playing in my head. But it was wrong. All wrong. (Yells.) Wrong! It was a beautiful mechanical sound. Nothing else.
(A Pause.)
I searched for a teacher. I traveled from city to city, from country to country. But in the eyes of great musicians I couldn’t find it.
(A Pause.)
Leonard Bernstein once told me: “What you are looking for, cannot be taught”.
(A Pause.)
Cannot. (Quietly.) Cannot. (Yells.) Cannot! (Pause.)
I buried myself in books. I drowned in theories, in rules, in sermons.
(A Pause.)
Then one morning I woke up with pain in my head — too strong to last. Pills didn’t help. Doctors told me to rest. (Laughs.) To get rest? To take a break? From what? What for?
(A Pause.)
I thought of a man I once knew. He was trying to find the place where thought begins and disappears. (Meditatively.) A thought… I closed my eyes. It didn’t help. But the pain eased.
(A Pause.)
I called him the next day. He laughed. He said: “Anyone can meditate in Tibet. The real challenge is to do in Paris or New York”.
(A Pause.)
I learned. And I am still learning. I learned to live with daily seppuku. I got used to it.
(A Pause.)
One day, after one of these “procedures” I opened the score of “Carmen Suite”. And suddenly I got a flash. Music is not in the notes. It is everywhere. (Yells.) Everywhere! (Quietly.) In rain, in wine, in air, in clouds, in sand, in puddles on the street. All are imbued with music. It has no space and no time. It just is. You only have to be worth enough to pass through it.
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 22)
You cannot create it. (Yells.) You cannot! It is not invented. It is given from Heaven. We only transcribe it. We hear. And we write it down. Hear. And write it down. What a responsibility. (Quietly.) To Hear and write it down. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart—they were not creators. They were merely scribes, chosen to transcribe music bestowed by God.
(A Pause.)
(Yells, pointing to audience.)
And the crowd—blind, cruel, hypocritical…
(He stops the orchestra.)
(CONT’D)
(Quietly.)
How could they hiss at this music at its premiere? How could they bury it for nine years? How?
(To the audience.) Forgive me. Please. It wasn’t me who created this world. And it is not me who can judge it. Forgive me.Now I play for you. Not for critics. Not for the orchestra. Only for you.
(A Pause.)
What a strange morning. The sun is high. But the sea is covered in mist. No horizon. But I know it is there. I just have to go. Past the grocery store, across the street, and down to the beach. Take off my shoes. Walk into the water. And there—salvation, peace, the horizon.
(A Pause.)
Something will happen today. To me. Something must. So many things have already happened. Maybe I should not be afraid anymore.
(A Pause.)
But I am afraid.
(A Pause.)
Afraid I’m not worthy. Afraid I won’t hear the heavenly music. One wrong step, one false note, and everything is lost. No second chance. I am waiting.
(A Pause.)
Anita and I once nearly died in a car accident. We were rushing to a concert in Paris. Olympia-Hall sold out. The manager was somewhere on the Côte d’Azur French Rivera. He wishes us lucks. Good luck. We made it. But the orchestra was stuck in traffic. Olympia. It is every performer’s dream.
The orchestra from the former Soviet Union was rising. Germany, Austria, Spain, England and now — Olympia. But they were not there. They were running late. I had to speak to the audience for half an hour.
(Beat.)
It’s bad when musicians have to speak. I got a cold sweat. Where the hell are they? They arrived an hour later. An hour later! They rushed backstage. A demand came from the orchestra delegate: “Extra payment, or we go back.” That’s five minutes before the concert. Five minutes!
(Yells.) Five minutes!
I wanted to hit him. I held myself back. Olympia was behind me alive, breathing and waiting.
I said: «Fine. I will apologize to the audience. (He points audience.) People came to touch a miracle. Do I cancel? I can. But none of you will ever play in Europe again.
(A Pause.)
They came on the stage. Thanks God.
I felt how my hands were heavy. Not from the baton, from their eyes. I knew — it was the last time with them, tach one of them, each one.
(He lifts his hands to conduct.)
(Enthusiastically.)
But Olympia was behind me. The hall seemed to generate warmth I could lean into. The orchestra began surprisingly well and played far beyond what should have been possible. It made no sense. It should have been impossible.
(Quietly, delighted.)
Impossible. The exhaustion, the strain, the tension—it all vanished.
