Bittersweet Scheherezade by Susanna Zaraysky (good books for high schoolers .txt) 📖

On one of the mild sunny Leningrad days of September 1965, soft sunlight passed through the tall windows and long lace curtains of the Music Conservatory hallway. Petya waited by his instructor’s door to ask for help with his violin piece in Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee.
From the nearby practice room, Petya could hear a pianist playing a familiar Rimsky-Korsakov tune. Petya put his violin down on the bench, sat down and closed his eyes to listen. The windows were closed, but the sound of the strong wind rustling the trees drowned out the piano music. He walked over to the practice room door to hear better.

Larisa, having finished playing the piece, looked at the wooden clock above the grand piano and saw that it was time to leave. Carrying her folder of music sheets, she walked out of the room and almost bumped into the young man by the door. Startled by Petya’s green eyes and sandy brown hair that glistened in the mild rays of sun shining through the curtain designs, Larisa was flustered.

“I’m sorry, were you waiting for this room? I thought it was free until 4pm,” Larisa said in a surprised tone.

“No. No,” Petya said. “I overheard you playing my favorite composer’s music. I’ve never heard anyone perform such a heartfelt interpretation.”

Larisa’s pale cheeks reddened. She had no idea that someone was eavesdropping.

“My name is Petya. I haven’t seen you often at the Conservatory. What year are you in?”

“I’m Larisa. This is my first year. I am not a day student, I only come to take exams.”

“What? You should be in the regular program, you are far better than the other piano students here.”

“There wasn’t enough space for me.”

Larisa did not want to tell her admirer how the entrance exam judges accepted and then rejected her after they saw her natsionalnost,

her ethnic background, on her application. The Conservatory did not accept Jewish students to study in the regular day program. Larisa had to study on her own and take exams twice a year. Deeply impressed by her abilities, the instructors made an exception and let her use the practice rooms an hour a week and participate in student recitals, but they did not let her attend classes.
“Rimsky-Korsakov is my favorite composer as well,” she said changing the subject.
“Please, come with me tomorrow,” Petya said. “My friends are organizing a small student recital in the dormitory. I don’t know what pieces they’ll perform, but I would like to have you as my guest.” The autumn clouds moved in and Petya’s face was no longer alight, but his warm smile remained.
The next evening, Larisa went to Petya’s dormitory’s common room and listened to students perform classical music. Petya’s friends asked Larisa to play for them and she chose a Chopin piece. All the students were mesmerized by her playing and asked her why she was not in the regular classes. She made up an excuse saying that her Mom was sick and she needed to take care of her.
After the recital, the students gathered in one of the dorm rooms. They sat on the floor drinking vodka while one of Petya’s friends played Russian ballads and folk tunes on the guitar. The students passed around the guitar and vodka bottles as they played into the night. People called our their favorite songs and everyone sang together. This was the first time Larisa felt like she was part of the school and not an outcast. She was honored that Petya and his friends invited her to attend more music parties in their dorm rooms.


adagio

The day before the Leningrad Philharmonic performed a Rimsky-Korsakov concert, Petya invited Larisa to his room to listen to the musical score on his record player. No guests were allowed in the dormitory after 8pm. Petya convinced his friends to chat up the dormitory guard while he snuck Larisa past the guard’s desk. Larisa had never seen a shiny new Gramaphone like the one he had next to his bed.
Dressed in a fading beige sweater, brown cotton pants and tattered shoes, she was cold. Petya lent her his new Italian cashmere sweater his Mom had just sent him after a trip to Slovenia. Relishing the soft feel of the sweater, Larisa glided her hands up and down the sleeves.
Sitting on the floor with their back to his bed listening to the record, Larisa stretched and rolled her head several times to loosen up her strained neck. Petya, timid after only knowing Larisa for two weeks, gently kneaded his hands on her neck and shoulders. Relaxed, she fell asleep by the end of the record. Petya lifted her onto his bed and covered her in a blanket. He spent the night on the floor. After that evening, their pre-concert homework sessions became an almost daily affair.

andante

When almonds and raisins were nowhere to be found on Soviet shelves, Petya’s thoughtful father sent him packages filled with nuts and dried fruits. The 19-year-old lovers walked along the Neva River from the Mariinsky Theater towards the Hermitage Museum intermittently munching on raisins, almonds, and French chocolates. Larisa savored the taste of the crunchy almonds, enjoying their texture on her tongue. Taking small bites of the chocolates, she let the creamy hazelnut interior saturate her mouth before she swallowed. Petya ate the treats by the mini-handful, humming the music they had just heard. Late at night, they stopped along the waterfront to watch the low-lying bridges open on the river to let the ships pass through.
Petya brought Larisa French chocolates, wine, and champagne that were only available in special stores for the nomenclatura, society’s elite. When the Italian Communist Party from Bologna came to visit Moscow, they brought samples of Italian delicacies and gave Petya’s father 10 jars of Italian marinated olives, which he shared with his son. Petya then passed them on to his talented pianist, who had never eaten these salty olives before and took an immediate liking to them.



