Greetings from Afar
Music of the Night
If Russia has an “national” musical instrument, it is the accordion, or “gormusha”. Almost every home has one, and almost everyone can play at least one tune on the instrument, especially the older generation, those born before, or during the “Great Patriotic War”. It is a lovely instrument that produces beautiful music. Like the people who play them, they vary in size and shape, and range from elaborate hand enameled antiques to modern, state of the art pieces. They are everywhere, pedestrians stop on the street and listen as some pensioner or invalid sits on the corner and plays, people strolling in the park are delighted by the sound of some lilting Russian folk song, or sad Soviet Era ballad. In Subway stations, commuters listen as someone plays while they wait for their train, or as some military pensioner sits in the lobby and plays a stirring march for the crowd. On weekends, when the Russian Soul is driven to the country like lemmings making for the sea, every car, on every commuter train, contains at least one accordion player. The “artists” range in age from nine (and younger) to ninety (and older). Most of the time, the music is highly appreciated and, and the talent of these sidewalk musicians is greatly admired. Most of the time, the simple beauty of these spontaneous concerts is a welcome addition to the day… Most of the time.
Three o’clock in the morning is not one of those times. To be waken from a sound sleep at some ungodly, cow milking hour by the sound of someone playing “Katusha” or the “Moscow My Own” on his Stomach Steinway is not a treat. It is an obnoxious nuisance. Dogs bark, babes cry and cats hiss. It is not a pleasant thing. Fortunately, it does not happen often.
Dmitri Raikin and his wife Natash live in a small, one room flat on the third floor of a “Kruschev” building, on Kamagerski Peruelic, in downtown Moscow. It is one of those prefabricated tenements that former Premier Nikita Kruschev had erected for returning servicemen and their families in the mid 1950’s known for poor heating, bad plumbing, and extremely poor acoustics… you can literally hear a pin drop… from three floors away.
Raikin and his wife had not lived in the flat long. They were newlyweds, and had only moved in some three weeks before. Dmitri had “inherited” the flat from an uncle, who had decided to move out of Moscow, and back to his home village. Because of this, the Raikins did not know anyone in the building, at least, not very well.
The problem started almost as soon as the young couple moved in. Dmitri would wake up at three o’clock in the morning, to the sound of someone below them playing the garmusha. Now, Dima works in the Moskvich Automobile factory, on a swing shift. Sleep is precious to him. He must be at work at five o’clock in the morning, and the three o’clock concerts were timed just right to cheat him out of an hours worth of sleep every night. Since he had to get up at four, anyway, what was the use of going back to sleep? At first, he ignored it, but after about two weeks, it began to get on his nerves. The music didn’t seem to bother Natasha, who slept right through it. This bothered Dima even more.
Finally, his typical Russian stoicism gave way to darker emotions, and one morning, in the summer of 1998, he got up to the sound of the music… yet another rendition of “Moscow My Own”… and decided to do something about it. This obnoxious disturbance just had to stop.
He got up, dressed, and stepped out into the hall. He listened carefully, until he got a definite idea as to where the music was coming from. Then, he went down the stairs and into the second floor corridor. Now was the time, he thought. The building musician had just began playing a fairly good rendition of “Red Army March”.
Dima carefully listened at each door until he identified that of the culprit. Then, he made his move. He stood as erect as possible, tried to look as distinguished as his twenty-three years would allow, and knocked on the door. After about the fourth knock, the door opened, revealing an old gentleman, obviously in his eighties, with a broad smile on his face. “Come in, young man! Do come in!” the man beamed. “What brings you out so early in the morning? Come in and have a cup of tea”.
The old man was being so nice, it was hard for Dima to be angry. Sleep, he knew, sometimes comes hard to the elderly. But, he had to say something. “Grandfather,” he began… all young people address older men and women as “Grandfather” or “Grandmother”. He cleared his throat and began again. “Grandfather. I hate to mention this, but, I live upstairs. It’s your accordion”.
“I suspected as much,” the old man cut in. “Actually, I was hoping to annoy someone enough to get them to come and visit me. You see, I have so few guests”…
So, that was it. Now Dima understood. His anger dissipated, replaced by pity. He stepped into the old man’s flat, and followed his “host” into the kitchen. On the table sat the most beautiful accordion that Dima had ever seen. He admired it with an obvious look of awe on his face. It was black enamel, with mother of pearl inlays. The keys were onyx and mother of pearl, on silver mounts. Dima reached out to touch it, as the old man poured the tea. He stopped short. It would not be proper with out asking first.
Without turning around, the old man muttered “Go ahead. Pick it up. Play it if you like. That’s what it was made for”.
Dima couldn’t play it as much as he would have loved to. He traced the curves of the delicate inlays with his finger as his host served the tea. In no time at all, the old man was playing again, and both of them were singing. It was as if Dima had been transported to a different world, as if time, itself, had stopped. They sang the songs of the workers, the songs of the last century, they sang of loves and wars lost and won. Finally, Dima excused himself, and went back up to his flat. The old man, Dima had forgotten to get his name, waved goodbye to him, and invited him back again. Dima, of course, eagerly agreed.
He returned to his own flat, shaved, and had another cup of tea. It amazed him how little time he had actually spent with the old man. The clock said only 3:45. He had been gone only half an hour. At four, he woke Natasha, said goodbye, and started off to work. All day, he thought about the lonely old man in the flat below him, and his beautiful accordion. On his way home that afternoon, Dima stopped at the corner kiosk, and bought a bottle of vodka and some cakes. As soon as he got to his building, he headed straight for the second floor flat, and began knocking on the door. He intended to give his new friend a present. Hopefully, the old man could teach him how to play the accordiond. He had always wanted to learn.
He knocked, on and off, for about ten minutes. Finally, he decided that the old man was out, and turned to go home. He would come back later. As he turned away, he saw the building Superintendent looking at him from down the hallway. He had a strange look on his face. Dima instantly thought that something must have happened to his new friend.
“What’s wrong?” He asked. “Did something happen to Grandfather?”
“Grandfather?” The Nachalnik replied. “Who are you talking about?”
“You know,” Dima answered. “The old man who lives here” Dima described the man in some detail. “Did something happen to him.”
The Superintendent eyed the bottle under Dima?’s arm. “Are you drunk?”
“No, I’m not drunk,” Dima responded indignantly. “I asked a simple question. Did something happen to the old man?”
“You could say that,” the Superintendent answered. “That flat has been empty for years. The old man you just described was the last owner. He’s been dead since… hmmm… let me think… somewhere around ’92, maybe ’93. They found him dead in his living room, he was playing his garmosha, and just fell forward… massive heart attack. He never knew what hit him.”
Dima went home and poured himself a stiff vodka, then chased it with another one… and another one… and another one…