Moscow Nights: The Van Cliburn Story-How One Man and His Piano Transformed the Cold War (28 page)

Bulganin, deposed as premier just eighteen days earlier, was on show so the press could see he was in good shape. Inadvertently hitting on the real reason for his demotion, Van mistook him for the leader of the June plot against Khrushchev and,
“with grave courtesy,” addressed him as Mr. Molotov. No one seemed to mind.

Mikoyan approached Van with his versatile mix of vibrancy and self-control.
“You’ve been a very good politician for your country,” he said, smiling seriously. “You’ve done better than all the politicians.” Khrushchev nodded energetically and swept his arm to take in Van, Liu Shikun, and the Soviet winners.
“Here we are without a round table,” he noisily declared, “having an ideal example of peaceful coexistence.” From the back a voice suggested the musicians might be better off running things without any governments. Khrushchev genially agreed.

Waiters appeared with Soviet champagne for the toasts. Van hesitated, shifting from foot to foot.
“I really don’t care for any,” he murmured, but he took the glass and brushed it over his lips. There were more speeches, and the winners played before the
Belgian queen left for home. Paul Moor slipped out, too, asking Norman Shetler to accompany him; he had overheard the word
karespondent
and was afraid he was
about to be arrested.

A final official press release disclosed some remarkable
telegrams and letters written by students, workers, soldiers, and pensioners, all praising the competition for its outstanding contribution to world
music and international friendship. “It is hard to express your feelings when listening to the beautiful performances of the musicians,” Comrade Chebotaryova from Moscow had written: “You feel again and again how lovely it is and you want to listen to the composers’ melodies for ever and never hear the stamping of soldiers’ boots or the clicking of tanks’ caterpillars.” And from a group of young construction workers:

Dear Friends, we are proud that the International Music Competition is held in Moscow, the capital of our motherland, and that it’s named after Tchaikovsky. Here in Pyotr Ilyich’s home region close to the ancient city of Votkinsk we’re building one of the largest hydropower stations of the five-year period, the Votkinsk Hydropower Station. Our workers’ settlement is named after the great composer. We are sure that the competition will contribute to improved international relations and may it resonate as a joyful anthem of peace and friendship.

These remarkably articulate builders may have had the same help as Shostakovich, who signed a
piece for
Pravda
that extolled Van’s “phenomenal musical talent and brilliant, inimitable individuality” but pointed out that the United States had heretofore relied on European imports for its music and was evidently uninterested in celebrating its own talent. “We on our side,” the piece concluded, “are sincerely glad that this outstanding young American artist first received the broad and full recognition which he deserves here among us in Moscow.”

This was a
workable spin. The state media never tried to downplay Van’s talent; not only was he too popular at every level, but it would also have made the competition look ridiculous. The composer Khachaturian declared his performance of Rachmaninoff’s Third
“better
than Rachmaninoff’s; you find a virtuoso like this once or twice in a century.” Yet, increasingly, they downplayed his Americanness, reminding readers and listeners that his teacher, albeit an
émigrée, was Russian and that his mother’s teacher had been Russian, too. To their deep satisfaction, they discovered that Van was really a great Russian pianist after all. From there it was only a step to anointing him their own Soviet pianist.

Even so, the authorities had had a sharp shock, and a postmortem got under way that was conducted partly in public. When the secretary of the jury complained in
Sovetsky Muzykant
of a lack of tact and objectivity among the audience—
“I dwell on these points,” he darkly warned, “because I have seen the elements of frenzy and clamor among the conservatoire students”—a
leading critic boldly declared in
Sovetskaya Kultura
that the Soviet training system placed too much emphasis on technical excellence and none on fostering individuality, with the result that Soviet players all sounded alike. Minister of Culture Mikhailov revealed his intentions in a
lengthy report to the Central Committee. As well as criticizing “the
erroneous behavior of member of the jury S. Richter,” he admitted that the results had not met expectations and suggested that many young players had become both cocky and out of practice by spending too much time playing abroad on propaganda tours. His good socialist prescription was even more state control of performers’ schedules and selection procedures.

In its own way, Van’s victory really was a
Sputnik
moment for the Soviet Union; the jolt to its belief that its People’s Artists were the world’s finest was comparable to America’s loss of faith that it was first in technology. Yet thanks to Van’s extraordinary popularity, a first remedial step was already being taken. Across the Soviet empire, piano teachers were suddenly beset by people of all ages
wanting to begin lessons.

AT
808 South Martin Street the phone was ringing off the hook. A small avalanche of letters and cards overwhelmed the mailbox; the overspill, tied in bundles, had been taken back to the post office. A steady parade of florists stepped up the short drive, passing the local, state, and national media camped out on the sidewalk and lawn.
Three reporters from
Life
magazine announced they were gathering material for a possible spread and
crowded into the small house, snapping away. A journalist from
Time’
s Dallas bureau introduced himself as Tom Martin and took a good look round before filing his impressions.
“The best single word that we can use to describe the Cliburn home would be ‘unpretentious,’” he wired New York. “Possibly, ‘nondescript’ would be a better word . . . It sits among a bunch of other houses in a definitely lower middle class neighborhood.” With its “imitation mahogany” décor, he added, it almost nullified Harvey’s executive status, as did his personal appearance. As for the Cliburns’ social stratum, it was “peculiar”:

They move in no social circle except the music and church group. Their church, of course, comes first above all. They frequently entertain, or attend entertainment provided by the music club. They are by no means members of the elite of Kilgore society and aren’t even members of the Kilgore Country Club. They are present there when there is some musical event in progress, but do not participate in the club’s activities. To sum up: they are middle class, socially speaking, and because their church takes up so much of their time, they might properly be classified as lower middle class.