crescendo poco a poco

After Petya’s parents returned from a state visit to Iran in January 1966, they sent him a package of exotic Persian tea. On a snowy January evening study session for the upcoming Mussorgsky opera festival, Petya and Larisa sat on his bed cuddling to keep warm from the cold. Petya prepared the Iranian tea in his thin porcelain tea-cups, not the colored metallic mugs with the chipped black rims that everyone else in the dorm used. Larisa happily wrapped her pale chapped hands on her hot tea cup while she waited for the tea to cool down.
“This tea box says ‘Shaharzad’, Larisa said. “I bet that’s the Farsi name for Scheherezade from A 1001 Arabian Nights. That’s my favorite Rimsky-Korsakov ballet. The music is beyond enchanting, it’s permeating.”
“I was going to surprise you. But, I might as well tell you now. My father’s friend at the Ministry of Culture got us tickets to Scheherezade at the Symphony a week from today,” Petya said with a sly grin.
“That show has been sold out for months!” Larisa said, her brown eyes opening wide and a big smile appearing. She looked at Petya in awe for a few minutes before putting down her tea to kiss him.
Slowly, they tasted the exotic and slightly bitter brew. Petya carefully poured a tiny amount of sugar to bring out the taste of the tea without drowning the Persian blend with sweetness.
“This tea is wonderful, I love the flavor. What is the name of this spice?” Larisa asked.
Petya looked at the box and saw mostly Farsi print, except for the small French lettering at the bottom, Thé avec l’arôme de cardamome.
“I think the spice or flavor is called cardamom,” he said and poured them both more tea from his Iranian samovar.
“I’ve never heard of it before. It must be from that part of the world. Let’s read from your Omar Khayam poetry book. The poet matches our special Persian tea,” Larisa said.
Larisa smelled the tea as the steam rose from her cup. Her full lips pursed to blow lightly on the teacup to cool it down. She waited a long time before she drank it, savoring the exotic aroma. With the cardamom scent enveloping the room, they lay on his bed, alternating reading Omar Khayam. Petya rolled Larisa’s long thick brown curly hair around his fingers as she read. He felt the hairs on his wrist move and she lightly caressed his hands while he recited the poems.

leggiero

A week later, the lovers sat with their eyes closed listening to the symphony perform Scheherezade at the Mariinsky Theatre. Goose bumps oscillated through Larisa’s body during the dramatic violin solos that represented the Arab storyteller seducing her sultan with her nightly stories. After the concert, they walked along the banks of the frozen canals from the Mariinsky Theater eating almonds. Larisa was anxious and ate quickly.
“I’ll play the violin pieces from Scheherezade for you. You remind me of the storyteller when you recount the books you’ve read about the Middle East and recite poems from memory,” Petya said.
“I ate all those Italian olives you left me,” Larisa said abruptly with her eyes shifting nervously.
“I’m glad that you enjoyed them. Maybe my dad can send us more.”
“I may need them for a while,” she said.
Petya chuckled. “What do you mean?”
“I am pregnant,” she said, slowly forming a smile and moving closer to Petya.
At first, Petya thought she was kidding. Since they had just been discussing Scheherezade, the famous storyteller, he assumed that Larisa was weaving a tale of her own. But when he saw the warmth of her smile in the wan light of the moon, he stood stone-faced in silence and realized she was serious.
“I found out yesterday at the clinic.” Her smile faded.
His breath slowed, becoming shallow and weak. His father always spoke about the Jews poisoning Russian culture — and the gene pool. The Scheherezade violin solos stopped playing in his head, and the only sounds he heard were their crisp footsteps in the snow. When Larisa arrived at the entrance door to her apartment building, Petya quickly said goodnight—without a kiss—and disappeared into the darkness. Larisa couldn’t understand what was wrong. They were in love. Why did he not show any emotion about the baby?

largo

The next morning, Petya wasn’t waiting for her at the Conservatory entrance to walk her to the student recital. That evening, knowing Larisa was going to be visiting her best friend Marina, Petya knocked on Marina’s dormitory door. He came into Marina’s spartan room that consisted of her bed, desk, a chair, and small electric plate. Petya was in an unusually serious mood and asked Marina if he could have some time alone with Larisa. After Marina left the room, Petya sat next to Larisa on the bed, armed with a bouquet of red flowers and French chocolates for International Women’s Day. Petya handed her the gifts, but the sight of the chocolates made Larisa sick and she refused them. He put the flowers and chocolates on the bed and looked intently at her.
“My father can help us find a doctor who will be willing to solve your problem,” Petya said mezza voce, a tone Larisa had never