I must now introduce the new owner of the Piatti, that is, myself.
I have often remarked that I owe my very existence to music. This apparently trite comment is neither an exaggeration nor a romanticized idea: it is the statement of a fact.
My father was an excellent amateur violinist. As a law student in the Spanish city of Oviedo, he played with the local symphony orchestra for several years. However, what he really desired with a passion was to form his own string quartet. At that time in Oviedo there was a French family that was also extremely fond of music. Maurice Jacqué, my maternal grandfather, played the viola, and his children, my mother, Cécile, and my uncle Léon, played the violin and the cello, respectively. They happened to be looking for a violinist to complete a quartet.
My mother’s family and my father had a friend in common who learned of these reciprocal searches and introduced everyone to one another. It was therefore fate, in the guise of music—or more specifically, in the guise of a string quartet—that brought my parents, Carlos and Cécile, together. The quartet met habitually and soon established the first Prieto Quartet, comprised of four excellent nonprofessional musicians. After a few years my parents were married, and then moved to Mexico. I was born in Mexico City, under the sign of music.
The atmosphere in our home was exceptionally conducive to the cultivation of our musical skills. Even before my birth, my mother had decided I should take up the cello because my uncle Léon lived in France and the family lacked a cellist.
At the age of four, I began my studies with Imre Hartman, a former member of the Léner Quartet of Budapest, which, to the good fortune of countless music lovers and students, had taken refuge in Mexico during World War II. Then my brother, Juan Luis, two years younger than I, began studying the violin. Before long, when we were still quite young, we started playing quartets. Thus the Prieto Quartet No. 2 was instituted. It consisted of my father and my brother at the violin, my mother at the viola, and I at the cello. The quartet took on a more youthful appearance when my son Carlos Miguel—now a conductor and violinist—and my nephew Juan Luis grew older. Both of them also started playing the violin in early childhood. Naturally, this was the Prieto Quartet No. 3. My brother, who is a businessman, went from the violin to the viola; Carlos Miguel and my nephew Juan Luis take turns on the first and second violins, and I remain at the cello. The Prieto Quartet, therefore, has encompassed four generations. Now in its third version, it constitutes what is probably a highly unusual case of uninterrupted musical family tradition. Unlike the previous Prieto Quartets, which only played in the privacy of their homes, the new quartet has been performing in public concerts throughout Mexico, the United States, and Europe since 1989.
14. The Prieto family: (LEFT TO RIGHT) Cécile Jacqué (mother), Carlos Prieto (father), Maurice Jacqué (grandfather), nanny, and Carlos Prieto (1 year of age). Mexico, 1938.
While attending the Liceo Franco Mexicano in Mexico City, I still continued practicing the cello. By the age of sixteen, when I finished my studies at the lycée, I had already given several recitals and concerts as a soloist. It seemed that I was heading toward a musical career. However, it was not until after I ventured into entirely different activities that I became a full-time cellist.
I completed my studies at the lycée with high marks in physics and mathematics. There were two paths open to me: music or a profession linked to my apparent scientific inclinations. I opted for the latter, partly influenced by my parents, who dreaded the hardships and sacrifices of a musical career. Attracted by the reputation of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), I prepared for the entrance exams and for its other strict admission requirements. One day I received a letter with the red MIT letterhead: I had been accepted! Looking back on that turning point in my life, I don’t know whether to describe it as fortunate. Indeed, although my studies at MIT provided me with a series of fascinating experiences, they also delayed my true vocation—music—by several years.
In September 1954, at the age of seventeen, I entered MIT, where I obtained degrees in metallurgic engineering and economics. In addition to being one of the leading scientific and technological centers in the world, MIT also accords crucial importance to the humanities, especially music. This fact is demonstrated by the outstanding quality of the performing groups—the symphony orchestra, where I was first cello and soloist, the wind ensemble, the jazz and chamber music groups—and by the excellence of its music faculty.1 Furthermore, the school has an excellent music library, where I discovered countless works new to me, starting with the works of Dmitry Shostakovich. As we shall see later on, they were to play a definitive role in my life.
