cello, and the C string gave a low gentle boing .
‘Even Mama! Although not many, I have to admit.’ He remembered there had been times when he’d forcibly unwrapped her hand from the bow, and days when she’d played so long it took hours for the dents in her fingers to disappear.
‘I’ll check that she approves.’ Sonya disappeared into her room with the cello.
Nikolai lay on the sofa and stared at the broken edge in the moulded ceiling. He could hear Sonya murmuring away as she usually did in the evenings, telling her mother what they’d done that day. A tiny tear squeezed out the corner of his eye, running lightly down the side of his face and into the green cushion.
The price of furniture
E liasberg had always listened at doors. He understood why the State functioned like this; it was the only way to find out the truth. The problem was, he didn’t rate the intelligence of Stalin’s information-gatherers at all highly. This was where the system fell down.
Listening in to others had become a habit. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been standing in a hallway, leaning towards a wooden panel as if it were about to sing small confidences to him. By listening at doors or below windows (a necessary subterfuge, which he’d never considered as eavesdropping), he’d heard many useful things. Things that had lodged in his skin like burrs, inflaming him, driving him to succeed — and turning him into the professional man he now was.
‘Why must Karl Elias always creep around in stockinged feet?’ His father, seeing his eleven-year-old son soundlessly passing the kitchen door, had flung down his wrench. ‘If there’s one thing I’m good for, it should be putting shoes on the feet of my family.’
‘The cobbler’s children,’ ventured Elias, ‘always run barefoot.’ He’d heard a teacher say this about ginger-headed Boris, son of the famous botanist Boris Berlovich whose sharp eyes had discovered a rare form of ground moss on the day of Svetlana Stalin’s birthday (her name had been bestowed upon it). ‘Talk about the cobbler’s children!’ the teacher had exclaimed, watching Boris the Younger scrabbling blindly about in the undergrowth, searching for a bright white ball not two feet away from him, while the rest of the class watched in impatient silence. Naturally, Elias had remembered this, for out of the twenty contemptuous childrenhe was the only one to whom this saying was applicable, and he was puzzled as to why the teacher had aimed it at short-sighted Boris.
His father looked still more aggrieved. ‘Cobbler? Why does Karl Elias use such a word in this house? Has he not noticed the sign hanging outside his own home? Makers —’ He began hammering at the leaky pipe, punctuating his words with bangs. ‘— Of. Fine. FOOTWEAR!’ At the last blow, the pipe flew apart like a worm chopped in two by a shovel. Even this disaster didn’t throw Mr Eliasberg off course. Once started on the topic of his profession, he was unstoppable. ‘If Karl Elias is to take over the family business, he must learn that there’s a world of difference between a man who mends and a man who makes . Cobbler, my arse. I am an artisan!’
‘Please! Mind your language!’ Elias’s mother entered the room, and the fray. It was rare for her to criticise her husband, but she felt strongly about bad language.
Elias shuffled his socked feet. Somewhere outside there was sun to be found, and the quietness of a Saturday afternoon, and an empty alley in which to kick a can. But his mother had caught sight of the ruined plumbing. ‘Heavenly stars!’ she exclaimed, turning to Elias. ‘Run upstairs and get Vladimir the Carpenter. He knows a thing or two about pipes.’
‘We don’t need no Vladimir,’ protested his father.
‘ Any Vladimir,’ corrected his mother. ‘Karl Elias, go!’
‘Do as your mother says.’ His father looked both grumpy and relieved. ‘What do I know? I’m only a cobbler.’
Mr
‘Even Mama! Although not many, I have to admit.’ He remembered there had been times when he’d forcibly unwrapped her hand from the bow, and days when she’d played so long it took hours for the dents in her fingers to disappear.
‘I’ll check that she approves.’ Sonya disappeared into her room with the cello.
Nikolai lay on the sofa and stared at the broken edge in the moulded ceiling. He could hear Sonya murmuring away as she usually did in the evenings, telling her mother what they’d done that day. A tiny tear squeezed out the corner of his eye, running lightly down the side of his face and into the green cushion.
The price of furniture
E liasberg had always listened at doors. He understood why the State functioned like this; it was the only way to find out the truth. The problem was, he didn’t rate the intelligence of Stalin’s information-gatherers at all highly. This was where the system fell down.
Listening in to others had become a habit. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been standing in a hallway, leaning towards a wooden panel as if it were about to sing small confidences to him. By listening at doors or below windows (a necessary subterfuge, which he’d never considered as eavesdropping), he’d heard many useful things. Things that had lodged in his skin like burrs, inflaming him, driving him to succeed — and turning him into the professional man he now was.
‘Why must Karl Elias always creep around in stockinged feet?’ His father, seeing his eleven-year-old son soundlessly passing the kitchen door, had flung down his wrench. ‘If there’s one thing I’m good for, it should be putting shoes on the feet of my family.’
‘The cobbler’s children,’ ventured Elias, ‘always run barefoot.’ He’d heard a teacher say this about ginger-headed Boris, son of the famous botanist Boris Berlovich whose sharp eyes had discovered a rare form of ground moss on the day of Svetlana Stalin’s birthday (her name had been bestowed upon it). ‘Talk about the cobbler’s children!’ the teacher had exclaimed, watching Boris the Younger scrabbling blindly about in the undergrowth, searching for a bright white ball not two feet away from him, while the rest of the class watched in impatient silence. Naturally, Elias had remembered this, for out of the twenty contemptuous childrenhe was the only one to whom this saying was applicable, and he was puzzled as to why the teacher had aimed it at short-sighted Boris.
His father looked still more aggrieved. ‘Cobbler? Why does Karl Elias use such a word in this house? Has he not noticed the sign hanging outside his own home? Makers —’ He began hammering at the leaky pipe, punctuating his words with bangs. ‘— Of. Fine. FOOTWEAR!’ At the last blow, the pipe flew apart like a worm chopped in two by a shovel. Even this disaster didn’t throw Mr Eliasberg off course. Once started on the topic of his profession, he was unstoppable. ‘If Karl Elias is to take over the family business, he must learn that there’s a world of difference between a man who mends and a man who makes . Cobbler, my arse. I am an artisan!’
‘Please! Mind your language!’ Elias’s mother entered the room, and the fray. It was rare for her to criticise her husband, but she felt strongly about bad language.
Elias shuffled his socked feet. Somewhere outside there was sun to be found, and the quietness of a Saturday afternoon, and an empty alley in which to kick a can. But his mother had caught sight of the ruined plumbing. ‘Heavenly stars!’ she exclaimed, turning to Elias. ‘Run upstairs and get Vladimir the Carpenter. He knows a thing or two about pipes.’
‘We don’t need no Vladimir,’ protested his father.
‘ Any Vladimir,’ corrected his mother. ‘Karl Elias, go!’
‘Do as your mother says.’ His father looked both grumpy and relieved. ‘What do I know? I’m only a cobbler.’
Mr
Similar Books
