Free time for whims is what makes age alluring;
the aging Khachaturian grew to like touring:
Rome—Paris—London—Berlin.
He conducted, shook hands,
represented the State,
gave many an interview,
enjoyed his fame through and through.
Glory, after all, is glorious;
he lapped up “bravos”;
the glitter of concert halls
held him in thrall.
Glad of each chance
to further his own fame
he paid his respects
to the Pope and von Karajan,
Stravinsky and Britten,
the Dalai Lama, the Queen.
He was photographed with them,
or rather—they with him:
some PR, others more personal.
He liked snapshots
of the handshake—
inclined heads, coupled hands.
In his Moscow apartment,
with its sliding doors,
he treated guests to Armenian wine,
Mutakh cheese, a few grapes,
and these photos—
expecting rapture.
These albums, the apartment walls,
were adorned with every
major celebrity.
The only one missing
was Salvador Dali.
He must visit Dali!
Must see Dali!
Must chat with Dali!
Must be photographed with Dali!
Otherwise
both the collection
and Khachaturian’s fame
would be incomplete.
Dali acquiesced.
A date was set by
Salvador Dali
in one of his castles,
remote beyond belief.
At the agreed time,
Khachaturian and his assistant,
his assistant’s assistant and his
photographer,
a friend and this friend’s daughter—
a budding artist—
approached the castle.
It was truly ancient!
But in order to enter it
you had to cross
a wide swath of swampland.
No other way:
no footbridges,
no guards.
Mud splattered
their dress shoes
and best clothing;
dispirited and exhausted
they crossed the swamp.
The gates clanged open;
they entered the empty vastness
of the ancient castle,
akin to a planetarium or crematorium.
The silence continued.
The guests stood in a stupor.
This was insane!
Suddenly, the furious
“Sabre Dance” was unleashed.
It was like bolts of lightning!
Crossed ringing sabres
furiously attacked each other,
pushed off, recoiled,
flashed again,
clanged again.
It was spectacular!
Aram Ilyich—the proud author—
managed a smile, after all:
this was, after all, meant for him.
He was distracted,
however, by his polished
Angelo Putti shoes
bought the day before,
now encrusted with mud.
The dazzling “Sabre Dance” was done.
After a significant pause,
Salvador Dali himself appeared
riding a dark horse,
dressed like Don Quixote,
carrying a spear, of course,
but without Sancho Panza.
He rode three victory laps,
respectfully stopping
beside his shivering guests.
Through half-closed eyes
he looked down at everyone
with benevolent condescension:
a look full
of significance.
Then, thrice brandishing his spear,
he withdrew so abruptly that
the photographer
had no time to remember
why he was there.
A pre-recorded message
boomed a polite “Arrivederci,”
the lights went out,
the wayfarers exited.
“Ouch!” groaned the photographer.
“Argh!” growled the assistant.
Khachaturian stayed silent.
Once again they trudged
through the local mud,
but I said enough about that
as I described their approach
to the castle
of the ingenious Salvador.
It is said that this episode
cooled the composer’s ardour:
he went less often on tour
to dodgy venues.
December 1995–1996
Translated from the Russian by Maria Bloshteyn.
[*] In the 1960s and 1970s Aram Ilyich Khachaturian and L. A. Ozerov were not just friends but creative collaborators: they were planning to write an opera together: 26 Commissars from Baku. Ozerov wrote the libretto but the opera was never finished. The story described here was told to Ozerov personally by Khachaturian.