After graduating from MIT, I returned to Mexico and started work as an engineer at Fundidora Monterrey, one of Mexico’s leading iron and steel industrial complexes. In 1964 I moved to Monterrey, having been appointed assistant director of production in the steel plant. Because of my intense work schedule, the cello was relegated to second place, but I managed to practice a few hours every night. Every time I took out my cello I felt a pang of regret at not having devoted myself to music.
A few years passed, and by the mid-1970s, I was a well-established businessman in Mexico. At that time I was already president of Fundidora Monterrey and chairman of several national business organizations. Although I found my industrial activities very stimulating, my misgivings at having abandoned the cello persisted and, in time, grew more intense and bitter. I felt that in failing to follow the dictates of my musical vocation, I had not been true to myself. Finally, in 1975 the day came when I confronted my dilemma: either continue to live with a sense of futility and emptiness at having chosen the wrong path (and soon there would be no other alternative), or take the bull by the horns, renounce my industrial and entrepreneurial activities, and dedicate myself entirely to music.
Thus, in 1975, after undergoing considerable inner turmoil, I opted for the second path. True, I had studied the cello ever since my earliest childhood, but the profession of soloist generally demands the most absolute, unfailing dedication. When I finally made up my mind to change my career—and my life—I was fully conscious, or so I believed then, of the tremendous risks and obstacles involved. When weighed in the balance, on one hand there was my successful career as a businessman, and on the other, my profession as a cellist with an uncertain future. I could well be headed toward a colorless, mediocre career or even failure, either result having serious consequences for me and my entire family. I had the advantage of my self-confidence, my genuine passion for music, and my fiery determination to work with an intensity that would compensate for those years that, though certainly not wasted, had been lost as far as the cello was concerned.
I spent long months studying with Pierre Fournier in Geneva and several summers with Leonard Rose in New York. As I mentioned before, I had believed myself fully aware of the difficulties ahead. If I had had a crystal ball, perhaps the balance would have tipped to the other side, since the path I chose turned out to be far more hazardous than I had imagined. I really don’t know. Fortunately, since I did not consult the supernatural, no one or nothing could dissuade me from making a decision that I have never regretted.
After 1975 I began to play more frequently in Mexico and other countries.
My interest in Russia began during my university days at MIT. I heard a Shostakovich symphony for the first time in 1955, in its music library. It had such a profound impact on me that before long I had listened to every single recorded work by this composer and had read all his scores available in the library.
It was not that I admired all his music; on the contrary, besides the works that filled me with enthusiasm and emotion, there were those whose banality and superficiality both astonished and disappointed me. A great many of his works were shrouded in mystery. After his second and third symphonies and his opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk were played in the Soviet Union, they were denounced as “formalistic, bourgeois and decadent” and banned from the Soviet repertoire. His Fourth Symphony had been extensively rehearsed, yet on the eve of the premiere, the composer withdrew it without any explanation; it had never been performed in the intervening twenty years. I would eagerly await the announcement of a new composition or the resurrection of previous works, going to great lengths to obtain his new recordings. Sometimes, a new piece proved to be a great disappointment, whereas others were veritable masterpieces that once again kindled my enthusiasm for his music and my curiosity about his personality, both equally enigmatic.
My interest in Shostakovich soon extended to the language, history, and culture of Russia. I enrolled in MIT’s Russian Department and took every course offered. (This part of my education is a historical artifact: MIT canceled its Russian-language courses some years ago.) When I was still at MIT, I had my first opportunity to visit the Soviet Union. In 1958, the State Department invited the Russian-language students to apply to be interpreters for a huge exhibit mounted by the United States in Moscow. Although I passed the exam, I was extremely disappointed when I was rejected because I was not a U.S. citizen. Then in 1959 the opportunity arose again, from a series of chance circumstances. That year, an important official Soviet delegation, headed by Anastas I. Mikoyan, then first deputy premier of the USSR, visited Mexico. An extremely shrewd politician, he was one of the few to survive all the purges from Lenin’s era to the present. I also met the composers Shostakovich and Kabalevsky, who were part of the delegation.
