The Wild Rose [antikvár]

WTHEN 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 colours. 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. 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. Suddenly, a wild burst of applause overwhelmed the golden auditorium, signalling the appearance of the evening's maestro, Zoltán Gáspár. 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, Zoltán Gáspár was a true Magyar, a true descendant of Ájpád, leader of the seven tribes that swept down from the Urals and formed primitive Hungary. Gáspár had triumphed over those who had worked so hard to squash his spirit and control his soul.