The Romanian Rhapsody (Rev)

Nicholas and I parked our Harleys outside that great majestic Manhattan hotel in downtown New York. It was well known for its grandeur and opulence. Merely to walk through the large gold and glass doors was like entering an Aladdin's cave.

We sauntered into the foyer of all foyers in our most confident cavalier way proud of our black leather jackets and pants. We saw a foyer that seemed to be the size of a football field. One that was richly ornamented by magnificent crystal chandeliers above and by a ring of grand marble columns in a large circle.

We stood there amazed at first. Wherever we looked there was splendour. It certainly wasn't what we were used to. After a period of stunned silence I asked Nicholas "did you bring the tickets for this writers' thing or should we forget about the whole thing and just go and have a drink? I wouldn't mind at all seeing as we have a gig later in the village."
He looked at me, smiled and gave me a light punch on the arm. "Hey Luke. You're not backing out of this so easily. Here are our tickets and here's your fiddle. I couldn't leave it outside with the bikes, could I?"
"Fiddle?" I groaned, "how many times must I tell you that it's a violin. I fact, it's an Amati violin. Worth a lot of money, buddy. A precious gift from my uncle."
He held up his hands in a sign on of appeasement. "Ok ok it's a violin...but it's not an Amati. It's a copy of one." I nodded, a little deep in thought. "Yes it's a copy. You're right there...but it's made of cedar wood just like the real Amati's. For folk music and for village dances there's never been a better instrument ever made."

Nicholas and I had one thing in common. We both could sense things. Ambient things. Our instincts had never failed us before. Somehow we both knew that we had to be there in that foyer on that particular night. And it did not take us long to find out why.

In the distance, some thirty meters away, we saw a separated off area, demarcated by a heavy golden rope and brass stands and advertised by a large sign as the site for the "NY Poet and Writers' Convention".
We looked at each other for a brief moment, briefly touched hands in typical devil-may-care high five style, and then walked over towards this area and sat down in the front row where, to our amazement, several seats were still open. We were just in time to hear someone ring the small opening bell and to feel the expectant hush falling over the audience.
The evening was officially opened by an elderly gentleman who spoke in a rather reserved way as if it was some kind of business meeting. After a few minutes of introduction, he placed his hand on the shoulder of a rather good looking woman standing next to him. She was dressed in a dark blue suit and wearing a red scarf. Her long hair was tied up in a French pleat above her head.
"And now it's my great honour to present to you the charming Eva."
He gave a little laugh that had the overtones of a sinister warning. "She'll make sure that none of you'll hog all the available talking time." As he bowed towards her and backed away, the audience welcomed her by softly clapping their hands.

We soon became aware that the evening was not going to be very exciting. As we listened to speaker after speaker and to the questions and comments, we began to feel a distinct heaviness. We had expected more exuberance and a soaring of the spirits from the cream of contemporary writers. One man, with a theatrical voice, read a poem, written in a flowery style, about the loss of his cat that had recently died.
The next speaker referred to the modern global steam roller that was about to flatten all tendencies to show emotions in written works. I looked at Nicholas and he shrugged his shoulders despairingly and whispered to me "do you know what I think. He seems to be quite happy that it's going to happen even though it sounded to me like some kind of a funeral speech."
My reply was to softly mutter that I needed a drink.

Then someone spoke about those halcyon days in Paris during the early 1900's. We were told that the spirit of those days were mere idle fancies and that life was, in reality, far more serious. For him the days of gay abandoned joy seemed to be for ever over, the speaker added thar worse was yet to come. Another speaker told us that intellectualism would be our new divinity. That belief and agnosticism were mutually interchangeable. You could have it both ways, he said. Why not, he asked?
He tried to show that Man was capable of leading himself triumphantly into the future using only his intellect. Why not? He asked. Had religions not caused death and bomb craters wherever it had been practised? For Nicholas and me, the dank smell of nihilism hung heavily in the air.
It was when someone, without any fear of being wrong, told the audience that those beautiful poems written during feelings of deep love and emotion were now considered to be passe and that geometrical construction was the new enlightened poets' way, that I looked at Nicholas. I whispered something and he nodded.
We rose to our feet and walked purposefully towards the table where the rather sombre committee members were sitting.

Finding an empty chair at the end of the table, I stepped onto it and then onto the table. While Nicholas was walking away, I raised my arms towards the crowd as if I was imploring them to give me their passionate attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen, won't you for a moment give me your hearts and your minds? Oh you writers and you poets. You who once wrote about Hercules and Siegfried and the Dragon. Do you still remember Homer and the adventures of Jason?
Do you remember how Jesus felt when someone touch his robe? Do you? If you don't then pay attention and soon you will."

When Nicholas had returned, I turned to him and reached out for my violin.
Holding the instrument, I turned back to the audience again and questioned them.
"Have you all grown tired of life? Has the life force left you and you feel like empty paper bags? Has your all powerful intelligence atrophied your life streams? Has an X-box replaced your hearts? When you wear Versace suits and black pointed shoes do you cease to dream?
Listen to me, all of you. I wander along many paths. I see the bark of every tree and the wings of every bird. How dare you talk to me about the all pervading power of reason and the debatable possibility of God?"