The official Soviet mission also went to Monterrey, the capital of Nuevo León. The visit included a tour of Fundidora Monterrey, where I was employed. Because the official interpreter was temporarily indisposed and there was no other option, I replaced him. For several hours, I accompanied Mikoyan, Mr. Bazykin (the Soviet ambassador to Mexico), and other delegates.
When he took his leave, Mikoyan said to me, “You, young Prieto, must visit the Soviet Union. Wouldn’t you like to go?” “Of course!” I replied. “Not only would I love to go, but I would like to stay for a while and take intensive Russian courses.” Mikoyan then turned to the Soviet ambassador and said, “Comrade Bazykin, you will be in charge of organizing young Prieto’s visit to Russia,” leaving me absolutely speechless.
Meanwhile, I obtained the necessary leave of absence from the plant. However, several weeks went by without any news of my trip to the USSR. My disappointment increased as the months passed with no word.
After a year, I forgot all about it. However, at that time I was totally unfamiliar with Soviet bureaucracy. Two and a half years later, I received a call from Ambassador Bazykin. The trip, as well as my enrollment in Moscow’s Lomonosov University, had been arranged. On September 11, 1962, I arrived in Moscow. It seemed incredible to me that I was actually there.
It was during the era of Nikita Khrushchev, the first reformer after Stalin’s terrifying dictatorship. It was a small-scale glasnost and an incipient perestroika. A series of unprecedented technological and scientific advances—the launching of Sputnik, the first artificial satellite, and the flight of Yuri Gagarin, the first human to orbit the earth—had transformed the USSR into a pioneer of space exploration. The prevailing optimism prompted Khrushchev to predict that within twenty years living standards in the USSR would surpass those of the United States and that the Soviet System would lead the United States to its grave. “We will bury you,” he had declared. That first sojourn, during which I obtained my diploma in Russian from Moscow’s Lomonosov University, was an exhilarating experience for me.
I will only recount three episodes corresponding to that particular period.
I had been in Moscow for about three weeks when a sensational event occurred: Igor Stravinsky, who had been away from his homeland for half a century, visited Russia.
Stravinsky, like other Western composers, had been the target of vicious attacks in the USSR. He was described as an “artistic ideologist of the imperialistic bourgeoisie,” an “apostle of the reactionary forces of bourgeois music,” and a “shameless prophet of bourgeois modernism.” “The composer’s soul must have been castrated and destroyed in order for him to create such horrendous music as this,” wrote a Soviet “musicologist.” Stravinsky, for his part, was unsparing in his criticisms and acerbic comments regarding Soviet politics, art, and music.
In light of this, it is understandable that Stravinsky’s arrival in the USSR, where he was to remain for four weeks, was an extraordinary, historic landmark. His first concert, scheduled for September 26, 1962, raised tremendous expectations. In response to an official invitation from the same Soviet government that had so maliciously attacked him in the past, one of the greatest composers of the twentieth century—Rimsky-Korsakov’s former pupil, a legendary figure who had left tsarist Russia fifty years earlier—was now arriving in Soviet Russia.
Naturally, the tickets for his concerts sold out immediately. Fortunately, Stravinsky himself obtained an invitation for me; I had known him since my childhood. On every one of his visits to Mexico, he and his wife, Vera, would come to my parents’ home for lunch or dinner. A few months before his return to Russia he had visited us in Mexico, where my brother, Juan Luis, and I had the unique experience of accompanying the Stravinskys and their friend, conductor Robert Craft, to a bullfight, which Stravinsky had expressed a desire to attend.2
15. (LEFT TO RIGHT): Poet Carlos Bousoño Prieto, Juan Luis Prieto, Igor Stravinsky, Cecilé Jacqué (mother), Carlos Prieto, composer María Teresa Prieto, and Carlos Prieto (father). 1948.
