The Romanian Rhapsody (Pls Crit)

Your criticisms (and praise) will be highly appreciated. I'd like to do the final editing on this piece. 

Nicholas and I parked our Harleys outside that great majestic Manhattan hotel, in downtown New York. It was known, by many wealthy travellers, for its grandeur and opulence. Merely to walk through the large gold and glass doorway, was like entering an Aladdin's cave.
We sauntered into that foyer of all foyers, in our most confident cavalier way, proud of our black leather jackets and pants. It seemed to be the size of a football field and richly ornamented by magnificent crystal chandeliers above and by a ring of grand Hellenistic marble columns, arranged in a large circle.

We stood for a while. Wherever we looked there was splendour. After a period of silence and feeling a little uncertain, 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 that at all, seeing as we have a gig later on 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. "

He held up his hands, in a sign on of appeasement. "OK OK, it's a violin...but it's not really an Amati, is it? It's a copy of one." "OK OK, 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. Believe me."

Nicholas and I had one thing in common. Our instincts never failed us. Somehow we both knew that for some reason, we had to be there that night. It didn't take us long to find why.
In the distance, some 30 meters away, we saw that a corner of the lobby had been set apart by means of heavy golden rope and brass stands. A banner proclaimed the site to be reserved for the "NY Poet and Writers' Convention".
We looked at each other for a moment and then briefly touched hands, in devil-may-care high five style. Then we walked over towards this area and sat down in the front row, where several seats were still open. We were just in time to hear someone ring a small bell and then felt a hush settling over the audience.

The evening was officially opened, by an elderly man, who spoke in a rather reserved polite way. He did not seem very enthusiastic about what he was expecting. After a few minutes of introduction, he turned towards a rather good looking woman in a dark blue suit and wearing a red scarf, seated next to him. Her long hair was tied up in a French pleat, pinned above her head.

As he looked at her he spoke. "And now it's my great honour, to present to you, the charming Eva." He gave a little laugh before he added a gentle warning. "She'll make sure that none of you'll hog all the available talking time."

We soon became aware that the evening would not be an exciting one. As we listened to speaker after speaker and to the questions and comments, we began to feel a distinct heaviness in the air. We had expected more exuberance and a greater soaring of the spirits from such a cream of contemporary writers.

One man, with a theatrical voice, read a poem, written in a flowery but bland style. It was about the death of his cat. The next speaker, referred to the modern global steam roller. One that was about to flatten any tendencies of poets to show emotions in their works. He informed everyone, that the materialistic world was destined to become the next Parnassian plain. I looked at Nicholas, who responded by shrugging his shoulders despairingly and whispering to me "do you know what I think? I think that he's happy that it's going to happen. In fact, I think that what he just said, was a funeral speech after the death of all joy and exuberance." My reply to him was to whisper mutter that I really needed a drink.

Someone, spoke about those halcyon days in Paris during the early 1900's, when culture blossomed as never before. We were told by him that the spirit of those days were idle fancies and that life was, in reality, far more serious. The days of gay abandoned joy were unrealistic and that they were over for evermore, he felt.

Worse was yet to come. Another speaker told us that intellectualism would be our new divinity. That belief and agnosticism had now become mutually interchangeable. You could have it both ways. Why not, he asked? Wasn't Man capable of leading himself triumphantly into the future through the use of his intellect alone? Had religions not caused death and bomb craters, wherever it was practised?" For Nicholas and me, the dank smell of nihilism hung heavily in the air.

It was when someone, without any thought of being wrong, told the audience that poems, written during feelings of deep love and emotion, were now passe and that geometrical construction and that stark words reflecting the harshness of life, should be the poets' way. That was the moment when I looked at Nicholas with raised eyebrows, whispered something. He nodded his head emphatically in agreement.

We immediately rose to our feet and walked, purposefully, towards the front table, where the rather sombre committee members were sitting.
Finding an empty chair at the its end, I stepped onto it and then from there onto the table. While Nicholas walked away, I raised my arms towards the crowd as if I was imploring them to give me their passionate attention. Nicholas told me later that I looked like a rock star.

"Ladies and gentlemen, will you kindly, 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 a flow of energy when someone touched his robe? Do you? Well listen to me now and soon you will feel in your souls, what I'm about to reveal to you.""

