The Rift

[April 1941]

Alexandrov often shook his head, dissatisfied with the results of the rehearsals for two months. But he couldn't understand why the rehearsals he had been undertaking for twelve years were so lacking. The instruments were forced to play, the choir members' singing was partly strong and partly weak, and the dance always had some fault for no apparent reason. Initially, Alexandrov thought the instructed musical composition had failed, as he usually did whenever he tried to compose bad poems into beautiful music. But after observing for a month, he discovered that there was indeed something wrong with his members. Because Alexandrov intensified the rehearsals in the second week, and the results remained the same.

"...I feel like there's an air of anger surrounding my members, but it's not the anger toward me," Alexandrov confided to his three children, who were sitting on a yellow sofa with their father. Meanwhile, a young woman was at a window far from the yellow sofa, holding a toddler boy.

"Is it the same thing as in 1930, Papa? Some of the senior artists are having unhealthy competition with the newcomers?" Vladimir asked. 

Alexandrov hesitated and shook his head. "No, Vova. If there was competition, it would be obvious how they sang so arrogantly. I know which one is the senior and which one is the new one, and after observing, there's no competitive tone when they sing. There's no hint of laziness either; it just comes out when they have to work overtime."

"A rift...?" Alexander guessed, his questioning tone deliberately hanging at the end of his sentence. Boris and Vladimir seemed surprised, and interested with the answer.

Alexandrov simply looked at his third child, then lowered his head to think again. "I've never given them any advice on that matter, Sasha. Although I'd like to, I can't just give the advice carelessly because each of us has our own perspective. They have their own bad stories. For us, their relationship is fine. But we don't know, there are bad stories like arguments, for example... Even Papa's bad stories with your mothers, you three... And your little brother, Yura, must be different. The advices that help us might destroy the others."

Then the four of them turned to the young woman holding the baby named Yuri again. Little Yuri was crying, and the woman tried to soothe the baby by humming a lullaby. Alexandrov rose from the sofa and approached the woman. The toddler handed to Alexandrov, and he rocked Yuri until calmed down and fell asleep.

"I don't know if Yura has had a nightmare yet. What do you think, Lyuda?" Alexandrov murmured to the woman, who was his civic, second wife.

"Perhaps," Lyudmila replied. Alexandrov handed Yuri back to Lyudmila, and then the mother and son excused themselves to go home, kissing each other on the cheek. Alexandrov opened the door, motioned Lyudmila and Yuri to leave first. Then he motioned for his three children to leave the office, too.

The four of them walked out, but Boris and Alexander went straight down the stairs to the first floor, while Vladimir and Alexandrov turned right toward the third-floor corridor. The floor where the choir, orchestra, and dance artists were waiting to be rehearsed by them.