16. With Stravinsky (LEFT TO RIGHT): Carlos Prieto, Cécile Jacqué (mother), Igor Stravinsky, Carlos Prieto (father), and Juan Luis Prieto. (The other individuals in the photo are not identified.) Mexico City, 1952.
17. With Stravinsky at a bullfight (LEFT TO RIGHT, starting above the letter V): Carlos Prieto, Igor Stravinsky (covering his mouth), Vera Stravinsky, Juan Luis Prieto, and Robert Craft. Mexico, 1961.
As soon as I learned of his arrival in Moscow with Vera and Craft, I went to see them, and they immediately obtained a pass for me to attend all his rehearsals and his two concerts in Moscow. The evening of the first concert I agreed to meet them at 6:15 in their suite at the National Hotel. Half an hour later, Stravinsky, Vera, Craft, and Ralph Parker—an English friend of theirs—and I left for the Great Hall of the Conservatory.
The audience also included a number of prominent personalities from the Soviet government and the intelligentsia, headed by Ekaterina Furtseva, minister of culture. Tikhon Khrennikov, secretary of the Soviet Composers’ Union, who years before had written the most virulent attacks against Stravinsky, was in charge of the official address, welcoming him back to his homeland. When Stravinsky appeared on stage, he was greeted with thunderous applause. The program, which comprised Ode, Le Sacre du Printemps (The Rite of Spring), and Orpheus, was a resounding success.
When the concert was over, we returned to the National Hotel for a private dinner in the Stravinskys’ suite. The meal consisted of Soviet champagne, caviar, cold chicken, black bread, and butter. Stravinsky was deeply moved—ecstatic—at the Russian audience’s warm reception. Unlike Craft, he was delighted with the USSR State Orchestra’s playing of The Rite of Spring. According to its composer, it had been one of the finest versions of this work he had ever heard. Not only in his euphoria regarding the orchestra, but also in many other details, I perceived how Stravinsky’s innate “Russianness” had emerged. He enjoyed everything: the flavor of the bread, the smell of the earth, the Soviet champagne he drank, the fact he could ramble on endlessly in his mother tongue.
Ekaterina Furtseva, in her official capacity as minister of culture, offered both a welcome and a farewell reception in his honor. Here, two natives of St. Petersburg, Stravinsky and Shostakovich, met for the first time. During the farewell dinner party, Shostakovich approached Stravinsky and, in a moving gesture, confided that when he saw the score of the Symphony of Psalms for the first time, he had been so impressed that he made a transcription for two pianos that he wanted to present to Stravinsky as a farewell gift. Shostakovich’s generosity sharply contrasted with Stravinsky’s attitude toward him. When I asked him, “What do you think of Shostakovich?” he answered, “I never think of Shostakovich; I only think of him when someone asks me: ‘What do you think of Shostakovich?’”
Several of Stravinsky’s opinions that I jotted down include the following: on Prokofiev’s talent as a composer: “Prokofiev was a great pianist”; on Khachaturian’s works: (in Russian) “Who needs music like the kind composed by Khachaturian?” adding, in French, “Toute sa musique est laide et vulgaire!” [All his music is ugly and coarse!]
After Stravinsky’s visit to Moscow, the Great Hall of the Conservatory accorded me special treatment. Since officials had seen me arrive at rehearsals and concerts with the illustrious composer, they must have thought that I was either a celebrity in the music world or a high Party member. I never attempted to find out the real reason. But whenever they were sold out, they always let me enter through the stage door and listen to concerts from the wings.
