This is the introduction to the story of a Hungarian pianist Katalin, who grew up during the communist era in Hungary, experienced the 1956 Hungarian revolution, studied in the USA and became a world renowned  concert pianist.

*** The concert

1.1  WHEN THE HOUSE LIGHTS dimmed, the magic began. As the dark velvet curtain separating the orchestra from the audience made its slow, dramatic ascent, the air seemed to lighten, cleansing itself until it was weightless, completely clear. A transparent canvas on which the glory of sound could display its colors. Excitement crackled in the atmosphere with an almost visible electricity that jolted the senses and alerted the soul that something special was about to occur.

1.2  The concertmaster stood, placing his violin beneath his chin. A halo of heightened anticipation lit the enormous stage of the Opera Ház with a burnished glow. Glittering like the gold leaf that decorated the balcony balustrades and the bronze crystal of the grand chandeliers. His bow stroked the note of A. Sounds filled the hall as the musicians tuned their instruments. Strings squealed. Horns bleated. Oboes, bassoons, and basses moaned a rising dissonance until, when everyone was in accord, the cacophony ceased. The concertmaster took his seat and placed his violin on his lap. Silence descended.

1.3  Suddenly, a wild burst of applause overwhelmed the golden auditorium, signaling the appearance of the evening's maestro, Zoltan Gaspar. As he took his place on the conductor's podium, the audience rose. Shouts of Bravo! and waves of raucous enthusiasm greeted him. And then, a hush, a moment of undeniable, unmistakable respect. This man had survived some of Hungary's darkest times. This man had crawled out from the hell of enforced anonymity back into the musical firmament where he belonged. To most people there, Zoltan Gaspar was a true Magyar, a true descendent of Arpad, leader of the seven tribes that swept down from the Urals and formed primitive Hungary. Gaspar had triumphed over those who had worked so hard to squash his spirit and control his soul. He had defied them. Better than that, his presence here this evening proved he had beaten them.

1.4  Zoltan acknowledged his audience with a deep, formal bow and a slight uptilt of his lips. Then he turned. His mouth widened into a generous smile as he welcomed his musicians to the performance. Just a few hours before, they had completed their daily four hours of rehearsal. The last runthrough, the rehearsal known as the "general," had been flawless. Sometimes that portends a brilliant concert. Sometimes it's an omen of disaster. Tonight, everyone in that orchestra knew he had to push beyond, had to strive for that rare level of excellence that can only be described as inspired. A concert as historic as this deserved nothing less.

renowned = híres

dimmed = elhalványodtak
velvet = bársony
audience = közönség
canvas = vászon
display = kijelző, kirakat
crackled = ropogtak
jolted = megrángatni

burnished = fényesített
Glittering = csillogó
balustrades = korlátok
chandeliers = csillárok
bow = íj, vonó, meghajolni
bleated = bőgtek
cacophony = hangzavar


raucous = érdes hangú
hush = pszt, csend
crawled  = mászott
firmament = társaság


squash = összezúzni
defied = dacosan visszautasítani

acknowledge = tudomásul venni


flawless = hibátlan

portends = előrevetíteni


 

1.5  Katalin Gaspar paced her dressing room nervously, trying to concentrate on the concerto she was scheduled to play, but her mind was hopelessly distracted. At that very moment a small but intensely loyal coterie was already in place, ready to act. Each of them understood what was expected of him and what he could expect in return if something went wrong. After tonight, Katalin's life would never be the same. In less than two hours, all that she had known would become part of her past; all that she wanted for her future would depend on the mercy of the gods.

1.6  Quickly, Katalin turned away from the mirror, reluctant to confront the frightened woman residing there. Instead, her deepset celadon  eyes fixed on the three bouquets that graced the sideboard on the opposite wall. A crystal globe of pale pink tulips was from the man she loved. The Herend vase filled with a dozen red Bulgarian roses was from the man she had once loved but had to leave. And in a humble crockery pot stood a single wild rose, from the man whose friendship had been a lifelong secret.

1.7  Unable to contain her thoughts, Katalin opened the door of her dressing room and stepped into the hallway. Just then, the lights of the Opera House dimmed. The orchestra had completed Zoltan Kodaly's "The Peacock." They had accepted their applause and were ready to begin the next selection. The lights backstage also went black. Katalin began to tremble. Her hands grew moist, her breathing rapid and shallow. For as long as she could remember she had been terrified of the dark. Never had the suit of night felt comfortable, never had it brought her peace or solitude. Experience had taught her that bad things happened under the cover of night. Police came. Soldiers came. Death came.

