‘Conversations with Mitya: A Dialogue (And, At Times, a Monologue) in Five Movements’ by Michelle I Linder

Dmitri Dmitriyevitch Shostakovich (September 25, 1906 – August 9, 1975) was a Russian pianist and composer of the Soviet era. Beloved by audiences, he periodically fell out with the Soviet authorities, who twice officially denounced him. The first denunciation came in 1936, after Joseph Stalin (aka Koba) attended a performance of his avant-garde opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. The second, in 1948, was for charges of formalism (an overemphasis on the structural elements of music) and Western influences during the time of the Zhdanov Doctrine. This led to a ban on his work—lifted only after Stalin’s death in 1953.

The following is an imagined, present-day conversation between Shostakovich and his college-age interviewer, Gillian ‘Gillie’ Lowry.

LARGO

Hey, I’m Gillian. You can call me Gillie, though.

I am Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich. You may call me Dmitri Dmitriyevich.

So. Uh. Where you’d get those glasses?

My glasses? I obtained them from my optometrist in Nevsky Prospekt.

They look old. Don’t get me wrong, they’re cool. I would have thought options would be more limited in your time.

(Shostakovich hesitates.) My time? I came here to speak about my music. I thought you were a professional.

ALLEGRO MOLTO

(She coughs) This interview’s for a class. Actually, my dad hooked me up because he knows like, everyone, and his friend used to be your agent’s lawyer or something.

My agent’s lawyer? I don’t have an agent. My close friend Ivan Ivanovich represents me at times. In fact, he arranged this interview. Why would Vanya need a lawyer?

Because of all the trouble you get into with the secret police and stuff.

(Shostakovich pauses.) How did you know that?

Dude. I’m a college sophomore trading in a favour for some deal my dad cut.

I don’t know what this means. Ivan Ivanovich promised me that we would talk only of my music.

You’re like, pretty paranoid for someone who’s been dead for fifty years but whatever. Let’s talk about your influences.

Bach. Beethoven, of course. They are my first loves. Because of my appreciation for them–Bach in particular. (He pauses.) What background do you have? When I was asked to do this as a favour to Ivan Ivanovich, I was under the impression that you were an arts and culture reporter.

Um, I’m in a Russian studies class right now. But I haven’t actually listened to your music, if that’s what you’re asking. I really only listen to EDM.

EDM? (He rests heavily on the ‘D.’)

Electronic Dance Music? No?

I am not familiar with EDM. I am more of a connoisseur of Gustav Mahler. Yes, this open admiration has caused problems between myself and the State. I would like to explain this, if I may. (Shostakovich clears his throat.)

Relaaaax. Like I said, it’s just for a class.

How are you so certain the State won’t hear of this?

Because the USSR was wiped off the planet three decades ago. And also because you’re supposed to be dead.

ALLEGRETTO

Let’s get into the nitty gritty. Were you sent to the gulag? Did you get tortured? (Gillie rests her Montblanc pen against her cheek and assumes a pensive look.)

I went through a dark period in life, as reflected in my music, but this had nothing to do with the State. (There is a faraway look in his eyes.) I grew fond of Mahler during these times. But I learned from my mistakes, turning to the masters of the Motherland: Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Stravinsky. One must also mention Rimsky-Korsakov.

That’s a lot of syllables, that last one.

Perhaps to the untrained ear.

Must be your pronunciation. I thought your English would be better.

I never formally studied the English language. What I know, I learned from reading The Daily Worker. Evidently you have not read a thing about me, Gillian.

I mean, I’ve been busy, too. We all have our own personal—uh,  gulags. And as a matter of fact I did read up on you. My dad’s ancient secretary prepared this for me. (She waves a folder in his face. He bats it away.) Printed it out and everything. Dad had to keep her on after the twenty-five-year-old. Mom lost her shit because of Madison and threatened to sue him for everything he’s worth. She even threatened to take the dog and my dad is really obsessed with the dog. Gauge is his name. You wouldn’t even believe it. My father, who’s never cooked a day in his life, goes out of his way to boil frozen chicken and cut it up daily. Like every. Single. Day. Because Gauge has a sensitive stomach and is on this special diet and dad says he can’t trust the housekeeper to do it. Even though she’s been with our family since the dawn of time, or at least since before I was born, and truly is a saint and the only reason I passed AP Spanish in high school. She used to help me with my homework after she finished the housework even though our house is like, ridiculously big. (She closes her eyes.) I can still picture her sitting at the kitchen table late at night while I made my own smoothie—

(Shostakovich attempts to interject.) As I was explaining. My troubles began with my opera: Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? It was too pessimistic, straying dangerously close to fear and terror. Not grounded in our glorious Soviet folk music, it was out of the reach of our honourable workers. Though I found that it was quite well-received by my countrymen. Until Koba. After he attended one of the performances, he was enraged. Understandably so. Subsequently, I changed, I swear—I was reformed. Then, after much self-reflection and rehabilitation, I again fell prey to the influence of Mahler—who was born Jewish, though he converted to Catholicism, during a time of ascendent anti-Semitism in—

(Interrupting) Damn. That sucks.