On October 16, 1962, the world was shaken by an unprecedented crisis: the danger of nuclear confrontation. President Kennedy’s government discovered that the Russians were installing military bases in Cuba capable of launching medium-range missiles with nuclear warheads. Although the installation had not yet reached the operational stage, Soviet ships, loaded with rockets and other military infrastructure, were already on their way to Cuba.
On October 22, President Kennedy announced a naval blockade of Cuba and declared that, if necessary, the passage of Soviet ships would be stopped by force. News of the crisis reached me in unusual circumstances that were, at the same time, rather comforting. The night of October 23, I had gone to the Bolshoi Theater to see Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov, an opera I did not want to miss under any circumstance. Jerome Hines from the United States was singing the role of Boris.
Present in the official balcony were First Secretary of the Party Nikita Khrushchev; Anastas Mikoyan, who, as I mentioned earlier, was responsible for my presence in the USSR; Frol Romanovich Kozlov and other government officials; and a large Romanian delegation headed by Gheorghiu-Dej. Khrushchev was the picture of tranquility and good humor. I watched as he joked with his companions in the balcony; I could almost hear his guffaws. As he enthusiastically applauded Hines, a great baritone, I never imagined what was occurring at that precise moment.
After leaving the theater I stopped for a sandwich at a cafeteria near the Moskva Hotel. As always, I read the Moscow Evening News while I ate. All of a sudden an article on the last page of the newspaper caught my eye. It was a brief news item from the TASS news agency concerning President Kennedy’s speech announcing the blockade of Cuba. I also read the editorials indignantly protesting this arbitrary decision. Since there was no mention at all of the Soviet missiles in Cuba, I was completely disconcerted. I could not understand Kennedy’s motives or actions. My subsequent attempts to tune in to the news on a shortwave radio in my room proved to be fruitless. The news seemed worrisome, but not enough to alarm me. The image of Khrushchev laughing jovially at the Bolshoi prevented me from imagining a truly alarming crisis.
Although the morning papers provided little concrete information, their numerous editorials reflected considerable indignation at the United States’ “provocative actions toward the Island of Freedom.” The articles from the foreign press mentioned only that the Western European governments were thoroughly confused and disgusted by the United States’ actions.
That evening when I returned to my room, a coded telegram from my father was awaiting me:
I immediately understood that my Uncle Juan was John F. Kennedy and that my father was giving me a reason to get out of Moscow. Until I received this message it had not crossed my mind to leave the USSR. I kept recalling Khrushchev at the Bolshoi and thought that if a serious conflict were about to occur, the same danger would follow me anywhere, be it Moscow, Paris, or New York. So I decided to stay, and answered with the following:
Two days later the Soviet media announced that the problem was resolved: Kennedy declared the end of the blockade, the USSR was removing its missiles, and, in exchange, the United States promised not to invade Cuba.
Throughout the duration of the crisis, I experienced the anxiety resulting from a lack of information, which the Soviets suffered for decades. I perused all the newspapers over and over again, trying to read between the lines, and at night I spent many hours glued to my radio, attempting, sometimes successfully, to catch a broadcast from the West.
Before my departure from Mexico for the USSR, I went to take leave of my dear friends Masha and Vladimir Kaspé. Vladimir was a great architect, as well as an excellent pianist who had played chamber music with my family on many occasions. Masha, his wife, a woman of exceptional sensibility and culture, had a profound knowledge of Russian poetry and literature. In fact, I began learning Russian from her in 1957 before pursuing my Russian courses at MIT.
When I went to visit Masha and Vladimir, Masha confided that she had a sister in the Soviet Union, Rosa Vikker, with whom she had lost contact before World War II. I asked for additional information in case I was able to locate her in Moscow. Masha did not have an address for Rosa and did not even know if she was still alive. The only information she could provide was the last address in Moscow for her elder sister, Betty Prissman, who had died many years ago: 69 Maroseyka Street. Masha was rather reluctant to give me the address, since she knew the possible dangers of snooping around in the USSR, which was frowned upon by the KGB.
