The Waltz to the Guitar
…In fact, every human soul is an unsteady light,
wandering to an unknown divine abode,
which it anticipates, seeks and doesn’t see.
Andre Morua
There were two of us at the open bus stop. It was an April evening. Through cold light of a street lantern I saw a boy, at the age of 14. He was in a black slightly baggy jacket, in a woolen knitted cap on his eyes. He had a guitar in his hands.
When the bus came the boy bought a ticket, carelessly thrust it into the side pocket and went to the salon. I followed him. There were many spare seats, but I took a seat closer to him.
- Why is your guitar without strings? – I answered.
He did not answer immediately. First he laid his silent “musical instrument” on his knees, put the cap off his head, showing his untidy blond curls, and then began his story in detail:
- I went to the town, thinking that they could repair it. This year I’m going to finish a musical school. I play the bayan, but I want to study playing the guitar, too. I tried to play it, and it seemed to me that I would be able to. This is my father’s guitar. He died when I was quite small. Mother didn’t give money to buy a new one grumbling “Grow up and earn yourself. I don’t have enough time for everything, I’m alone…”
He thoughtfully touched the fingerboard and turned his head towards wet windows.
- So you’re a real musician that you finish a special school, aren’t you?
- Real-unreal, but I take part in concerts.
- If somebody has a talent, that is a miracle! It seems to me that you have.
I noticed he believed me.
Sadly but thanksfully he smiled:
- Once I wanted to give up attending my musical school, you know …
- Why?
- I think, everyone has run of bad luck … It was a very difficult time for me at the end of a school year. I’ve got too many “unsats”… I didn’t well in almost all subjects. I understood nothing, tried to learn by rote. No results… The same was happening at the musical school. The teacher of music shouted constantly. The same at home: a shouting mother, unsatisfactory marks, bayan… I even decided to commit suicide BUT…
Once I got up early in the morning. The first lesson was Russian. Homework was not done. Damn! I’ ll get “unsats”. Again … Hey! The same in all the rest subjects! May be I’ll get “good” only in Drawing. Besides, a musical school yet. Good heavens!!! I’ll come back home, tired as usual, homework again… Where is the end of the day? It hasn’t even begun… And I’m dreaming of a desired night...
My only wish was:
to see nothing;
to hear nobody;
to sleep (Paradise!!!);
to be free…
darkness… good. That is a prize. But where is the start, where is the finish… What is between?
Every morning starts now equally…
I never told anyone about it before. Don’t know, why I am talking to you?
At musical school I’d been studying for three years. Elena Stepanovna, my teacher of music, always caviled at me … it seemed to me she was caviling only at me.
There was a wooden table in the classroom. When I was playing, she tapped in tact but very angrily. Everything on the table was jumping and rumbling. That fact mislead me only…
Every time I came home crying. Nobody was at home. Mum was still at work. I was sitting and crying in the darkness.
Once I came home from school… I couldn’t learn a new musical composition. And I decided to give up attending musical school…
I took a sheet of paper and began to write an application…
But I made up my mind not to give it at once. First I’d like to go there for the last time… Then I would be free. I would play with my friends...
Next day I went to school. There was still much snow. I walked along the path with birches and poplars. I never counted them before… And I thought: how many birches I would see, that mark I would get at the lesson… And I saw four birches and was eager to get it…
That day Wonder happened! I was very calm, Elena Stepanovna didn’t shout at me at all, music was flowing, I was playing and playing… It was great pleasure! My teacher even praised me, I got a good mark!
Since that time I knew that music was important in our everyday life, music was everywhere: in the street, in the parks, in the radio… I’d like to play the guitar now… like my father…
Before my first performance at the concert my teacher admonished: “If there is somebody of your relatives at the concert, do not look at them, because you can’t concentrate then. Look above them at one point. Say that you are playing for this point. See?”
I went to the stage. I was afraid. I sat on the chair and began playing at once. There were lots of people in the hall… I couldn’t make a mistake. I couldn’t find a point but I really saw my father. I began playing for him only… I felt sure myself. There was only my dad and me.
I played waltz “On the hills of Manchjuria”. Have you heard it?
- Yes, I like it.
- At the beginning music is calm. I am playing for dad. He is a general with grey hair. He is listening to my music, then he stands up looking for his couple, and chooses mum. The music here is becoming louder. They are dancing and smiling happily. The music is louder and louder.
I have been learning this waltz for about half a year. My performance lasted only two minutes. People in the hall clapped their hands. They say it was of great success.
One day I borrowed a guitar from my friend and tried to play choosing chords. Mother said that music was familiar. I took father’s guitar…It was without strings, my dad touched it. Suddenly I wanted to perform the waltz “On the hills of Manchjuria” for my dad, but playing the guitar. I think he would be happy…
I’d like to repair it in the town, they refused… Miracles don't happen…
The boy finished his story and was quiet till his stop.
The most important thing was said…
Before leaving he shook my hand like a real grown-up and invited me to come to the concert the next day at the club…
I followed further…
***
The concert at the club was over. Everybody enjoyed the boy’s performance. He played especially well today.
The boy was going out when a porter, an old woman, gave him a new acoustic guitar saying:
- It’s for you. Someone asked to give it to you, who- don’t know…
Masters were mistaken. Miracles happen!!!
It was Easter.
Petrozavodsk, April 8th, 2007.