One of our missions sent us to work with Pax Mundi, an association that campaigns for world peace and organises free cultural encounters in countries where entrenched hatreds wreak social disorder and wars.
Founded in Berlin by an international caucus of artists and backed by several foundations, it promotes the theory that art, even when tyrannised by religious, ethnic, racial and nationalistic dogmas, can melt these malignancies by sustaining humankind with beauty, harmony and spiritual transcendence.
At this time, Pax Mundi wanted to focus its attention on the persistent persecution of the Roma in many European countries. With Hrant’s blessing we decided to serve as assistants in a forthcoming encounter.
As impartial scholars would assert, historical accounts are rarely, if ever, objective. Historians, bound by their ethnicity, nationality, religion, culture and ideologies, tend to tint their narratives with their biases. Annals, whether recorded by victors or vanquished, are consistently divergent. Also, chroniclers often neglect tangential factors such as poor harvests or water shortages and fail to emphasise that history is moulded by migration – not only of displaced peoples but of tribes seeking better pastures, of armies invading honeyed lands, of prophets, rebels, ideologues and humanists trawling for converts.
The history of Romani migration is one of the most neglected. Europe’s largest minority, the Roma, have been maligned, scapegoated, ostracised and slaughtered for over a millennium. Unwelcome in many countries, seldom allowed to settle in cities and villages, they’ve been condemned to perennial nomadism. Like their Jewish counterparts, they barely survived Porajmos, ‘the Devouring’, their Holocaust.
As the globe rattles with a new tectonic phase of migration, antagonism towards them has intensified.
For its Roma encounter Pax Mundi organised six groups to cover those countries most hostile towards the Roma.
Every group was allocated trailer-trucks large enough to haul tents, platforms, musical instruments etcetera and decorated with Romani motifs. Fitted with mod-cons, each truck also provided excellent accommodation for six people.
The groups drew lots.
We drew Hungary – a country which increasingly subjects its large Roma minority to social and economic exclusion. Recently its Supreme Court, decreeing that educational segregation of Romani children was legal, encouraged schools to bar them from canteens, gyms and remedial classes.
Our group comprised eight artists and twelve assistants. In addition to recitals, the artists were to conduct masterclasses. The assistants would act as stage managers, handle odd jobs, liaise with the crowds, help with the catering and drive the trucks.
We set out from Berlin in five trailer-trucks: four allocated as male and female dormitories; the fifth to store the props and to serve as greenroom, galley and dispensary.
Given Pax Mundi’s ethos none of the artists demanded top billing. But as their figurehead they elected Mai Montañés, the flamenco superstar, nicknamed La Terpsichore after the goddess of dance and song. Convinced that the soul of flamenco was Gypsy music – a fact that she believed explained Spain’s better treatment of the Roma – she personified, as Lorca put it, ‘the Gypsies’ flame and universal truths’.
The other artists were: Chiyoko Ishikawa, a Japanese wunderkind and the best living interpreter of Chopin’s works – those ‘cannons buried in flowers’ as Schumann described them; Ghislaine Weber, the German harpist, called ‘Seraph’ for her ability to ‘colour music with heavenly hues’; Serena Saracino, the Italian soprano whose voice entices chandeliers to sing; Hayyan Habeeb, the Palestinian master of woodwind who causes ‘the leopard to lie down with the kid’; Dakota Reed, the American balladeer ‘born with the songs of all peoples’; Tomek Waclawski, the Polish painter whose works conjure ‘a clement parallel world’; and Manoush Baxtalo, master zitherist ‘who translates what hearts say’.
Nick Dewar, a wiry ex-rugby international, one of the new generations of Scots who wear kilts as everyday clothes instead of on special occasions, joined us as our doctor. Lastly, the ever-serenading Neapolitan, Fortunato Umiliani, the Italian football team’s chef, pitched in to keep the group wellfed and wellwatered. We all bonded immediately and journeyed in an atmosphere of laughter, bonhomie, music and anticipation. After several autobahns we reached Passau, the Bavarian City of Three Rivers straddling the confluence of the Inn, the Ilz and the Danube.
We had planned to spend a day sightseeing the old town’s mix of gothic and baroque architecture and visit St Stephen’s Cathedral, famous for housing the largest church organ in the world.
Instead we met many refugees from Syria and Afghanistan who had walked all the way from Turkey hoping to build new futures in Germany. Some other European nations, vilifying the refugees as economic migrants, were beginning to refuse them entry. Aware of this, Ghislaine prompted us to visit the Refugee Reception Centre – a sub-camp of World War Two’s infamous Mauthausen – to show that many Europeans still cared for displaced persons. While Fortunato conjured a cordon-bleu banquet, our artists staged an impromptu performance. The refugees, enlivened, joined in with their own songs, dances and narratives. We hoped the poignant interlude might induce these outcasts to believe that spirits can be repaired, that the metamorphosed Mauthausen can promise life instead of chasms.
From Passau, driving straight through Austria to Hungary, we saw many more refugees plodding towards the German border. In Hegyeshalom, the Hungarian border town, we met Manoush Baxtalo who would direct our encounters. Burly, decked with rings, earrings and a pendant with an engraving of a colossus holding aloft a rainbow, he had coal-black eyes that appeared to have seen everything.
We – particularly Mai – took to him immediately.
Doborján, Franz Liszt’s birthplace, was the venue of our first encounter. The choice delighted Chiyoko, a sublime interpreter of Liszt who, she insisted, while much influenced by Romani music, had also been greatly inspired by Chopin’s lyrical romanticism.
Initially this first encounter was scheduled to take place in the grounds of Liszt’s house – now a museum. But as we would raise the curtain at noon and press on for the rest of the day, we needed a more spacious site for our stage and tents. Serena, radiating her diva’s charm, persuaded the municipality to switch the venue to the town’s Athletic Field.
We erected a large stage. Instead of a set we hung a backdrop painted by Tomek which featured cartoons of the artists as musical instruments bearing olive branches and flying among clef signs, crotchets and quavers.
Watching a multitude – including countless Roma – flock to the Athletic Field, Manoush worried that the Roma presence might cause trouble.
He needn’t have. The venue emanated a festive spirit. People, seizing a respite from the prevailing austerity, displayed no signs of antagonism as they settled where they could, or grouped around the food and drinks stalls.
At noon sharp, the artists assembled on the stage.
Chiyoko began with Liszt and then streamed on to Chopin, playing a series of mazurkas, polonaises and the ‘Revolutionary Étude’. Finally, returning to Liszt, she ended with the Rákóczi Marsch, Hungary’s unofficial national anthem.
Manoush followed her. Starting with Anton Karas’s theme for The Third Man – a film that captured the apocalyptic days of the Cold War – he burst into several compositions by his fellow-zitherist, Félix Lajkó. He ended with a potpourri of Romani songs.
Next, it was Ghislaine, jumping from mood to mood, with Ravel, Ellis, Mendelssohn and de Falla. She ended spiritually with Schubert’s Ave Maria.
Dakota Reed went on after her. A Sioux cult figure with a vast repertoire, he introduced himself as a world citizen. Strumming his guitar and expertly navigating his idiosyncratic harmonica – yoked to his mouth with a metal frame – he presented, as his homage to the diversity of nations, some official and unofficial anthems: Himnusz, Scotland the Brave, Land of My Fathers, La Marseillaise, Fratelli d’Italia, Marcha Real, The Star-Spangled Banner, Deutschland über alles, Russia our Holy Nation, Hatikva, Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika and Waltzing Matilda. He then enthralled the audience with such classics as Amazing Grace, La Paloma, Greensleeves, Danny Boy, Umm Khulthum’s Thousand and One Nights, Hava Nageela, Kalinka, Sakura and The Lion Sleeps Tonight.
Serena, lauded as the greatest soprano since Maria Callas, next enthralled the audience with a selection of Mozart, Puccini and Verdi opera arias. She ended with her own arrangement of the Hebrew slaves’ chorus ‘Va pensiero’ from Verdi’s Nabucco. She chose this most dolorous lament – originally composed in support of a unified Italy – as a plea for the emancipation of all peoples.
Hayyan started his recital with classical flute sonatas. Then, declaring that he, too, was a world citizen, he switched to different instruments. With oboe and clarinet, he presented bitter-sweet songs of the Roma diaspora; with various trumpets he took the audience to Africa; with arghul and zurna to the Middle East; with Kalyuki and Zhaleika to Russia; with Pungi, Shehnai and Alghoza, to India; with Bawu and Mangtong to China; with Nohkan and Kagurabue to Japan; with a range of sicus to South America; and with a didgeridoo to Australia.
Finally, Mai, in a vibrant traditional Andalusian dress, wafted onto the stage. Clicking castanets, gliding across the floor, ensorcelling the audience with magnetic eyes, she imposed a breathless silence. Then she danced. At times she appeared to levitate; at other times her feet pounded the boards in preternatural percussion. Whenever she stopped to sing dolorous cantes, Manoush picked up a Spanish guitar and provided the toque, the fiery accompaniment that elevates flamenco to dramatic heights. Tomek, Belkis and I, acting as stage managers, also strode onto the stage to perform the palmas and the pitos, the handclapping and finger-snapping.
After almost six hours – with brief intermissions – we reached the grand finale.
As Mai ended her performance with muted foot-tapping, Manoush joined her with the delicate steps of a Hungarian folk dance. Hayyan proceeded by dancing the Assyrian khigga. Chiyoko floated with a geisha dance. Dakota stomped a Sioux strut. Ghislaine clapped and struck the soles of her feet in Tyrolian schuhplattler. And Belkis and I, somehow unintimidated, shimmied.
The artists’ exuberance spurred many in the audience to dance with us. Most satisfactorily, we noticed that as they swirled about some Hungarians and Roma clasped each other unreservedly.
In the evening, after an hour’s interval, we set up the masterclasses. Those, too, proved most rewarding.
Music lovers thronged to Mai, Manoush, Chiyoko, Ghislaine, Serena, Dakota and Hayyan.
Tomek emerged as the star. People flooded his workshop. As he remarked later, as long as the planet lives there’ll never be a shortage of talent.
The encounter ended at about ten p.m. It could have gone on, but we had to strike camp and drive the following day to our next destination.
It had been an exhausting day, but we felt jubilant. Except for the odd instances when some hoodlums heckled us, the encounter had confirmed that art did melt away animosities, that whatever the differences between peoples and cultures, the joy of humanness overpowered the hatreds concocted by deranged power-merchants.
From Doborján, resting every alternate day, we travelled to Szeged, the ‘Sun City’; from there to Debrecen, Hungary’s second metropolis; then to Miscolc, the industrial town famous for its glass works; and finally, to the capital, Budapest, for our last encounter.
Travelling and working as a dedicated group, we became a tight-knit family.
And Cupid fired his arrows.
Mai and Manoush fell in love. Inevitably, Belkis and I thought. But since Manoush was married and doted on his three children, their ardour remained platonic. When they danced, their longing for each other became as manifest as the mid-air acrobatics of courting eagles.
Chiyoko, who dabbled in ink-wash painting, sought Tomek to improve her technique. Tomek, enthralled by her Buddhist philosophy which urges the painter to capture the subject’s spirit before limning its appearance, happily took her under his wing. Within days they became inseparable.
Although our encounters had caught the nation’s imagination, Budapest, Hungary’s capital and one of Europe’s most beautiful cities, welcomed us with some reserve. There was expectation in the air, but we also sensed a distempered atmosphere.
Pax Mundi had arranged with the civic authorities to present our encounter in Józsefvarós’s renovated Mátyás Square, near the city centre. But just outside Budapest we were stopped by municipality officials and told that permission to perform in Józsefvarós had been rescinded. Our new venue would be in Budafok, at the city’s south-western fringe.
No reason was given for this change. But Manoush was pleased by the relocation. Irrespective of the fact that the new venue was close to his kumpanya, Józsefvarós, he explained, was predominantly inhabited by Roma and other minorities and had become a target for ultra-nationalists. While latterly the neighbourhood’s diversity and renovation had made it a popular locality, particularly for tourists, it had remained an eye-sore for chauvinists. Reminding us that we had received abusive reactions from racists, moving the encounter to another venue was a wise decision that reduced the possibility of a disturbance.
Situated on the Tétényi plateau with slopes cossetting the Danube, Budafok was a major viticultural region. The people were friendly – even to Romani kumpanyas encamped on uncultivated patches.
Our venue would be the Market Square where vintners organised a yearly fête to promote their wines.
The night before the encounter, the artists – except for Manoush who had gone to his kumpanya to be with his wife and children – became restive. Some could not sleep. Others played solitaire. Yet others sat by the trucks, drinking, smoking, reading or watching the stars.
Despite Mai’s reassurances that disquiet was common in performers psyching up for a tour de force, we kept sensing something else discordant.
The day rose fresh and sunny.
The Market Square filled up long before noon.
The overcrowding not only obliged the television crews to set up screens and loudspeakers in the surrounding streets, but also, to Manoush’s delight, restricted the racists to the peripheries.
As usual Chiyoko started the show. Belkis and I thought we had never heard her play better.
Emulating her, the other artists reached sublime heights.
Mai and Manoush, particularly, whirled and soared into dimensions only a few performers can ascend.
At the end of the show, complying with the demand for encores, Manoush played and sang his version of Gelem, Gelem, the paean for the unification of the Roma which until then he had omitted from his repertoire.
‘Oh Roma, Oh Romani youths!
We were once a great family.
The Black Legion murdered them.
Arise with me, Roma of the world.
The roads have opened.
Now is the time!
Arise with me dark grapes of dark faces and dark eyes!
Come back to travel the roads.
Oh Roma, Oh Romani youths!’
Manoush’s performance electrified the audience. As if freed from dungeons, the communal dancing, singing and socialising became even more harmonious.
As the crowd seemed determined to see the evening out, we cancelled the workshops.
Only those members of Manoush’s kumpanya who had attended the show left. They would prepare a pachiv – the ceremonial feast that would smooth our paths as we went our different ways.
At some point, Dakota and Manoush became blood-brothers.
Belkis and I witnessed the ceremony, in which they sucked the blood from each other’s thumbs.
Twilight, always short-lived yet always a reminder of the Universe, encircled us.
We had a bit of time before going to the pachiv and had gathered around the trucks, relaxing, smoking, drinking and chattering about how good the last performance had been.
Suddenly we heard explosions and saw columns of flames and smoke in the distance.
Manoush bellowed. ‘It’s my kumpanya! I must go!’
I sprang up. ‘I’ll take you!’
So did Belkis.
Dakota, Hayyan, Tomek, Nick, the doctor, and Fortunato, the chef, joined us.
I drove the truck furiously.
The kumpanya was quite large – about twenty-odd caravans. Some of them were on fire.
People rushed about with buckets of water.
Dogs, goats, lambs and chickens scurried in panic.
Tethered horses neighed in terror trying to break loose.
Eerily, the pashiv tables on the green – many set with flowers, cutlery, plates and bottles – stood undamaged.
There didn’t seem to be any casualties.
As we jumped out of the truck, Manoush pointed at one of the burning caravans. ‘That’s mine!’
He raced towards it shouting the names of his wife and son.
We ran after him, also shouting their names.
Suddenly Manoush froze. He pointed at a shoe by the steps up to the door. ‘That’s Florica’s! They’re in there! The twins must have been sleeping!’
In panic, he staggered towards the caravan.
He bolted into the burning home.
A moment later, the caravan blew up.
The blast catapulted us.
Burning shards rained.
Later, while the firemen doused the burnt-out caravans, an ambulance took away the charred corpses of Manoush, his wife and his children.
The paramedics treating people for shock – with Nick busy by their side – wanted to hospitalise Belkis and me, too, but having suffered only minor burns, we refused.
Manoush and his family were the only fatalities.
My last view of the devastation was Mai smearing her face, hands, arms and feet with the still-wet ashes of Manoush’s caravan.
Next morning, Pax Mundi flew us to our countries and made arrangements to transport the trailer-trucks back to Berlin.
Official communiqués reported that the atrocity had been perpetrated by a gang of neo-Nazis armed with crude Molotov cocktails. But for a paraffin cooker that exploded just as Manoush had rushed into his caravan, he and his family might not have been harmed.