*** Love scene                          Top

2.1  Shutting her eyes against the blackness, she had a flash of unexpected memory. A dark room, suddenly softly lit, and a bright red lamp shade trimmed with plump pompons that bounced and bobbled at the slightest provocation. A smile touching her lips, she thought of him and the first time they made love.

2.2  For her, it was the first time ever. They had been sitting in the cramped, dimly lit parlor, holding hands and talking, at first with the caution that accompanies reacquaintance. They talked for hours, until words that earlier in the evening had flowed like wine from a cask slowed, falling from their lips one by one, like the last precious drops in a bottle. The air grew heavy with their intimacy. When finally he kissed her, it was as if time had quickened, telescoping years into minutes, hours into seconds. They clung to each other as if this pocket of privacy had been granted to them with the proviso that it be used then or immediately be forfeited. Soon, the rising heat of their young passion had propelled them into the other room. There, amidst a jumble of lacy throw pillows and crocheted coverlets, they moved toward consummating a relationship that had started years before.

2.3  His fingers prowled beneath her clothes, bewitching her, enticing her to surrender to the touch of his hands upon her skin. Intrigued and excited by the exquisite sensations he had awakened within her, she allowed herself to block out everything other than what she was feeling. When he began to undress her, she scurried out of her blouse, desperate to be free of whatever separated her flesh from his. His arm slipped behind her back and unhooked her brassiere. His lips followed his hands, as slowly he removed the silky piece of lingerie. She sighed as her body trembled beneath his. Warmed by the knowledge that he was pleasing her, his hands journeyed further. Suddenly, she pulled away. Startled, he switched on the lights. Assuming she had been struck by an attack of virginal shyness, he searched her face for regret, retreat, perhaps even anger. But she hadn't rushed to cover her breasts. She wasn't blushing. She hadn't moved away.

2.4  "I want you," he said quietly, certain he had hurt her, or offended her, "but if you're not ready, I'll wait."

A faint pink wash of embarrassment tinged her cheeks.

"I'm afraid of the dark," she said.

She could still feel the kindness in his touch as his hand patted her face.

"Close your eyes," he said. "The way you do when you're playing the piano." Willingly, she complied.

2.5 He took her face in his hands and kissed her, delicately, reassuringly. Then he drew her to him, caressing her body with long, sensuous strokes. He continued to kiss her as gently he laid her down on the bed, disrobing her, exploring the lush landscape of her body. All the while he whispered to her, encouraging her to enjoy the colors rainbowing the inside of her eyelids, to concentrate on nothing other than the sensations of the moment. When they had finished, when his lips had reluctantly separated from her flesh, then, and only then, did he allow her to open her eyes. At some point during their lovemaking, he had extinguished the lamp. The room was black.

"I wanted to show you that beautiful things can happen in the dark," he said.

*** Dressing room                          Top

3.1  Now, as she stood in the darkened hallway of the Opera House, remembering, she nodded, as if he were there with her.

Tonight I need the darkness to be my friend, she said to herself, afraid even to whisper her thoughts for fear that someone might overhear.

The opening strains of Brahms's "Hungarian Rhapsodies" intruded on her reminiscence. For a moment the music sluiced over her, soothing her, as music always did.

The calm was shortlived. Feeling suddenly energized by a sense of purpose as well as foreboding, Katalin returned to her dressing room and stood before her mirror. As she freshened her makeup, she cleansed her mind of everything except the Liszt she would perform. Mentally, she played each note, reviewed every measure. As she did, her fingers moved up and down an imaginary keyboard while her body swayed to the rhythm of a silent, very personal theme.

3.2 Despite her personal stake in the outcome of this concert, as a musician and especially as a Hungarian, tonight's program infused her with pride. It had been designed as a national salute, featuring works by two of Hungary's greatest composers—Liszt and Kodaly—as well as Brahms's famous tribute to the melodies of the Magyars.