The journalist’s prejudices were confirmed when Rildia Bee, who cooed to the gentlemen of the press that she was
“so overwhelmed with joy and gratitude I hardly know what to say,” went ahead with her
regular church prayer meeting.

The Cliburns had no experience in dealing with the press, and nothing to hide; Harvey asked only that any story acknowledge that Van was a strict tither. They readily admitted that they had literally mortgaged the farm to finance Van’s education; specifically,
eighty acres around Moody that Rildia Bee inherited from her mother, all that was left of grandfather Jack McClain’s twelve thousand acres of Central Texas blacklands.
“That’s one of the things Van has already
told us,” Rildia Bee confided: “He wants to come back and clear the books and get all the debts out of the way. We don’t owe much anyway, and it’s something that has never worried us. We’re both in good health and I have my lessons so we don’t think it’s much of a problem.” They balked at giving the exact amount of their debt, so Martin went off to pin down their bank manager. George Hayes, executive vice president of the Kilgore National Bank, asked not to be quoted but revealed that the Cliburns
“borrowed from time to time, but never heavily. He says the biggest loan never exceeded twenty five hundred dollars . . . Hayes says that most of the money the Cliburns borrowed has been paid back and that there is only a ‘small amount’ still left to be paid.” The
Time
name opened every door and cut through every duty of confidentiality. In New York a researcher named Serrell Hillman interviewed the Spicers, Chapins, and Steinways; Mrs. Schuyler Chapin
compared Van to Marilyn Monroe for the way his personality shone through his performances. Hillman tracked down Donna Sanders, now the not very happily married
Mrs. Steve Roland, who gossiped with her former roommate Jean Heafner and
nosed around Juilliard.

Bill Schuman, Juilliard’s president, was euphoric. He was convinced that Van’s victory was set to make the school the preeminent institution he had always wanted it to be, especially when senators J. William Fulbright and Lyndon B. Johnson, the majority leader, read into the Congressional Record glowing accounts of the young pianist’s global impact. The next day, April 15, he sent a night cable care of the Peking Hotel:

ALL OF US AT THE SCHOOL ARE GLOWING WITH PRIDE FOR YOUR WONDERFUL SUCCESS. WE SEND YOU CONGRATULATIONS AND MUCH LOVE AND LOOK FORWARD TO YOUR TRIUMPHANT RETURN.

Here, in spectacular action, was the East-West rapprochement that Schuman had argued for in numerous Music Panel meetings.
Granted, it was somewhat surreal that the agent of international understanding was the gangly Texan who was chiefly remembered at the school for always being late. Two days later, still giddy with excitement, Schuman wrote Mark Schubart in Moscow:

The biggest problem of all, of course, is to keep Rosina on the ground. At the moment she is having a picture taken with her current crop of students for
Life Magazine.
The room is, of course, the room in which she taught the great Van Cliburn. Incidentally, can you get any good rates in Europe on the engraving of Van Cliburn plaques. I am planning several for the outside of the building and am even thinking of taking one home to New Rochelle.

Rosina had also received letters of congratulations from senators and congressmen, but not a word from the most important person: “Rosina is crushed and I am afraid hurt,” Schuman wrote, “that Van has not been in touch with her since the contest.” The nearest she got was when
a friend phoned and held the mouthpiece against a shortwave radio. Crackling down the line came the unmistakable sound of Van’s Rachmaninoff, followed by a Soviet announcer who remarked that the pianist’s teacher was Russian.

Both Rosina and Bill Schuman were distressed by news that Van was rushing into major commitments. They urgently tried to warn him to hold off until he got home, but it was impossible to get through—besides, it was already too late.
“I am afraid,” Schuman told Schubart, “that he has made some foolish moves.” Van had already agreed to appear on
The Steve Allen Show
—the presenter had moved on from
Tonight
the previous year—staying loyal despite a flurry of rival bids. More worryingly, the New York Philharmonic had instantly upped their bid for his services from a second-rate slot in their Saturday-evening children’s series to four prime dates in December, with Leonard Bernstein conducting. Now Bill Judd picked up the phone and spoke to the orchestra’s assistant manager, who
was also his brother.
“Georgie,” he said, “I think we have to renegotiate Van’s contract.” Judd pushed the fee up from a paltry five hundred dollars. Still, the temptation to capitalize on Van’s sudden celebrity was too great, and CAMI booked the Symphony of the Air, the reincarnation of Toscanini’s disbanded NBC Symphony, for a string of concerts in May.

“I want Kondrashin,” Van said when Judd called to tell him.

“Oh fine, fine, sure,” the manager murmured, not taking him too seriously. No Soviet conductor had ever made a guest appearance in the United States, but Van sounded out Kondrashin and the Soviet Ministry of Culture, which made encouraging noises even though the conductor was
booked to tour Bulgaria at the same time. And when
Judd called the State Department, to his surprise the official raised no objections and asked only if an “interpreter” (which everyone knew was code for a KGB minder) would be coming with him. The U.S. government appeared to be caught unprepared as much as everyone else, because the same department was playing it decidedly cool toward Van himself.

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The Last Romantic

IN VAN’S
hotel room a large bouquet of spring
flowers arrived from Khrushchev’s wife. This was deeply gratifying, and made the silence from the American government all the more puzzling. Reporters had begun asking about it, and Van
confided to an American embassy official that he was disappointed not to have heard from the U.S. president. Two days after the news hit the front pages, the embassy received a cable from the State Department that was so perfunctory it almost made matters worse: