I learned what it is like when music is born in the moment, like a fire, arising from the heart to give itself away – without wanting, without intention.
I was travelling on a ferry for a few days and got to know a family who were on an extended trip. The middle-aged man told me the following story. As this encounter deeply moved me, it has had a lasting impact, and I will cherish it for the rest of my life. Here are a few excerpts. I have embellished some parts. My imagination, so greatly stimulated, slipped into the narrator’s shoes and said to the memory: ‘That must have been exactly how it was.’
1
During one of my last visits to the house where I grew up, my elderly but sprightly and alert parents collapsed. Both of them! It was after a concert with my quartet. As expected, it was a great success, with excellent press coverage and more. New invitations for a tour abroad, teaching commitments as a guest professor, my twelfth CD, and so on. I was celebrated and honoured by my family that evening.
I had already had a few glasses of wine—the best vintage, as is customary on such occasions. Through a veil that lay over me like a dull blanket, I could hear the conversations. The highlight of your career, if things continue like this, will be. We are very proud of you; thanks to your hard work. Yes, and we made sure of that early on. – – – An immense anger rose inside me, while my wife and my parents were in such a unity. Apparently, the external success of another person can unite others. And something inside me, if only I knew what, began to berate my parents. They had ruined my life, wanting me to be a great musician from the very beginning. My childhood consisted mainly of practising the instrument. I was trained like a circus monkey; the violin, of course, what else? – Images from my childhood came up: praise when I was good, reprimands when some pieces and runs weren’t as expected. The stupid, petty ambition of frustrated music teachers, my mother a piano teacher and my father a cello and organ teacher. And again I see him, dressed darkly and seriously, playing the organ in church for the umpteenth time; it was that church in our town where I had suffocation attacks as a child. Once, I can see it clearly now, they had to carry me out. The doctor came; I spent a week in the hospital. They found nothing; what could they have seen?
2
Everything that had been suppressed for decades, or what seemed like centuries to me, in the suffocating stench of our artistic dynasty – how significant they all thought they were, including myself! – everything that had remained unspoken and unlived: the soul’s longing for truth, for fulfilment. My parents, just as stuck as I was, on the unspeakable, mendacious and clumsy cultural ladder; their son just a few rotten rungs higher, where they all wanted to be, especially my mother, I think. I railed as I had never done in my youth. Never, not even afterwards, when I was well-behaved and conformist. They had robbed me of my life; like vampires, they had sucked me dry to feed their egos at the expense of their children, especially mine.
My father had a heart attack back then, clutched his chest and swallowed his pills. I have no idea how long he had been taking them. And my mother immediately felt her bile rising again. I was angry in a way I had only ever experienced as a child. My wife glared at me as if I had lost my mind. It is true, I wasn’t thinking straight at the time; the alcohol, the tension, the old, familiar atmosphere. The next day, I felt sorry about what had happened. But somehow I couldn’t apologise. Of course, I’m glad my children didn’t witness it. What would they have thought of their father? ‘This is the truth, just as you are, you philistine!’ flashed through my mind.
I had to sleep in our guest room for the next few days, which I was actually glad about. My wife didn’t want to see me at all. It was the days before Christmas, the worst time of the year for me; loud, garish, the lies are never so outrageous at other times of the year. I cancelled more concerts, citing illness. The culture pages of the local press reported a nervous breakdown and overwork of a sensitive artist, among similar stories.
How wonderfully little I cared about all that. I would have loved to give an interview to announce the collapse – not of my nerves, which recovered as quickly as the alcohol left my blood – but of the whole putrid, meaningless cultural establishment.
3
In the days that followed, the family situation normalised somewhat. I went with my wife through the wintry city, hearing music from far away – and again, the question that had been stuck in my mind resurfaced: what is love, actually? To be precise, I only heard a clarinet. The sound enchanted me. As I got closer, I saw a group of four musicians: three men, one woman, and a dog, all dressed in colourful robes, wide hats, and long hair. A large circle of people had formed around them; mostly children, I was amazed to see. ‘Hello, Professor, listening to that?’ I heard a sweet-voiced, well-meaning cultural editor from our city ask, Are you feeling better? A sudden pain constricted my throat, and I began to cry like a child who had lost his beloved. I couldn’t control myself. As if from a distance, my wife called out, worried: Come on, let’s go. No, I’m staying; I have to wait. You go, go. And again: the sound of the clarinet. It burned itself into my heart.
I must have lost consciousness and woke up sometime later in an ambulance. In that brief moment of unconsciousness, I had a dream, or was it not a dream at all, but some kind of reality? In that dream, I saw myself as one of those comic characters wearing a dark mask, fighting against others like me. It’s always about power, about triumph over ‘the others’, about one’s own greatness, about the victorious pose, even the victory fist stretching upwards.
And, in the centre of my heart, very small and delicate, inconspicuous, there was a bright spot that resembled a human being, the human being. And the sound of the clarinet in this dream was a spear of light; yes, a spear of light that pierced the mask and killed me, the comic character.
In the ambulance, I couldn’t remember the dream right away; it came back to me bit by bit. The ambulance sent me home with a bunch of medication: one of the doctors, who was as eager as he was important, said: It is nothing organic, but he must take care of himself, I recommend a check-up and examination, then hospitalisation in the new year; we’re full right now, and then some treatment, the same old story, like always before Christmas, people’s nerves are shot. Blah blah blah, I added in my mind: nonsense, all the same nonsense. Doesn’t anyone understand anything? I thought to myself? No, they know so little; how many heart attacks, how many deaths and so on must we go through before we finally understand? And the most painful thing – I myself am in the middle of it.
4
I spoke lightly in my thoughts at the time, of course, because in a certain way, I already knew that I was dead. The comic figure was dead, and with him the internationally renowned soloist, son of our city.
Childlike joy (which I rarely experienced as a child) suddenly began to flow through my whole being – it originated somewhere in my centre.
When we got home, the first thing I did was throw the medication into the rubbish bin with great force and joy, fetch the violin (the most expensive one, one with an incredible history, there’s hardly another one like it, I can hear my envious colleagues saying), give it to my wife with the request that she sell it and live off the proceeds for a while. If that wasn’t enough, I still had two other pieces that were only slightly less valuable. She should cancel all my appointments, citing illness, as the newspaper already knew. My dear, I have never felt as healthy in my entire life as I do at this moment, and I now understand what music is. Tell the children when they come home from school that they need not worry; they are used to their father being away on tour for a few weeks at a time. They can be sure of my love for as long as I live. And tell my parents that I am sorry for what happened back then. Oh, those parents; honestly, who among us can or wants to change who they are when there’s no need to – as is the case with me now, for example?
I fetched an old duffel bag from the cellar, stuffed a few things into it, my old long black coat, a hat, a scarf, gloves (the kind with the fingertips cut off, they were left over from somewhere) and took my son’s cheap violin with me (he didn’t really like playing the violin, he probably only played out of family tradition).
Feeling as if I had been reborn, a new youth pulsing through my veins, I made my way down to the square where the musicians played. How fervently I hoped to meet them. But, as I had expected, they were no longer there. I asked around, here and there, ‘Yes, wonderful music, didn’t you think so too? Rarely have I heard anything like it. Did you see the joy on people’s faces as they listened to the four of them?’ The comic character with the mask reared up inside me once more. Still, at the exact moment I felt the spear in my heart again and had to laugh out loud – at the figure that bears my name; but is this really my name, my real name?
In the afternoon, they would be on the other side of town, in an old square, and I should come, said an older man next to me with a friendly laugh, which I accepted with deep gratitude. It turned out that he had invited the group to town; they were staying with him, far out in the countryside.
5
Later, I got to know the clarinettist and asked him if I could learn music from him. I could play a few instruments, but music had to be something else, something I heard in the simple playing of the travelling group.
For the next few months, we travelled from city to city, from country to country, living off the money we earned on the streets, sometimes being invited to eat here and there, and having excellent encounters. At that time, life was like a storm of freedom breaking out from within. The hardships of the cold in winter, the heat in summer; how often we packed and unpacked our instruments when rain showers came; and it didn’t matter whether it was rain, heat or anything else. And I played the violin, learned to play the clarinet, and learned to listen completely to the living notes within. I experienced what it is like when music is born like a fire in the moment – is there anything other than the present? – arises from the heart to give itself away – without wanting, without intention, above all, without the intention to be good or to please. The reward for joy is joy.
My life is shaped by music. But it was only on the street or in some remote courtyard that I experienced the feeling of touching people’s inner selves, beyond their masks, through playing. How often did the children start dancing, followed by the adults, somewhat stiffly or hesitantly – as if in a brief respite for the soul, a short, restful holiday from the front, before the battles of life sucked people back in.
Weeks and months passed, and then one day I had another dream, like a memory of a future that had already begun: The figure with the mask lies paralysed on the ground, still alive, weak, but unable to fight the fire that has broken out, slowly being consumed by it. And the tiny spark in its chest first becomes a flame, then a fire, clear and bright, warming, shining like the sun, but without burning; giving light with a new sound: the sound of the world soul, a sound from the depths of the heart that wants to ring through us to the ears of people who long for it. What do we long for?
6
To be a musician who carries music within them,
Everyone can do it.
No special instruments are needed.
The sound – the light of the heart,
igniting its equal
in the hearts of people;
kindling it to peace,
beyond all understanding,
kindling it to a happiness that can only be hinted at in words;
a blazing fire of the present.
– – – – –
Afterword
The musician then told me that he no longer plays classical concerts, but works with schoolchildren and students. Music is the language of the universe, and also of the heart; however, we must free ourselves from conventions and learn again to follow the sound of our hearts. We will also find correct thinking and clear understanding. And, of course, we must be interested in the mystery of why we were ultimately born. I asked him what had happened with his parents. He smiled, and his eyes sparkled with joy; they were both retired, and any resentment had long since disappeared, replaced by joy and warm friendship.
