Vive la Musique!

Spending  part of the summer in central France has constituted our annual vacation for several years now. We enjoy the peaceful atmosphere, the beautiful scenery, and the cooler weather. If there are any musical events we are happy to attend them, but they are not the main reason for our choice of location.

This year, however, there has been more music on offer in the Limousin region than ever before, although some of it goes beyond our definition of music in the traditional and perhaps somewhat narrow sense.

Every summer several members of the Paris Symphony Orchestra spend time in the region, from which some of them originate, and offer concerts to the public at large. The program of the one we attended in the nearby mediaeval church situated at Chambon sur Voueize consisted of instrumental works by Mozart and Vivaldi as well as two pieces for soprano by Handel and Caccini. The crystalline voice of the talented young soprano, Andrea Constantin, was enhanced by the excellent acoustics of the church, with its high, vaulted ceiling. The packed audience gave each piece an enthusiastic reception, applauding between the movements of Mozart’s clarinet concerto as well as at the end of each piece.

At one point the cellist who leads the ensemble, which consists primarily of several members of the orchestra’s string section, announced that they would be playing a surprise item, and went on to say that we would be hearing three pieces by Giora Feidman. The name is familiar to many Israelis as that of the man who has made klezmer (traditional Eastern European Jewish) music popular. Sure enough, the clarinettist who had starred in the Mozart concerto returned to the stage and proceeded to get the audience tapping its feet to the rhythmic and sometimes emotional music. It felt slightly strange to hear klezmer music in a church, but the audience gave it a decidedly enthusiastic reception and we certainly enjoyed it.

A few days later the same ensemble was due to give a concert of chamber music gems in the Orangerie of the nearby Boussac chateau. The structure itself was adorned with the stuffed heads of the various animals that the master of the chateau must have once hunted, as well as with some beautiful tapestries, which are produced locally.

The programme turned out to be a selection of individual movements from quartets and quintets by Borodin, Boccherini, Dvorak and Haydn, ending with the first movement of Schubert’s sublime quintet in C major. To hear it is to share the ecstasy and agony of Schubert’s short life, but to hear just one movement without the continuation is tantamount to being allowed to see the Promised Land from the mountain-top but not to enter into it. Still, it was an enjoyable evening, and we appreciated being able to partake of these precious gems in that very special environment.

In recent years an enterprising resident of a nearby village, with the support of the regional administration, has organised an annual music festival focusing on contemporary and world music of various kinds. Since one such concert was given in the church that is opposite our house I decided to venture forth and risk my sanity by attending a concert of experimental music for string quartet. To my surprise, the little church, which usually stands empty, was packed full with enthusiasts for this kind of music. The first piece consisted of the cellist playing some kind of music on the stage, while the three other instruments played occasional, seemingly random, notes off-stage. My first impression was of cats mating, but I confess to taking a jaundiced view of such music, and I wondered how any of them knew what to play and when since there was no contact between them.

For the second piece, however, all four musicians were on stage, and the piece (whose composer’s name I did not catch) consisted of their playing a somewhat monotonous tune by plucking the strings of their instruments. There was a melodic element, and after a while the monotony had a kind of hypnotic effect, which even found its way into my hardened heart. In a later piece, an elegiac melody for strings called ‘For Elise,’ the tender mood was shattered by the church bells striking the hour (four o’clock). When the piece ended the cellist said ‘I want to play it again,’ which they promptly did, to great applause. The concert ended with a piece by an American composer called Golden who hails from Alabama, and one could definitely detect elements of southern rhythms and negro spirituals in among the various sounds produced by the instruments.

The concert ended before the church bells could cause any more disturbances, and the members of the audience filed out of the church into the pale sunshine and were offered a drink of juice or wine. I hurried home, feeling badly in need of a reviving cup of coffee, and pleased at having exposed myself to a new and not completely unwelcome experience.

 

Under the Weather

 

How typically British. Even if a person isn’t feeling well it must be somehow be connected with the weather — that subject of eternal fascination for the true Brit. In my case, however, at least to the best of my knowledge, it didn’t have anything to do with the weather.

We flew from London to France, drove for a couple of hours, picked up some provisions in the nearest Carrefour supermarket on the way, and installed ourselves in our summer abode. The next day I cooked, did laundry, and functioned more or less normally.

It was on the day after that that I could barely drag myself out of bed in the morning and only by dint of tremendous willpower managed to make myself a cup of herbal tea to drink with my morning biscuit (viva McVitie!). The very thought of coffee, which is my usual beverage of choice, made me feel even worse. I spent the day in an armchair, unable to move, eat, or function in any normal fashion.

The next day was more or less the same, only my one thought, after flopping into the armchair, was how to get back into bed. The thought of the expanse of mattress, pillows, and the biggest, softest eiderdown (duvet) I’ve ever seen seemed extremely tempting, and that is where I spent the rest of the day, dozing and coming to from time to time. In most uncharacteristic fashion, I couldn’t even have the radio on with classical music. The idea of food of any kind revolted me, and the only thing I was prepared to drink was, of all things, Coca-Cola, something which I generally eschew. I was unable to think of eating anything, or even taking my prescription pills (ten in the morning, five in the evening). I felt a terrible weakness in my entire body, and could not even stand up straight.

