Moscow Nights: The Van Cliburn Story-How One Man and His Piano Transformed the Cold War (54 page)

Smiles were pasted on faces at that night’s candlelit White House banquet, but tempers were still high. After dinner the leaders held a short meeting while the guests took their seats in the East Room. Gorbachev was visibly tired when he entered with Raisa and the Reagans, to a smattering of applause. The president was wearing black tie; representing the proletariat, Gorbachev, like Khrushchev before him, had chosen a business suit. This irritated Nancy Reagan, who wore a black beaded gown accented with red-and-white beaded flowers paired with diamond drop earrings; Raisa, who Muscovites joked was the first spouse of a Soviet leader to weigh less than he did, sported an ankle-length brocade gown with a bodice and flared hem offset with a double strand of pearls. The two First Ladies had been conducting
their own Cold War since Geneva, where Raisa had pedantically and at great length laid down the law on Soviet policy. “Who does that dame think she is?” Nancy had fumed.

In addition to the negotiating teams, the guests included
126 stars of business, science, sports, politics, and the arts. The exiled Mstislav Rostropovich and Galina Vishnevskaya were conspicuously present; also representing the world of music were jazz pianist Dave Brubeck and Zubin Mehta, the conductor of the New York Philharmonic. Billy Graham was there, with Joe DiMaggio, Claudette Colbert, and Jimmy Stewart. Vice President George Bush and Barbara Bush, Bob and Elizabeth Dole, Henry Kissinger, and Armand Hammer headed the political and business elite.
Rildia Bee looked on proudly from her wheelchair.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the announcer: “Mr. Van Cliburn.”

VAN WALKS
onto the small stage, chest out like an icebreaker, and his nerves dissolve just as they did many years ago in Moscow. He seeks out Mikhail Gorbachev and locks eyes with him, then gives four short bows to the Reagans, the Gorbachevs, and the room. The general secretary flashes him his toothiest grin. Raisa glows: perhaps she, too, fell in love with Van in 1958.

He sits at the piano and, with a roll, plays the Soviet national anthem. In the front row the leaders exchange confused looks: this was not on the program. Foreign minister Eduard Shevardnadze is first to stand up, then the Gorbachevs, and the room follows suit. Van shakes his head and bends down, nodding as he gives emphasis to the notes, leaning his body into the music; the big, resonant sound fills the room. Then he launches into “The Star-Spangled Banner,” its sunnier, simpler music requiring less movement until, near the end, the emphasis grows. The room is completely still. At the end the Gorbachevs lead the applause, and to the sound of scraping chairs and surprised murmurs, everyone sits down.

Van plays his first billed piece, Brahms’s Intermezzo, op. 118, no. 6. His performance is big, slow, lyrical, and probing: the old Van, undiluted. He finishes and bows. Quickly he sits again, folding back his tails and wiping his palms on his pants. He leans forward, readies his right hand on the keys, lifts his left hand, and drops it on the first jangling, rolling chords of the Rachmaninoff “Étude-Tableau,” op. 39, no. 5. He whips up a storm of sound, tossing his head at tumbling climaxes, swaying at lyrical passages, leaning back at tender moments as his right hand caresses the melodic line, shutting his eyes at the controlled passion, then corkscrewing his torso and collapsing his chest into a pivotal phrase. As the music slips away in a single note, he slides his hands off the keyboard and relaxes, slumping backward. He stands and takes three tiny bows, one hand steadying him on the piano. Gorbachev leans across and speaks briskly to Raisa, three times.

The last two pieces are the noble, soulful Schumann-Liszt “Widmung” and Debussy’s
L’isle joyeuse
, a captivating poem of love and hope, air and grace, rendered drivingly dramatic beneath Van’s
hands, the tension drawn out and released at the end. Leaning into the last notes, he almost loses his balance and rights himself coming up to bow.

Bravos fill the room. Reagan approaches and shakes Van’s hand, patting him on the back, then stands in front of the microphone with his prepared speech printed on cards. Before he can start, Van eagerly steps down to shake Gorbachev’s hands. Then he embraces the Soviet leader, his hands splayed across his back, and kisses him on both cheeks. The general secretary’s face disappears into the gabardine wool of Van’s coat.