3.3  Katalin had made her own patriotic contribution to the evening. Normally, concert pianists wore black. Their gowns were somber garments, classic and formal. Makeup was subdued, hairstyles severe. Tonight, though, Katalin's long strawberry-blond hair draped her shoulders, caught by two wooden combs that pulled the luxurious mane from her face. Her skirt was the red of the Hungarian flag; her top, a white, puffy-sleeved peasant's blouse garnished with the boldly colored floral embroidery of the heartland. Wrapped around her hips was a glorious shawl of creamy silk, a sensuously fringed square emblazoned with hand-stitched wildflowers and birds. It had belonged to Maria Gaspar, Katalin's mother. Years ago, Maria had loaned it to Katalin for the final round of the Salzburg Competition in the hope that it would bring her daughter luck. It had. Katalin had won first prize. As she smoothed the folds of the magnificent shawl, she prayed that it still possessed the power of good fortune.

 Top

3.4  "Ten minutes, Miss Gaspar."

The stage manager had rapped lightly on her door, but the knocking rattled her nonetheless.

"Köszönöm," she said, fighting to control the thunderous pounding of her heart.

With a shaky hand she rouged her lips and smoothed her hair. Drawing a deep breath, she allowed herself one last look at her flowers before taking her place at the side of the stage. As she listened to the orchestra play the last glorious strains of the "Rhapsodies" and waited for her cue, she wondered if this might be her last concert. It was possible, and the thought chilled her. She couldn't imagine a life without performing. She couldn't imagine waking up in the morning without going to the piano to practice. She couldn't imagine never again sharing something as precious as a Beethoven sonata or a Chopin etude with an audience.

3.5  But, Katalin thought as she rubbed her arms to smooth the goose bumps that had risen on her skin, she was not the young idealist anymore. She no longer believed she could bury herself in her music and ignore the rest of the world. Tonight she would walk out onto the stage of the Opera Ház an internationally acclaimed pianist, but her celebrity had not come without cost.

3.6  There had been years of loneliness and isolation, years of constant battling to lead a normal life. Yet for her, life had never been normal. She had always felt separate and apart, as if she was standing outside looking in. Although she knew she had something that few in the universe possessed, talent was small comfort to a child who'd sacrificed a childhood, to a girl who had tested her friends' loyalties once too often, or to a young woman who had kept love on the shelf so long it had spoiled.

"But," Katalin said aloud, needing to gauge her level of confidence, "you have to forget the past and concentrate on the future. You have to walk out there tonight and give the performance of your life. Because your life depends on it!"

*** Judit                                 Top

4.1  For the first time in her life, Judit Strasser didn't envy Katalin. It felt strange, actually, anticipating her appearance without feeling a twinge of rivalry pinching her stomach. They had been friends since the cradle—best friends mostly, enemies never—and though Judit loved Katalin with a genuineness common to lifetime relationships, an insistent strain of insecurity had prompted her to challenge that love many times. As she listened to the Brahms, she tried to recall a single moment when she hadn't wished for something Katalin had—her talent, her straight hair, her slim figure, her thick eyebrows, her international fame. Yet at this moment, Judit wouldn't have traded places with Katalin for anything.

4.2  Just that afternoon, she had pleaded with Katalin to reconsider her plans. Judit feared for her friend, but more, she couldn't imagine life without Katalin; she couldn't bear the thought of not being near enough to reach out for her or to bask in the warmth of her reflected aura.

"But you don't need me anymore," Katalin had said as a way of allaying Judit's fears.

4.3  "I'll always need you," Judit had replied. "Maybe not in the same way as I once did," she added, acknowledging the changes that had taken place in their relationship over the years, the changes that had taken place in her. "But the truth is, I think we share the same heart. I think we were connected at birth and only the skill of a clever surgeon permitted us to live separate lives."

Katalin had laughed. And Judit had laughed. First, because for too long she had feared she would never hear Katalin laugh again, and also because the pure joy in Katalin's laughter had always been infectious.

4.4  "That surgeon wasn't as clever as you say," Katalin had told her. "Because your share of the heart has always been bigger and more generous than mine. And besides, if we're both really honest, we never led separate lives, even though God knows there were times when even an ocean wasn't large enough to satisfy our need for distance."

It was then, when Katalin's laughter turned to tears and she grabbed for Judit, clinging to her as they had when they were small, that Judit had admitted she would do whatever Katalin asked, despite the fact that to do so was to put her own life and the lives of her family at risk.

*** Gipsies                          Top

5.1  A tired old gelding dragged the gypsy vardo along the back road leading to Esztergom. A pregnant mare lumbered behind, her tail swishing flies off her back, her enlarged bottom swaying from side to side as the painted wagon made its way out of Budapest. A young man with mocha skin, licorice hair, and obsidian eyes led the gelding along the path. Bedecked in the flamboyant manner of the Rom—red pantaloons, a green shirt, a paisley vest, a blue kerchief, white socks, black shoes, and of course the thick golden hoop that dangled from his left ear—he whistled as he walked.

5.2 His wife, also   in a cotton rainbow, also laden with chains and earrings and bracelets of gold, perched on the front bench of the vardo, her knees splayed, her arms resting on her thighs. Though she was young and slim, her skin was weathered and her posture stooped, making her appear older and harder than she was. As they passed a trio of Hungarian soldiers she bowed her kerchiefed head, to avoid the look of disgust she knew would be in their eyes.

5.3 "Where are you going?" one of the soldiers demanded. "Esztergom," the gypsy answered without breaking his stride.

"What a cesspool you and your kind have made of that city," another soldier said, spitting and wrinkling his nose as he recalled the last time he had been forced to patrol the gypsy camp outside Esztergom.

"Nothing stinks worse than a gypsy," the third soldier added. "Horse shit smells better."

5.4 Inside, the gypsy bristled, but his face remained expressionless. He simply continued leading the gelding down the road. Over the years he had become less vulnerable to the stinging pain of prejudice. He believed that, often, the violent hatred of others had served to make the gypsies stronger and more defiant. They had maintained their traditions and their customs despite constant attacks of selfrighteous bigotry, despite the numbers they had lost in the Holocaust, despite the general mistrust of just about everyone. There would be no change, because there could never be total assimilation. Aside from the vast dissimilarity in customs, there would always be the obvious difference of color. The others would always be white. And the gypsy would always be brown.

5.5 "What are you carrying inside that crate you call a home?"

"Things I call my belongings."

The gypsy didn't bother to disguise his sarcasm. Harassing gypsies was a recognized national sport. They would taunt him, humiliate his wife, search his caravan, and when they had finished degrading them—unless they were of the more savage persuasion who enjoyed inflicting pain—the soldiers would go on their way feeling better about themselves for having disrupted his journey.

 Top

5.6 "Is this one of your belongings?" One of the soldiers grabbed the woman's hand and pulled her toward him until her face was next to his. He stuck his tongue out and wiggled it in front of her nose. Just as he was about to kiss her, she opened her mouth and breathed on him. The putrid smell of her breath sent him reeling. As he backed off, gagging, she spread her lips in a wide, mocking smile.

5.7 As if to cover up for the blundering of their companion, the two other soldiers walked around the back of the vardo. It was a square caravan with small curtained windows cut into the sides. Brightly painted shutters and gaily stenciled flowers decorated the movable home. Pots and pans hung from a rack nailed over the back door. Trunks were lashed to the roof. A guitar and a zither dangled from velvet ropes tied to a thick brass railing. Inside, when the men opened the door, they saw stacks of fat, lumpy cushions, boxes of open foodstuffs, and a pile of filthy rags they never even recognized as a wardrobe. Crumpled in a ball in a corner, partly hidden behind a curtain of glass beads, was a child.

5.8 "Who's that?"

"My daughter," the gypsy said, jumping up onto the vardo, positioning himself between the two soldiers and the sleeping child.

"How old is she?"

"Two. Soon I'll be able to get a bride's price for her. And it'll be a good one because she's still a virgin." The gypsy pushed aside the beads so that the soldiers could get a better look at the merchandise soon to go on sale. The child's skin was the same light brown as her father's, her hair the same shade of pitch. "Either of you interested?" he said, offering the men a lascivious smile punctuated with dark spaces.

5.9 The soldiers couldn't get away quickly enough. The gypsy returned to the front of the vardo, picked up the reins, nodded to his wife, and once again began to lead his grubby troupe toward Esztergom.

Had the soldiers been more interested, they might have noticed that beneath the blankets the child's hands were white; beneath the kerchief and black wig was a mane of soft chestnut brown hair; and beneath the closed eyelids slept eyes of pale translucent green.

***  Embassy                            Top

6.1 The American Embassy at 12 Szabadság tér was an elegant yellow building facing a statue of a Russian soldier, which usually wore a floral wreath—more for the benefit of those who worked in the Embassy than as tribute to the soldier. Across the street was a radio station that had known censorship-free broadcasting only once in its history, and a lovely green park where every now and then old men shared the wooden benches with young mothers who rocked their children to sleep in hooded prams, and lovers strolled hand­in-hand beneath the trees, and life appeared normal.

