Free The Conductor by Sarah Quigley

coarsened. ‘You remember me,’ she hissed. ‘They call me Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk.’ And she leapt at him, and her hands were around his throat, and he choked and screamed — and woke.
    Sweat lay thickly on his body, the sheet was wet through. He pulled on his trousers and coat, and shuffled towards the piano. At last the room was silent, and the strange low light of the night sun showed nothing but empty corners. He bent over the piano, resting his forehead on the wood, then laid his hands on the keys.
    The repeated nightmare pattern was still there, absorbed in his fingers. He picked it out with his left hand and grasped a pencil with his right. Seizing a new sheet of paper, he licked the tip of the pencil and began to write. Halting yet unerring — it was like following a sunken road, covered for centuries by soil and grass, that was slowly revealing itself.
    God, he was tired. Damn Sollertinsky and his unsettling news. Damn Nina for being neither goddess nor whore nor mother figure, but some mixture of the three, making him worship her, lust for her and need her. Damn the tyrannical, homely, grounding ties of family. And above all damn himself and all his neurotic, unavoidable tricks that had to be fought through before he could begin composing. More than anything he wanted to sleep, but the marching notes were clustering in his veins.
    Only when a dog barked — three, four, five times — did he look up. The light filtering through the trees was bright gold. The bed was a tangled mess of sheets and pillows washed up against the wall. Morning was here. Throwing off his coat, he crashed across the mattress and fell into sleep.

In Sollertinsky’s office
    L ate afternoon, and the dust motes were swirling in the sunlight. Sollertinsky’s meeting with an attractive student was about to end — though not as pleasantly as he would have liked.
    ‘I’m afraid,’ he said reluctantly, ‘that I really cannot alter your grade.’ He watched as Lydia’s huge eyes began to brim with tears. ‘Of course, had I the power to make such a decision single-handedly, I would be delighted to do so.’ This was true: Lydia’s presence in class was a joy. She sat in the front row, looking at him as if his lectures were enthralling; her sweaters were so tight it was difficult to imagine how she wrestled them on each morning. ‘Delighted,’ he repeated, tearing his gaze away from her breasts, which were rising and falling in delectable distress.
    ‘So,’ gulped Lydia, ‘I am stuck with a — with a—’ She seemed unable to voice the grade scribbled on her paper, and she bowed her head so that Sollertinsky could see the nape of her neck tapering into the depths of her astounding jumper.
    ‘Remember, there’s always next term! If you spend the summer studying, that might make all the difference.’ Although he tried to sound encouraging, he doubted whether she would be allowed back to the Conservatoire. For someone so pretty, she was remarkably untalented.
    ‘Forgive me.’ She raised a streaky, doe-like face. ‘I shouldn’t cry in front of a lecturer, especially such an important one as you.’
    ‘Oh come,’ said Sollertinsky. ‘I’ve seen plenty of students cry in my time. There’s nothing wrong with tears.’
    ‘You’re very kind.’ Lydia’s voice was as trembling and luminous asthe dust dancing in the air behind her. ‘I’m afraid I must look a mess.’
    ‘Not at all. Many women are at their most beautiful after crying. Their faces have a newly washed look, a kind of purity.’
    For the past ten minutes, he had been thinking longingly of the brandy stowed behind his leather-bound copies of Beethoven’s orchestral works. Now, as Lydia gave a small but radiant smile, he was no longer sure if he wanted her to leave. There was a short, anticipatory silence, during which he became uncomfortably aware of his second wife’s scrutiny from the photo frame on his desk.
    He cleared his throat self-consciously.