To date the file on this crime remains open.
Hayyan, Tomek, Dakota and Nick are still trying to trace the kumpanya. So far all they have gleaned is that its members have joined the queues of vilified refugees.
It’s almost midnight.
We’re tense, waiting to be evicted.
On the settee Lule cuddles her daughters.
Rajko, surrounded by his boys, softly prays as he lights candles for Manoush, Florica and their children, Gyorgi, Tobar and Talaitha. ‘May their earth be plentiful, and may they rest in eternal light.’
Moni stares with his blind eyes into domains only he can see.
Phral is equally solemn. No doubt seeing what Moni sees.
I swig some firewater.
The feast is barely touched.
The cats have left. Maybe they prefer to be sad alone.
The neighbours, made mournful by Manoush’s fate, have left, too.
Rajko pours himself a drink and sits next to Lule. His sons sit by him on the floor. ‘What about the other artists, Oric?’
‘They’re coping.’
‘The trauma?’
‘Indelible.’
He nods. ‘As always.’
‘But one good thing: Chiyoko and Tomek are one breath now. They’ve settled in Berlin.’
‘Other good things, too, Oric. Manoush lives on – in his music.’
‘True.’
‘What about Mai? We don’t hear about her.’
‘She never performed again. She stopped believing art heals. Decided humans are terminally evil.’
Rajko shakes his head. ‘She’s wrong!’
‘I can see her point.’
‘No. No! Music is Creation’s sound. It was here before words. It will still be here even when the Universe is destroyed.’
Moni surfaces from wherever his mind has been. ‘It’s also evolution’s hosanna. It proclaims there’ll be an end to killing.’
I taunt him. ‘You see that in your pebbles, Moni?’
Moni bristles. ‘What I see is a poem by Amador, a painting by Rembrandt, a symphony by Beethoven. And the billions of masterpieces that help us navigate.’
Phral snuggles up to Moni.
‘But evolutions can stop abruptly. A galactic cataclysm, a Saviour spewing Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles – the end!’
Moni upbraids me. ‘There’s no the end! Something always survives and begins again.’
Rajko grabs my hand. ‘Listen to Moni, Oric! He speaks the truth. Tell Mai that. Beg her to dance and sing again.’
‘Too late for that. After Budapest, she went home to Granada. Tidied up her affairs. Then climbed Mulhacén – that’s Spain’s highest mountain. Climbers found her weeks later. At the summit. Naked. Frozen. Fire turned into ice.’
Rajko and Lule cross themselves. Why didn’t we hear about that?’
‘It was reported. Briefly. News is short-lived.’
A sudden commotion from the street interrupts us.
We rush out thinking the demolitions have started.
On one side of the road, engineers are arguing. They can’t switch on the arc-lights or start the bulldozers. The generators can’t tap into the grid.
On the other side, residents jeer.
Police try to use jump-leads to start the machinery, but they, too, fail.
A mechanic curses. ‘Gyppos!’
An engineer mocks him. ‘You think Gyppos savvy technology?’
Rajko guffaws. ‘Good, eh?’
I look at him in disbelief. ‘Is this your doing?’
‘With all the police around?’
Moni, chuckling, joins us. ‘You wanted good tidings. There you have it. Say “thank you”, cats.’
Rajko and I stare at him. ‘Cats?’
‘Phral saw it all. Every cat in the neighbourhood got together. They dug the earth and pissed on the grid. That corroded the conductors and shifted the electro-magnetic fields. It’ll take ages to sort things out!’
Phral confirms this by barking happily.
‘The cats are still there. Look!’
There are hundreds of cats up and down the street – including Rajko’s lot. They’re being pampered by Belkis and Childe Asher. I’m dumbfounded. When we wished for shapeshifters Childe Asher said: ‘leave it to us.’ I should have listened to Belkis: the boy always means what he says.
I cheer and roar. ‘Well done, my loves!’
They give me the thumbs-up.
Rajko puts his arms around Moni and me. ‘Looks like no eviction tonight. Time to honour Lule’s feast!’