6.2 Inside the Embassy that particular evening, however, life was anything but normal. The ambassador had left only moments before to attend the concert at the Opera House. Though he had been accompanied by the expected entourage of assistants and consuls, most of his staff remained behind, following up on an undercover operation that had begun months before.

6.3 The wind of change had been blowing through Hungary for some time. In the beginning, it was as gentle as a zephyr, teasing those who had stubbornly held on to the dream of freedom. Then, the little breeze began to gather strength. As more and more people began to believe in the possibility of change, the notion had begun to gust and bellow. Slowly,  people began to trust one another and reach out to one another for help. Underground networks were established for exchanging information. Political splinter groups formed, determined to challenge the status quo.

6.4 For almost two years the ambassador's staff had been establishing contacts, cultivating relationships, listening to shifts in the wind. Tonight, if all went well, one man, the leader of a reform group, would be hailed as a hero, while another, a man who would stop at nothing to maintain the status quo, would be exposed as a traitor.

*** The House                                  Top

7.1 They hid in the bowels of the Opera Ház, more than a hundred of them. Walachian gypsies from Esztergom. Lovari gypsies from Pecs. The nomadic Rom from across the Romanian border in Transylvania. They had been there since the night before, when a friend had unlocked a secret door to let them in. They camped there as they camped anywhere, squatting on blankets that covered the cold floor, sitting in groups, peeling fruit, eating clumps of bread and cheese, sipping wine from goatskins. They were patient because they were there by choice. They had been asked to help a tribesman and they had agreed.

7.2 Now, they waited for the signal to move. When it came they would invade the auditorium. They would infiltrate the musical temple so sacred to the gorgio. They would sneak up into the boxes, out onto the floor. They would appear from every door, every opening. And then they would extract their revenge. They would disgrace completely one who had brought disgrace to them. They would do the worst thing a gypsy could do to a nongypsy. They would claim her as one of their own.

7.3 The Brahms was over. The maestro was about to introduce the evening's soloist, but in the dress circle someone who had lingered too long over a glass of champagne in the salon during intermission was creating a disturbance. Zoltan looked up and glared with disapproval. Such disrespect! Behavior like this was not simply rude—it was intolerable. No Hungarian would ever dream of disrupting a musical performance. But then, Zoltan thought as he realized who the laggard was, she was not a Hungarian.

7.4 All eyes turned toward the tall, sleek brunette who was the object of Zoltan's scorn. Without apology she slipped into one of the boxes reserved for distinguished guests. For an instant she met Zoltan's gaze. A corner of her lush red mouth twisted into an arrogant sneer. Then she took her seat. Playing to her audience like a diva, she tossed back her mane of thick brown hair, allowing the light from the chandeliers to capture the brilliance of the diamond clusters that adorned her ears. Inwardly, she smiled at the gasp emitted when the light touched her diamond collar and blazed with the fire only perfect stones produce.

 Top

7.5 Normally, there was nothing she relished more than a grand entrance, knowing that while women were staring at the lean lines of her long black lace gown, men were eyeing the sensuous curves of her body. For a moment she indulged in a warm bath of ego satisfaction, but quickly the feeling cooled. A cloak of resentment replaced the fur that had draped her shoulders. There was too little triumph in the impression she made in her designer gown and her array of important jewels, here in this city of drab hausfraus. Here, unlike Paris or London, her stature, her unerring sense of style went unchallenged. And triumph without challenge was unsatisfying.

7.6 As if to prove her point, she peered down into the rows below her. The audience, as always, was predominantly old, mostly venerable women in ill-fitting clothes that looked as if the mothballs they had been stored in still clung to their hems, pathetic examples of faded femininity, all of them hostages to dreary, socialistic frumpery.

The men fared no better in their baggy suits tailored of inferior cloth and their shabby pointy-toed shoes. Because this concert had been declared an official occasion, there were more uniforms in attendance than usual. She liked that. At least army officers and govemment officials bedecked in ribbons and medals presented a more sophisticated image. They walked smartly. Their shoes were polished. Their clothes were clean and crisply ironed. The fact that no one smiled and that guns hung from holsters or nestled beneath jackets was depressing, but so was everything about this evening.

So was everything about her life.