Reagan looks at his notes, grinning uncomfortably, one hand on the microphone stand. Gorbachev and Van shake hands again, and Gorbachev, smiling, sits down. Van returns to the podium and nods at Reagan.

“The American poet Longfellow once wrote that music is the universal language of mankind,” the president begins, his voice husky and a little unsteady. Van gives Gorbachev a little bow, bows warmly at Raisa, raising his hand in greeting, then remembers himself and stands at attention, politely nodding his appreciation at Reagan’s remarks.

“We’ve certainly seen that confirmed here tonight,” the president continues. “There was no need to translate this magnificent performance by Van Cliburn. Van Cliburn is a musician that is known almost as well perhaps in the Soviet Union as he is here in the United States.” At this, Gorbachev vigorously nods.

“For young Van Cliburn won the hearts of the Soviet people and the critics during the Tchaikovsky Competition, which he won in 1958. The tickets to his auditions in Moscow were in such demand that people lined up for three and four days in advance. And when the competition ended, Mr. Cliburn performed for Premier Khrushchev”—Van bows his head—“and then for a number of sold-out conferences”—Van shakes his head encouragingly—“in Moscow.”

The president says a few words about Van’s career and the Cliburn Competition, and then gets lost. He finds his place and adds that Van
has not performed since 1978. “And so for this, your first public appearance, I believe, in nine years,” he ends, as Van brightly smiles and the guests applaud, “you are once again speaking in that language of music. I think I can say for everyone here, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”

Van takes Reagan’s hand and gestures to himself. “May I respond?” he asks, putting his free hand on Reagan’s. Taken by surprise, the president lightly chuckles and moves aside.

“Mr. President and First Lady,” he begins, his arm behind Reagan’s back, “I’m so grateful for the invitation to get to play. I think there comes a time in one’s life when one feels one wants to have relaxation and to enjoy life. And I know the fabulous, inimitable, and incomparable Russian pianist Emil Gilels once told me, ‘You are very smart to realize that because we all need enjoyment, we must enjoy life and smell the flowers.’ So, unfortunately, I’ve thought about him so often, since he left us recently.” He wreathes his hands in the air, a twitch in his neck the only sign of nerves, a sense of drama never far behind his easy eloquence.

“And when this opportunity came, I said, you know there are very few things that are as meaningful to me—first of course, I love my home country. And some people like to tease me, Mr. General Secretary, and say that sometimes they think I love Texas better than all the rest of the United States. But we want to have Texas, you know, very healthy. But in addition to that, I think you know my constancy—how very deeply I love the Russian people, and your culture and your art. And you go with me always in my life.” Still looking at Gorbachev, he crosses his hands on his chest. “And it is for both my beloved president,” he adds, bringing Reagan in again with his arm, “and for you that I am so happy to do this. Thank you.”

Gorbachev raises his hands and applauds. Van bows to him, the room, and the president. Nancy gets to her feet, and Van comes down to kiss her, his hands on her arms. Then Raisa stands up. Reagan stands by the piano, watching as Van takes her and kisses her. The famously sharp-tongued Soviet First Lady melts. She shyly lays a hand
on Van’s arm and curls her fingers round his. “Play the Tchaikovsky concerto,” she says in Russian, fluttering her hand across his chest. Van understands and raises his eyebrows. “Tchaikovsky!” he says, gesturing in surprise, and turns to Reagan for help. His arm round Raisa, Van laughs, wondering what to do, and vigorously scratches his forehead. “We have no orchestra,” he says quietly. The Soviet interpreter comes up and translates, but Raisa says again in a merry voice, “Play the Tchaikovsky concerto.”

“We have no orchestra,” Van repeats, a little louder. Pulling himself up, he improvises: “If you will give me—if you will help me . . .” He looks around, nervously licking his lips, then turns back and gently pulls Raisa in. Reagan grins at him, watching a fellow entertainer at work. Van scratches his cheek and murmurs to Nancy, who looks at Gorbachev. Van looks at him, too, pointing and deferring to him. He has been warned not to go overtime; the day is scheduled down to the last minute, and the parties need to prepare for the next day’s negotiations.