At that moment someone in the audience, red faced and most indignant, rose to his feet. There was antagonism in his bearing and his voice revealed his anger.
"And just who may you be? How dare you address us with your inappropriate ideas? Since when do Hell's Angels, in biker suits, tell us about erudite matters such as prose and poetry? How can those that ride up and down Route 66, dare to rebuke we who live in loftier plains?"
Then a middle aged woman wearing a rainbow coloured dress, with many frills and bows, stood up and spoke to us with a high society accent. "Yes...I too would like to know something from you. Your names are not on the speakers' list. Who gives you the right to stand up there and speak to us? Yes by what right are you here? I think that we'd all very much like to know that."

I nodded politely towards the two who had just spoken and then with one hand on my hip and pointing my violin with my other hand to various areas of the audience, I spoke softly but with an urgency that did not brook any more interference.
"I have the full right to be here among you. How come? I'll tell you. I take that right to speak because it seems that not one of you has anything significant to say. I also have much to tell you about emotions and about being alive. Those facts lone, my dear people, give me the full right to stand here and address you."

I looked again at Nicholas and saw that he had was holding two large tankards of beer. Smiling broadly I reached out and took one of the large jumbo sized glasses.
Holding my beer towards the group with a flourish, I emptied it without a single gasp for breath. I had learned to do this as a member of a German student union while I was an exchange student. Incidentally it was one where duelling is still done, even in this present age. Perhaps some of my flamboyancy stemmed from those student union days. Who knows?

When I glanced briefly down at Eva, I saw that she was staring at me with wide open eyes. She seemed to be overwhelmed by what was happening and perhaps for this reason had been unable to protest in any way yet. But that soon changed.
Suddenly, she pushed back her chair and stood there with her hands on her hips. "Excuse me, Sir, but are you out of your mind? You've come here to the organizers' table quite uninvited and then you climb up on top of our table. Do you know how ridiculous you look?"
I continued to look at her and as I stared at her I began to noticed how exotic she looked. I saw her high cheek bones and suddenly felt that she, of all of the people in the room, besides Nicholas, may know what I was talking about. Acting on pure instinct, I reached out to her and taking one of her hands helped her to climb up and stand next to me on the table. While smiling at her, I began to play.

The Hora Staccato is the music for a wild village dance. Its magic draws you in and whether you are 6 or 60 you begin to move to the music. Now there's not much space on a table top but with a few half turns and some swaying I could demonstrate the joyful nature of Grigorus Dinicu's music. I soon noticed that Eva had begun to succumb to the mood of the dance and she too had begun to sway and shrug her shoulders. At first it was barely noticeable but slowly she became more swept up by the call of the music.
Sometimes the violin was high above my head and sometimes I crouched over it as if I had captured a wild cat.

Suddenly it was over and there followed a total silence. No one cheered. In fact no one moved an inch. I had not expected them to. I knew that they baffled by what they had just seen. As my breathing returned to normal, I began to speak again.

"Oh I know you all have talents. Of course you have. Otherwise you would not be here. God gave them to you when he gave you your souls. The question is what have you done with them?"
I turned and moved closer to Eve until my face was only six inches away from hers. We stood like that for a few moments and then, smiling, placed my hand on her shoulder. I asked her a question.
"Tell me Eve. Do you think that we have hidden talents here in this hall?"
Obviously a little bewildered, she nodded her head with an assurance.
"Of course there are talents here. Doesn't everyone have some?"
"And what did the rich man in the Bible say to that slave that hid his talent in the ground and never used it?"
"I believe that he was most upset".
"And what did the rich man say to the slave who multiplied his one talent many times over?"
"Oh, I think that he was most pleased and praised that slave highly".
"Because the slave used his talent?"
"Yes".
"Because he expanded his talents and wanted to see them grow?"
"Yes yes. That's how it was."
I smiled as I nodded my head in agreement.
"Now tell me, Eva. What do you know of David?"
"Why are you asking me all this hereon top of this table?"
"Go on. Everyone's listening. Look at them. They're all waiting for your answer. What do you know about David?"
"God loved him".
"But was David a good man?"
"Well he was good and he was bad".
"But God loved him anyway. Why do you think? Was it because he wrote beautiful poems and played wonderful music?"

"Yes yes. That's what it was. As you spoke, I could see that again. I remember reading that. God loved him because he was, among other things a poet, a singer, a musician. Is that what you think?"
"Yes I do. He also knew how to pray. He prayed beautifully and composed many wonderful songs for God. So let's bring God here to us. Here in this hall. Let Him come here and give us His blessings. Like He did for David."
She looked a little bewildered.
"How will we do that?"
I put my arm around her.
"Go and sit down Eva. I'll show you tonight. Listen and become a poet."
I looked at the group and held out my hands to them.
"Tonight I'll play for you. Tomorrow you will go out and write. When you leave here your soul will be awoken from its deep sleep. Don't let your boundaries be set by logic and materialism. Go out and write from your wildly beating hearts."

Then I lifted my violin and began to play George Enescu's Romanian Rhapsody. There's no music on this earth to compare with it. It is folk music that can make angels dance.
Its sounds came straight from the composer's soul and no musician could play it and no listener could hear it without being very deeply involved emotionally. It is spirituality in a musical form.
When I stopped playing, I felt the presence of a spirit of love in the room. Perhaps it was my imagination but I could see that there was a new look in every ones' eyes.

I looked down at Eva and then at Nicholas. Both of them were laughing. They were laughing with a joy that can only be a gift from God. I jumped from the table and embraced them both.