When I noticed that Nicholas had returned, I turned to him and asked for the violin. Holding the instrument in the air like a banner, I turned to the audience again.

"Have you all grown tired of life? Has the life force left you behind like empty paper bags? Has your all powerful intelligence atrophied and have your life streams been blocked by clogged up pipes? 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 contemporary reason and the debatable possibility of God?"

At that moment someone in the audience, red faced and obviously indignant, rose to his feet. There was antagonism in his bearing and his voice trembled with 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 cruise up and down Route 66, dare to rebuke we who live in loftier plains?"

A middle aged woman, wearing a fur coat, stood up and spoke to us in an affected lah de dah voice. "Yes...I would like to know something about you. Your names are not on the speakers' list, you know. Who gives you the right to stand up there, on our table, mind you, and speak to us like that? Yes who? I'd 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 with the other pointing my violin to various parts of the audience, I spoke softly but with an urgency and command that did not brook any more interference.

"Oh, I have the full right to be here among you. I take that right to speak about poetry and song, because it seems that you have abdicated yours. It's quite obvious that none of you, have anything significant to say. On the other hand, I have much to say to you. I want to remind you of emotions that you've forgotten and about the joy of being alive. That, my dear people, gives me the full right to stand here and to address you."

I looked down again at Nicholas. He was holding two large tankards of beer. Smiling broadly, I reached for one of the large jumbo sized glasses.
I stood up and after holding my beer towards the group, I emptied it without a single pause for breath. I had learned to do this as member of a German student union. That was at a University, steeped in the old romantic traditions, where duels are still fought even in this present age.

I saw that Eva was staring at me with wide open eyes. She seemed to be overwhelmed by what was happening and perhaps for this reason, had not said anything yet. That soon changed, however. 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 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 noticed how exotic she seemed. I saw her high cheek bones and the look in her eyes and suddenly felt that perhaps she, of all of the people in the room, was one who would know exactly what I was talking about. Acting on pure instinct, I reached out to her and taking a firm hold on one of her hands, helped her to climb up and stand next to me, on the table. With a smile at her, I began to play. I always play when I feel that music can say more than words ever can.

The Hora Staccato is the music for a wild village dance. Its magic draws you in and whether you are six or sixty. You begin to move to the music because you can't help doing so. Now there's not much space on a table top, but with a few half turns and some swaying I was able to reflect the joyous nature of Grigorus Dinicu's music.

I noticed, with a little laugh, that Eva had begun, quite involuntarily, to succumb to the invitation to dance and had begun to sway as well. It was barely noticeable, at first, but slowly she became more involved and was soon moving in time to the music.
Sometimes I held the violin high above my head, and sometimes I crouched over it, as if I had caught a struggling wild cat.

When I stopped playing, the silence was total. No one cheered and no one moved an inch. Not that I had expected them to. I could sense the wild emotions tumbling around in their mins.

"Oh, I know that you all have talents. I know that. 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 Eva, until my face was only inches away from hers. We stood like that for a few moments and then, satisfied, I placed my hand on her shoulder. I smiled and asked her a question.
"Tell me Eva. Do you think that we have hidden talents here in this hall?"
Obviously a little bewildered, she shrugged her shoulders.
"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 made 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?"

She looked puzzled for a moment.
"Why are you asking me all this here on 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?"
"Well, I know that God loved him".
"But was David a good man?"
"Wel,l he was good and he was bad, as far as I know."
"But God loved him anyway. Why do you think that was so? Wasn't it because he wrote beautiful poems and played wonderful music?"
"Yes yes. I'm sure that that was what it was. I remember that now. God loved him because he was, among other things a poet. A singer. A musician. Is that what you think?"
"Yes I agree with you. 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."

"How will we do that?"
I put my arm around her. "Go and sit down Eva. I'll show you tonight. We must be joyous. We must celebrate life. Go and sit down. 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 have awoken from its deep sleep. Don't let your boundaries be set by logic and materialism. Go out and write from your now wildly beating hearts."

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.
The sounds come straight from the composer's soul and no musician can play it and no listener can hear it without becoming very emotionally involved. It can be thought of as 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 down from the table and embraced them both.