***  On the stage                                  Top

8.1 Katalin's knees wobbled as she made her way around the orchestra to the footlights, bowed her head, and offered a deep, respectful curtsy. As she always did when she arose, she lifted her eyes first to the delicately frescoed ceiling and then slowly let her gaze descend, seeking a spot within the crowd—a piece of woodwork, a bit of curtain, an exit sign beaming above a doorway. She didn't like to look at thousands of individual faces. She preferred to think of the audience as a singular mass, as one ear, one listener, one person with whom she and her music could be intimate. Usually she focused on her spot, nodded a second time, and took her seat at the piano. But tonight, like a piece of metal caught in the pull of a magnet, her eyes were drawn to the royal box.

8.2 She tried to resist, but his stare was too demanding. She fixed on him and for a long, wistful moment, she thought they returned to another time, a time when love had been the dominant emotion in their lives, not hate; a time when his arms had been her sanctuary, her arms his refuge. She tried to cling to the memories, to retrieve the sweetness of the past, but the interlude of softness was gone as quickly as it had come. His eyes hardened into steel as she continued to blaze her defiance at him. She knew he wanted her to accord him and his associates the honor of a special curtsy. Instead, she tipped her chin, set her mouth, and dismissed him with a deliberate turn of her head.

8.3 Helpless to stop herself, she felt her gaze stray to a box on a lower circle. Like a homing device connected directly to her heart, her eyes riveted on another face, drinking in the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the strong ridge of his brow. She lingered on the graceful arch of his lips. Her life with him had held moments of black emptiness and uncertainty, as well as times filled with such joy that, thinking of them, she felt a warm rush suffuse her body.

It was only a few seconds, but as she stood there, locked in the safety of his view, time dissolved. Fear and doubt disintegrated. As long as he loved her, she could do anything.

 Top

8.4 Suddenly, in the periphery of her consciousness, she realized the applause had quieted. The reverie faded as Katalin was reminded of her purpose. To cloak the awkward moment, she took another quick bow. It was then, when she tried to regroup, when she looked away, up toward that invisible spot that was her comfort zone, that she noticed it. It was nothing definite, nothing with any recognizable form. In fact, it was nothing but an odd glimmering, something that seemed out of place, yet eerily familiar.

8.5 She had seen it late that afternoon, when she had come to tune the Bosendorfer. All the while she worked on the grand piano—adjusting the sound, checking the flexibility of the keyboard, the tightness of the strings, the responsiveness of the hammers—she had not been able to shake the feeling that unfriendly eyes were trained on her. Once or twice she had scanned the empty horseshoe-shaped auditorium. She had peered through three levels of Roman arches, searching the dim interiors for movement. Apart from two security men, it appeared she was alone. Yet when she had panned the uppermost tier, the one above the royal box, she had noticed the same odd glimmer coming from the box next to the one housing the main spotlight. It had unnerved her then. It unnerved her now, as she seated herself at the piano.

8.6 An almost imperceptible tapping intruded on her thoughts. Automatically, the soloist looked toward the conductor. Zoltan's eyes bored into Katalin's, asking if she was all right. She breathed deeply, loosened her shoulders and arms, closed her eyes, stretched her fingers, warmed her hands, and then nodded. Yes. she was fine. She was ready. Zoltan raised his baton. A hundred musicians came to attention.

8.7 The majestic notes of Franz Liszt's Concerto No. 1 for Piano and Orchestra in E-flat major began to fill the hall, coaxed into existence slowly, carefully. Then, with an authoritative thrust, Zoltan raised his hand and signaled his musicians to unleash the full power of the composition. As he heard their explosive response, a surge of exhilaration embraced his soul. He bathed in the rapture of it, washing himself with the pure ecstasy of knowing that he and his seed—his beautiful, beloved Katalin were producing music as grand as this.

8.8 Katalin felt it too. Her entire being was absorbed in the magic of the performance, filling her with such divine pleasure that there was no room for extraneous thought or superficial feeling. There was nothing except her hands and the keys beneath them, nothing save the piano and the orchestra behind her, the conductor beside her. There was nothing except this rare and exquisite moment, when every cell felt alive and jubilant.

8.9 It was a perfect fusion of elements: composer, conductor, orchestra, and soloist. Together, they attained a level of perfection that mesmerized the hall. As the third movement raced toward its final crescendo, the music swelled into a triumphant roar. Its awesome power gripped the soul of everyone present, overwhelming the senses and obliterating all other sound—including the click of a trigger.

 Top