The Romanian Rhapsody

This is dedicated to Marge H who needed to read it.

Nicholas and I parked our Harleys outside a great majestic Manhattan hotel, in downtown New York. One that is known 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 splendor. After a period of silence and initial awe, I asked Nicholas "did you bring the tickets for this writers' thing or should we just forget about it and go out 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? In fact, it's an Amati. 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, truth be told."
"OK, OK, it's a copy. You're right there...but it's made of the very best cedar wood, just like the real Amati's. This so-called copy has been found to be ideal for folk music and for village dances. In fact for these purposes 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 or other we both knew that we had to be there that night and 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 ropes 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 demarcated area and sat down in one of the open seats in the front row. We were just in time to hear someone ring a small bell and then feel a hush settling over the audience.

An elderly man, who spoke in a rather reserved polite way, officially opened the proceedings. He did not seem very enthusiastic he announced the various items. After a few minutes of desultory rambling, he turned towards a young woman sitting next to him. She was in a dark blue suit and wearing a red scarf. Her long hair was tied up in a French pleat and pinned up above her head.
As he looked at her, he spoke. "And now it's my great honor to present to you the Master of Ceremonies, the charming Eva."
He gave a little laugh before he added a gentle warning to the audience. "She's rather strict, you know. She'll make sure that none of you will hog all the available talking time."

We soon became aware that if things didn't change soon, the evening was not going to 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 far more exuberance and a greater soaring of the spirits from the crème de la creme of contemporary writers.
The first speaker read a poem in a very theatrical way. It had been written in a flowery but bland style. It was about the death of his cat. The next speaker, referred to the modern global steamroller of pure reason that would negate any tendencies of poets to show emotions in their works. He informed everyone, that the materialistic world would become the next Parnassian plain and that all romantic poetry would be regarded as passé.

I looked at Nicholas, who responded by shrugging his shoulders despairingly and whispering to me "do you know what I think? Looking at him, I think that he's happy that it's going to happen. What's more, I think that what he just said was his funeral speech for the death of all joy and exuberance. Unless...."
"Unless what?"
"Unless we do something about it." He nudged me and smiled as he spoke.
My reply to him was to whisper to him that I really needed a drink.

Someone else spoke about those halcyon days in Paris during the early 1900's, when culture blossomed as never before. He told us that the spirit in those days was idle fancy 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.
Another speaker averred that intellectualism would be our new divinity and
that belief and agnosticism would become mutually interchangeable.
"Why not?" he asked. "Wasn't Man capable of leading himself triumphantly into the future using his intellect alone? Had religions not caused death and bomb craters, wherever it was practiced?"
For Nicholas and me, the dank smell of nihilism hung heavily in the air
.
Then someone stated, without any apparent doubt, told the audience that poems written during feelings of deep love and emotion were now passé and that geometrical construction and convoluted 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 somber committee members were sitting.
Finding an empty chair at the end of their table, I stepped onto it and from there onto the table. While Nicholas walked away, I raised my arms towards the crowd as if I was imploring them passionately to give me their attention. Nicholas told me later that I looked like a rock star at the time.

"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? If you don't, then listen to me now and soon you will feel deep down in your souls, what I'm about to remind you of."

I looked down at Nicholas and asked him to pass me 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 feeling like empty paper bags? Has your all-powerful intelligence atrophied your minds clogged up the pipes used by 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 contemporary reason and the debatable possibility of God?"

At that moment, someone in the audience, red faced and obviously indignant, rose to his feet. His bearing was antagonistic and his voice trembled with anger.
"And just who the hell are you? 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 those of us 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 two. 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 are you? I'd very much like to know that."
I nodded politely towards the two who had just spoken and then placed one hand on my hip and pointed the violin to various parts of the audience with my other hand. 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 upon me 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 and saw that he was holding two large tankards of beer. Smiling broadly, I reached down for one of the large jumbo sized glasses.
I stood up and after holding my beer out towards the group, I emptied all of its contents without a single pause for breath. I had learned to do this as member of a student union at a German University, which was steeped in old romantic traditions and where duels are still fought to this day. there it was de rigeur for a tankard of beer should downed without a pause.

I saw too that Eva was staring at me with wide open eyes. She seemed to be overwhelmed by what we were doing and had, perhaps for this reason, not said anything yet. That soon changed, however. She pushed back her chair and stood there with her hands on her hips looking at me like a tigress in a jungle would. She almost spat the words out.
"Excuse me, Sir, but are you totally out of your mind? You come here to the organizers table, quite uninvited, and dare to climb up on top of our table. Do you know how ridiculous you look?"
I continued to look at her and noticed how wildly exotic she seemed. I saw her high cheekbones and the look of fire in her eyes and suddenly felt that perhaps she, of all of the people in the room, was the 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. I had no idea why she did not resist. It was as if deep down inside of her, she wanted to do what I was making her do. I smiled at her and then began to play. I always play when I feel that my music can say more than my words ever could.

Now the Hora Staccato is the most evocative music ever written for a lively village dance. Whether you are six or sixty, its magic will draw you in. You won't be able to resist its call. When the music of Grigorus Dinicu plays, you will begin to move to the music because you just could not help doing so.
Now there's not much space on a tabletop but I was able to do a few half turns and some swaying. 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 inspired 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. Once, while crouching, I looked at her and saw her with hands held high, joyfully doing a couple of turns

When I eventually stopped playing, the silence was total. Of course, I had not expected any applause. Not under those circumstances. No one cheered and no one moved an inch. I did however, sense the wild emotions tumbling around in their minds. I lowered my violin and spoke.
"Oh, I know that you all have talents. I know that. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here. God gave them to you when he gave you your souls. The question is what have you done with your gifts?"
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, 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 at first, she then 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".
"Did the slave used his talent?"
"Yes".
"By making his talents 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.
"I don't understand all this. Why are you asking me all this here on top of this table?"
"Never mind that now. 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. Why are you asking all these questions?"
"But was David a good man?"
"Well, he was good and he was bad, as far as I know. Sometimes very bad."
"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. It was like that. I remember that now. God loved him because he was, among other things a poet, a singer and a musician. Is that right?"
"Perfectly. Well done. He also knew how to pray. He prayed beautifully and composed many wonderful songs in God's honour. So let's bring God here tonight. Here in this hall. Let Him come here and give us His blessings. Like He did for David."
"What? Are you crazy? How will we do that?"
I put my arm around her. "Go and sit down, Eva. I'll show you how 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 but tomorrow, you will write. Yes tomorrow. 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 hearts. Learn tonight to have no limitations. Let no man write your scripts."

I lifted my violin and began to play George Enescu's Romanian Rhapsody. There's no folk music on this earth that can compare with it. It is folk music that can fill angels with joy.
The music came 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 exuberant spirituality in a musical form.

When I stopped playing, there was a strange feeling in the air. It was as there was a tangible presence of the spirit of love and a new energy in the room. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought that I saw a new brightness in everyone's eyes.
I looked down at Eva and then at Nicholas. Both of them were laughing. They were laughing with a joy that could only be a gift from God. I jumped down from the table and embraced them both.