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 23)
The air thickened. I could feel it beneath my left hand, shaping it, molding it. My God, how they played. I loved them as we soared together. I adored them, responsive to every gesture. I envied them—their greatness, their freedom. And behind me was Olympia, holding its breath.
(Music continues softly.)
All in the head and score you do not need…
All is in the head. All is in the head. All is in the head.
(Stops the orchestra.)
(He picks up an AK-47, chambers a round, and fires into the orchestra. Screams. Music stands collapse. Sheets of music fly into the air. The weapon empties. He throws it to the floor.)
BLACKOUT
LIGHTS UP
The Conductor sits on a stool, reloading a magazine.
An orchestra is society in miniature.
(He inserts the magazine and aims the rifle at the orchestra.)
Twenty percent are gifted. Sixty percent are thinkers. Ten percent are sadists. The rest ended up in music by accident.
(He carefully places the rifle on the floor.)
I’ve already fired two boxes of ammunition.
Unworthy? I know. I fight these thoughts every day.
But this thing… (Kicks the rifle.) …keeps finding its way back into my hands.
(Pointing toward the orchestra.)
And yet I love them. I really do. Otherwise, you would never have heard this.
(To the orchestra.)
My darlings, the audience is just like you. They perform with us. They become part of the music. Personally. Brilliantly.
(Pointing toward the audience.)
In fact, they often play better than you do. They have nothing standing between themselves and the music.
(Imitates playing the violin.)
An instrument isn’t a crutch. It’s part of us, part of our soul. It feels joy. It feels sorrow. It breathes with us.
Once I told a young violinist: “Go out into the lobby and dance a waltz with your violin. Let it lead you. Then come back”.
(A Pause.)
She didn’t go to the administration office to complain.
She went into the lobby and came back. And when she played the entire orchestra was stunned.
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 24)
(After several notes, he stops the orchestra.)
Thank you. Thank you. My friends, please don’t “manufacture” it. It already exists.
(He reaches into the air above him.)
It’s right here. Just take it.
Please.
(He conducts.)
(The orchestra begins again.)
(MUSIC: audio track 25)
(Stops the orchestra.)
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Tell me — have you ever been kissed?
(A Pause.)
Yes? Really? Then why do your eyes look so lifeless? You can’t play like that. Stop. Stop. Stop. Remember the warmth of a kiss.
(Happily.)
There. That’s better. When you smile without your instruments, you actually look like human beings. It’s a little better already. Everyone remembers? Good.
Now let’s play without instruments. Starting at figure three.
(He conducts in complete silence, then cuts off the imaginary orchestra.)
(Satisfied.)
Great! Now you can feel it!
Now, the most important thing. If all I do is conduct and all you do is play, we’ll get nowhere. Open up. Smile. Put a hand on someone’s shoulder. Love. Love. Lift it up and give it away. Give it away. Give it away. Give it away.
(Pointing upward.)
And then—He will play through us.
Let’s begin.
(He conducts.)
(The orchestra begins again.)
(MUSIC: audio track 25)
(Stops the orchestra.)
Exactly. Love. That’s all.
(A Pause.)
It rained while I wasn’t paying attention. Now there’s a rainbow above the sea. O Lord, thank You for beauty, for perfection.
A cellphone rings.
Hello?… Hi, sweetheart. How are you?… No, I stayed home. (Carefully.) Are you worried?… No, it’s all right. Okay. Kiss your father for me. Bye.
(A short pause.)
Anita’s worried too. She’s the granddaughter of a shaman. She senses things. You can’t fool her.
No music. Only a heartbeat.
It was a cold rainy day in St.Peterburg. After a series of heave rehearsals we played 5th symphony of Tchaikovsky. All got special that night. The Capella hall was full by silent audience.
(He conducts.)
The air grows heavy with energy. Everything else disappears. Only the music remains. It breathes. It lives. It wounds. It heals. It knocks you down and carries you somewhere beyond yourself. A young man sits in the front row, leaning forward slightly, eyes closed. The musicians move with their bows as if the instruments themselves are leading them. Waves of sound rush into the hall, strike faces frozen in wonder, reach the balcony, the ceiling, the walls, and wash everything away.
(The heartbeat quickens.)
The final chord. The final sound.
(He cuts off the heartbeat with a gesture.)