LARGO

I was hoping I might share an excerpt of my new work.

I love that. I could put a TikTok in the write-up.

TikTok?

I’m dying.

(Shostakovich looks concerned.) Do you need medical attention?

It means you’re hilarious.

(He frowns.) OK. I could play the piece for you right now. On this piano. (He indicates a Steinway grand as he moves toward it.)

Yeah, sure. How long is it though?

Forty-eight minutes. Approximately.

Yikes! Forty-eight minutes. TikTok is three minutes max. Do you have anything else you could play? Or maybe shorten it to like, three minutes or less?

(Shostakovich glances longingly at the piano, gets up from the bench without playing a note, and returns to his chair.)

Maybe we should back up a bit. My dad’s friend’s lawyer mentioned something about your first wife.

Nina Vasilievna, yes. My brilliant Nina. She was a physicist, as I’m sure you know. What am I saying? Obviously you don’t. Before her, there was my high school sweetheart, Tatiana. So soulful and beautiful. (He looks wistful.) She left me because I was young and headstrong. Not ready to commit. So she ran off and married a chemist instead. Undeterred, I determined to convince her to divorce her husband and marry me. She refused. That is when I married Nina Vasilievna.

No way, Dima. (She leans in.) Can I call you Dima?

No.

Love triangle?!

It was not so much a triangle as a hexagon. (Shostakovich frowns.) You see, after I married Nina Vasilievna the first time, there were my students, as well as a translator. And also my lovely Ninoshka, Nina Pavlovna of the Bolshoi Ballet.

(Gillie brightens) My family always has box seats for The Nutcracker.

(Ignoring her) Actually, at least seven, possibly eight sides. There was the divorce from Nina Vasilievna, though we married a second time. After she passed away—

Wait. So you’re telling me you proposed to Tatiana while she was married to someone else, she turned you down so you married Nina the First, had an affair with prima ballerina Nina the Second, divorced Nina the First, then married her again right before she died? Shotgun wedding alert?!

(Shostakovich furrows his brow.) There were no shotguns. The wedding took place at the town hall, as was befitting and with the approval of the authorities. We were enjoying the reception immensely until Nina Pavlovna showed up in her… tutu. That is the point at which it became, how can I say it—

I’m telling you. You should turn that into a reel.

What?

Talk about not having done your homework.

I’m not sure if you’ve learned anything useful for your article.

Oh, don’t worry about that.

I wasn’t worried.

I took Journalism 101 because I thought it’d be an easy A, but it turns out you have to do research.

You’ve failed spectacularly.

I’ll be sure to include something about your sense of humour.

(Shostakovich takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes.)

You look better with your glasses on. I hope you don’t mind my saying that.

(He sighs.)

Things just have a way of working out, you know? The important thing is putting positive energy into the universe.

Say that the next time the knife of censorship is at your throat.

Uhhh, haha. Do you believe in manifesting? Vision boards?

Do you believe in speaking in English that I can understand?

Okay, so what’s the Russian equivalent of Lucky Girl Syndrome?

Russians are typically quite superstitious, if that’s what you mean.

I’m not talking about superstitions. I’m talking about believing good things always happen to you because they, like, just do.

And this interview was one of your dreams?

Not really, if I’m being honest. Like I said, I only did it so I wouldn’t fail my class. But in the end, I’m not sure it works as an article.

You are considering more of a profile, then, or a think piece? Yes? And you will make no mention of these unpleasantries with the State? You are certain of this? (Shostakovich looks concerned.)

I’m thinking of turning it into a TikTok.

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Michelle I Linder of Fort Wayne, Indiana wrote her first poem in grade school. The subject was deer. Though she aspires to write happy endings, things rarely work out that way for her protagonists. When not at her day job, she is working on a thriller set in Amish country in 1980s northern Indiana. A graduate of Wellesley College, where she studied in the Russian Department, and the Augsburg Low Residency MFA program with a concentration in fiction, she resides in the Washington, D.C. area with her son/Gen Z dialogue consultant. The deer in her poem survived.