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His tastes in music have changed. "At one time, I had 44 major and 66 minor works in my repertory," he notes. "Now I play only a couple of dozen or so, and I play them very well, if I may say so." Where once his piano roared largely to the grandiose strains of such extroverted composers as Liszt and Prokofiev, today the balance has shifted to the intimacies of Scarlatti, Mozart and Schubert. Even a pyrotechnical display piece like Scriabin's Etude in D-sharp Minor is sanded, smoothed and tossed off as if it were a jeu d'esprit. If Horowitz is aware of the irony that the erstwhile conqueror of the Tchaikovsky concerto and the Liszt sonata is now primarily a miniaturist--a salon pianist--he does not let on.
Horowitz is sitting in his living room, secure in his accustomed spot on the sofa. On the coffee table is a letter from his niece in Kharkov. "Here we can feel spring coming, and it is beginning to get warm," he translates as he reads. "It is warmer because you are coming. We will be so happy to see you. One of my dreams has always been to hear you in concert, and now it is coming true. We are waiting for you."
The memories come flooding back. Now you go play for the rich over there and fill your pockets with money. But come back and play for us when your pockets are full. The border guard's prophecy has come true. "I have given my best, and I feel there is still more to give," he muses. "This remains my purpose in life, to bring meaning to music each time I play. I am not tired of life. I can still feel wonder when it is a beautiful day."
Moscow, 1986. Despite slate-gray skies and a cold, driving rain, it is a very beautiful day indeed. --By Michael Walsh. Reported by Dean Brelis/Moscow