The applause comes later.
(Pointing to the orchestra.)
That’s for them. But those few seconds before souls return to bodies… Those belong to me.
(A Pause.)
The audience rises. One young violinist remains — the one who hung on every word during rehearsals, the one with that unhealthy flush in his cheeks. The musicians drift away, but he stays. Motionless, lost in thought, staring into space.
(A Pause.)
In another moment the wave will recede. He’ll put his violin away. Walk out through the heavy doors of Capella. Step into the evening. But he’ll never be the same again. Not the same person. Not the same violinist. Not the same musician. That night he was a part of the miracle.
(A pause.)
They won’t invite me back. Not even out of politeness.
(A Pause.)
Not the first time. Won’t be the last.
(A Pause.)
I’ve learned to live a simple life. Position, salary, benefits — wonderful. And what comes with them? Directors. Committees. People telling you what to play and what not. What do I do with freedom? With inspiration? With that Light? Position. Salary. Position. Salary. A position means answering to somebody. No.
(Pointing upward.)
I answer only to Him.
And I owe Him everything.
(A Pause.)
Salary. Money. Retirement plans. (Laughs bitterly.) Nonsense. I was allowed to hear. I was allowed to understand. I was allowed to carry the flame. What more do I need?
(A Pause.)
People spend their lives collecting things. Houses. Cars. More houses. And they’re still miserable. Huge mansions. Cold rooms nobody enters. Dead air. No. I have everything I need. Enough to suffer. Enough to be happy. (Yells.) Everything! I don’t need alcohol. I don’t need drugs. Music is my drug. Every symphony gives me another life. Brief, perhaps, but bright enough to burst like a firecracker against the night sky. (Quietly.) Salary? Benefits?
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 30)
(The music fades.)
(A cell phone rings.)
(He silences it with a gesture.)
Hello?… Yes… I’m fine… Oh? (Beat.) Yes. I… I’ll call you later. Have a great evening.
(He freezes.)
(Paces. Unable to stay still.)
What was his name? I can’t remember. But he remembers me. He wants me to lead the Beijing Orchestra. (After short pause.) An orchestra. Yes… I want an orchestra. (Pause.)
Beijing. Every road seems to lead to Beijing. I hate the Chinese food. My stomach starts protesting just from smelling Chinese restaurants. Not a problem. I’ll find something to eat. I’ll find brilliant musicians. A million candidates for a single chair. Anita will train every string player, every one of them. And I will terrorize them in rehearsals. And then in the biggest country in the world we’ll play.
(He conducts.)
(MUSIC: audio track 31)
And they’ll pay me a fortune. We’ll buy mountains of rice. Give it all away. We’ll organize competitions. Why compete?
(Yells.) We’re the best orchestra in the world!
(He stops.)
(The phone rings again.)
I’m busy. Hello? Anita. (Happily.) Remember that Cabernet special? Two bottles for the price of one. I didn’t buy it. Really? Thank you, my love. Kisses. Bye.
(A Pause.)
He looks at his trembling hands.
Mama won’t go to China.
(A Pause.)
She taught me to love music and this terrible world and the people in it. She cried when I left. I thought I was leaving forever. (Pause.) I’ll call her. I always call. No matter where I am. (Pause.) I’ll call…
(He paces.)
No. I’ll convince her to come. We’ll build an orchestra. Blood at rehearsals. Miracles at concerts. Rice for the poor. Everything will be wonderful.
(A Pause.)
Mama won’t go to China. She won’t. Anita… Do we really need all that? We have the sea. We have the sun. The rain has stopped. We’re free. (Yells.) Can you hear me? We’re free!
(He raises his hands.)
(Instead of music — the phone rings.)
(He stops it.)
Yes… No complains… Thanks for asking… No. Absolutely not. I’m busy. I’m fully committed. Bye! (Yells.) I’m busy! Busy!
(He looks at his hands. They are no longer trembling.)
(He begins to conduct.)
(MUSIC: audio track 32)
No. Mama won’t go to China. No. No. No. I’m busy. Very busy.
I still have Carmen Suite to finish. And “Pathétique” is waiting.
(Almost laughing now.)
Mama won’t go to China! We have the right to choose!
WE… HAVE… THE RIGHT… TO CHOOSE!
(Music swells.)
(Blackout.)
END OF PLAY
Добавить комментарий