Van makes a decision. “I will do something,” he says, “it’s all right.” He goes back to the piano. Raisa sits down flushed and smiling, still saying loudly, “Play the Tchaikovsky concerto.” Nancy takes her seat, and the president raises his eyebrows and follows.

“This is really an aside,” Van says to the audience, still standing. Gesturing to the Gorbachevs, he adds, “But I think you will also realize how very deeply this means not only to me but also to many Americans.” He sits down and fiddles with the stool, inadvertently striking a high key and fluttering apologetically. Then he pulls back his sleeves and leans gently forward into the melancholy first notes of “Moscow Nights.” A few bars in, he starts singing in Russian, his eyes fixed on the Gorbachevs. Raisa mouths the words, but on the fourth word, Gorbachev begins singing, first softly, then louder, then at the top of his voice. The rest of the sizable Soviet delegation joins in: Dobrynin, the ambassador; Yakovlev, the chief ideologue; even Foreign Minister Shevardnadze, who looks uncomfortable.

Between the verses, laughter breaks out: the sound of relief. The
columnist George Will leans over to Adm. William Crowe, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and whispers, “That song just cost you
200 ships.”

The solemn state occasion has turned into a full-throated sing-along. Flashbulbs are popping. The Russians start applauding. Van stands up on the last note, gives a couple of hand claps to the choir, and bounds down to the guests of honor. Gorbachev jumps to his feet. Van hugs him, kisses him on the cheeks, pats him warmly on the back, speaks in his ear, and grasps his shoulder. Raisa stands up and takes Van’s hand, while Nancy and Ronald Reagan wait, smiling, in the background.

“Stay around,” the president quips.
“I can get you a few bookings.” Van laughs, unsure how to reply. He shakes Nancy’s hand: “I hope that wasn’t too much,” he says. Gorbachev has more warm words for him, and the Reagans stand to the side. Van takes Raisa’s hand and raises it to his lips, nodding deeply at Gorbachev. Then they leave: the Reagans with the general secretary, Van ushering Raisa ahead. Vice President Bush watches them leave with a look of patrician wonder.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in this house,” he says.

The next day, every network will lead with the scene of “Moscow Nights” at the White House, and Van will once again make front-page headlines around the world for drawing out the humanity of a Soviet leader. Nancy Reagan will call the performance one of the greatest moments of her husband’s presidency. And Mikhail Gorbachev will be
noticeably warmer as the two men begin negotiations on the most ambitious arms control treaty in history: a crowning achievement that will eliminate four out of five of the world’s strategic nuclear weapons.

Coda

MIKHAIL GORBACHEV
intended to reform the Soviet Union’s bureaucracy and ideology, not overthrow them. Yet ever since Nikita Khrushchev renounced terror and twitched back the Iron Curtain, both had been doomed. As Western values seeped in, with music in the vanguard, the Soviet state lost credibility with its own people. Glasnost and perestroika flooded its musty recesses and found the cupboards bare. One by one, the Communist regimes of Eastern Europe agreed to multiparty elections or crumbled before popular upheavals. The Baltic States, which Stalin had annexed in 1940, declared independence after two million people linked arms from Tallinn to Vilnius. In November 1989, less than two years after the Washington summit, the Berlin Wall fell and the Cold War was over. So, after a hard-line coup against Gorbachev spectacularly backfired, was the Soviet Union, which dissolved on December 26, 1991, along with its manic fantasies and tangled byways and cockeyed masquerades.

The landing was softer than anyone had foreseen. Yet Russia’s history was never likely to make it an easy neighbor or a willing accomplice of the West, whose triumphalism misjudged the centrality of national pride to Russian identity. Van Cliburn’s secret was that he lovingly played back to Russia the passionate, soul-searching intensity that was its culture’s great contribution to the world, while embodying the freedom that most Americans took for granted and the Soviets sorely lacked. It was a devastating combination, and so simple that it was almost certainly unrepeatable.