On the third day, I was in a similar state. My one thought was of being horizontal in my lovely, welcoming bed. But then along came another thought. What must my grandmother have felt as she lay dying of starvation and neglect in the Theresienstadt concentration camp some seventy-odd years ago? She undoubtedly had been used to a comfortable bed and clean linen in her Hamburg home, and was now probably reduced to a wooden bunk bed and who knows what rags with which to cover herself (we know that she took some bedding along with her but that was almost certainly stolen upon arrival). And was  there anyone to bring her a cup of tea or even a drink of water? Probably not.

And my other grandparents, my mother’s parents, didn’t even have that when they were murdered in Auschwitz.

What was this terrible disease to which I had succumbed? Yigal thought it was flu, which is something I’ve never experienced. . It felt to me as if something or someone had taken over my body and extracted every iota of strength from it.

So on the fourth day I started taking the antibiotics I always have with me, and I even allowed Yigal to take me to eat something (half a Happy Meal) at the nearest McDonald’s  The idea of anything heavier or more substantial was anathema to me. The institution of McDonald’s is not a place where I would normally choose to eat, but to the aliens that had taken over my body it seemed like a good idea.

Eventually my appetite began to return to me. For almost a week no coffee or anything stronger than toast with a thin layer of butter passed my lips. My strength began to return, and I was even able to stand up straight and walk at more than a snail’s pace.

“It’s a funny thing,” said an English friend who lives permanently iin France. “Many people who come over by plane from England fall ill soon after arriving.”

So it wasn’t aliens who took over my body but a bug that was somewhere in the plane when we came from London. I hope there’s some way of preventing this happening again as we’re planning a trip to the USA which will involve several flights. If anyone has any suggestions, please let me know. I don’t want to go through anything like that again.

 

 

A Horse Walks Into a Bar by David Grossman

 

I am proud to announce that I have completed my first vacation task, namely, to read the Hebrew version of David Grossman’s book, the English translation of which was awarded the prestigious Man Booker International prize. I’m also glad to know that the prize money was shared equally between the author and the translator, Vanessa Cohen.

But I must admit that getting to the end of the book was a hard slog. I’ve been reading and translating Hebrew for over fifty years, and consider myself reasonably adept in the language. I have dealt with texts of various kinds – historical, literary, academic, economic – and unless the subject is very esoteric and specialized I am usually able to cope with most texts. In addition, there is nothing particularly difficult about the language of this book. Yes, there are one or two jokes, colloquial expressions, and plays on words that might present a challenge to the translator, but the Hebrew Grossman uses is pretty much the language of everyday speech.

His main protagonist, a rather unfunny standup comedian on a stage in a provincial Israeli town, rambles on and on, taking his audience on the bumpy ride that is the story of his life. His physical and psychological attributes contain nothing to endear him to either his audience or to the reader, and hence it was such a struggle for this particular reader to persevere in reading another few pages every now and again.

The entire evening’s performance goes from bad to worse, with Dovele, the ‘comedian,’ meandering in and around any subject that happens to pop into his head, eventually describing a particularly unpleasant journey from summer camp to his home. The narrator describes the growing impatience of the physical audience, which gradually trickles away as the performance continues. In the end only a handful of people are left. By persevering in continuing to read to the end, the reader is identifying to some extent with the narrator, who knew Dovele when they were both young, and who now feels guilty at not having shown him more support in his time of need.

But is the real object of the book to make the reader feel guilty? I’ve always said that it’s guilt rather than love that makes the world go round, but to go this far in order to convey that essentially Jewish emotion seems to me to be taking things a bit too far. It seems to me that the joke’s in fact on us. The book is essentially a typically British kind of joke, known as a shaggy dog story, that has got out of hand. Shaggy dog stories are long and convoluted and don’t necessarily have to be about dogs, shaggy ot otherwise. My late father used to entertain guests with one about a horse (neighbour asks passing neighbour to help get horse into house, then up staircase, then into bathroom, all just in order to annoy visiting know-all mother-in-law when she screams, ‘John, there’s a horse in the bathroom!’ by answering ‘I know’). The telling of the tale took a good few minutes, with delightfully pretentious British manners derided with affection, and almost always occasioned hearty laughter.

But no-one feels like laughing when one gets to the end of Grossman’s book. Nor does one even feel like crying. There’s just a sense of emptiness, an exaggerated awareness of the senseless futility of life, and that you, the reader, have just wasted several precious hours in reading this sad book about a sad life in a sad place. Me, I’m reminded of a short story by, I think, Somerset Maugham, about a young boy at a British public school who is called to the Headmaster’s study to be told that the father whom he idolizes has been killed. Imagining some heroic deed he asks whether he was shot through the heart, only to learn that a balcony had collapsed in a Naples street and the pig that had been kept there had fallen on his father and killed him.

Now that’s a story well told, within reasonable limits of time and energy, and does not leave the reader feeling he/she has wasted his/her time. But that’s British humour for you, and that simply can’t be beat. It seems the Man Booker International jury lost it.