By December 7, 1962, I had been in the USSR for three months and moved about quite freely. I never noticed anyone following me or any microphones hidden in my room. Perhaps I was being watched, but I had reached the conclusion that the KGB surely had more important things to do than investigate the activities of a young Mexican student.
On December 7 I decided to take certain precautions. I memorized the name of Marsha’s sister, Rose Vikker, and even her maiden name, Rosa Shapiro. I also memorized the name and address of the deceased sister—Betty Prissman, 69 Maroseyka Street—so as to avoid carrying any piece of paper that could incriminate either Rosa or me if she were still alive.
After taking the metro, I proceeded on foot to 69 Maroseyka Street, which turned out to be a large apartment building. I asked the concierge if she knew a Betty Prissman, but since she was quite young, she obviously could not have known her. The person who might remember, she told me, was Olga Novikova, the building’s oldest tenant. Citizen Novikova (the term Mrs. had ceased to be used in 1917) was out shopping, and returned twenty or thirty minutes later. She remembered Betty Prissman, but had never known Rosa and, for that matter, was unaware of her existence. I asked if anyone else in the building might remember Betty. At first she said no, but then she suddenly remembered, “Yes, Betty had a cook called Tania. Tania is retired and lives in a building on Novoslobodskaya Street.”
I located Tania, who received me rather warily at first, but after we exchanged a few words, she must have decided that I was harmless. In fact, she had been Betty Prissman’s cook.
“Did you know Betty’s sister, Rosa Vikker?” I asked.
“Of course,” she replied. “She is the younger sister.”
“Is she alive?”
“Of course. I see her every now and again.”
I was filled with emotion. Masha’s sister was alive! I only needed the address. Tania remembered it perfectly: 25 Petrovsko Razumovsky Proyezd. I found the building and entered. After searching for several hours, at three o’clock I was standing before Rosa Vikker’s apartment. I knocked, and a woman with very white hair opened the door. “I have come from Mexico,” I said. “I am Masha and Vladimir Kaspé’s friend.”
The woman paled, and, without a word, closed the door, leaving me outside. I decided to wait awhile. If the woman who answered was Rosa, then the mention of her sister, who had been lost since 1937, might have been too much for her. Also, the presence of a stranger might have filled her with terror, since contact with a foreigner during the Stalinist regime could have meant that an accusation and the gulag were not that far off.
Less than a minute passed. An elderly man now opened the door and in a low voice asked me to repeat the reason for my visit. He let me in and closed the door carefully. “Excuse me,” he said. “But my wife has just received a great shock. She’ll be back shortly.”
The miracle had occurred. I had found Masha’s sister, Rosa Vikker, who was in good health. Rosa emerged shortly, and over tea asked me questions about Masha and Vladimir. As time passed, I noticed the fear perceptively recede from their faces. Nevertheless, the conversation continued practically in whispers. “The walls are very thin, and you can hear everything, well, you know . . .” they explained.
After a while they started describing how terrifying life had been under Stalin. No family had been left intact. Those who had not lost a father had lost a son or a brother. Entire families were completely wiped out. When they mentioned Stalin’s name their voices became almost inaudible.
I did not tell Masha and Vladimir Kaspé about this meeting while I was still in Russia, because I knew it could be dangerous for Rosa and her family. However, once aboard the Air France plane that took me to Paris, the first thing I did was to write a long letter to Masha and Vladimir.
The sisters renewed contact. Although Rosa was never able to leave the USSR, her son-in-law, Leonid, managed to visit Mexico during Brezhnev’s time as a member of a delegation of architects, and he was able to meet his aunt and uncle.
After that first visit to the USSR, I returned to Mexico and continued to work in the steel industry until, as I explained earlier, I decided to dedicate myself completely to the cello. Later I returned to the USSR on many occasions as a concert cellist. My recollections, spanning three decades in that vast region, are described in my book From the USSR to Russia, published in Mexico in 1993 and 1994.3