La Bohème was not in a good part of the city, true, but not in the worst part, either. The shop-lined streets were narrow, but at least the streetlights were lit, casting yellow light at intervals. In the daylight he would have seen the flyspecked windows of pawn shops, tailor shops, cabinetmakers, pubs, cobbler shops, dressmakers, and butcher shops displaying such delicacies as sheeps’ heads, pigs’ feet, and meat pies. Whenever a streetlight was near enough, it dimly illuminated the names painted directly on the glass and sometimes on wooden signs hanging from poles over the door.

Posters, some new and some old and torn, covered the heavy door of La Bohème. Just inside the door, a bored woman behind a grille peered out at him and said, “Two and six for a box. Nine pence to stand where you can find a spot. If yer throws anything ’ard at the performers you’re out on your arse and yer don’t get your chink back.” Dylan paid his two-and-six and entered an inadequately lit foyer, where he almost blundered into a cheap copy of Michelangelo’s David that was missing his head and one hand. Some wag had covered David’s genitals with a flowery apron. The apron was grimy, as if frequently handled; Dylan laughed. Across from David was the Venus de Milo, looking puzzled. From behind red doors came the sound of a piano and a woman’s singing. He fought his way through the crowd to a low-walled box with six benches. A man, a woman, and two children already occupied the box, and they all looked up briefly when he entered. He politely tipped his hat.

Dylan fidgeted through the acts of a comedian, an unconvincing ventriloquist with a sheep, and a woman with a rather good soprano voice, who sang a pathetic ballad of lost love. The soprano was followed by a twenty-minute comic presentation of “Hamlet.” The parents in the box laughed uproariously at every bit of humour onstage. The children were annoyingly active, but finally fell asleep on the spare benches.

Dylan wondered if he had missed Dohnányi’s performance. He was momentarily distracted by a latecomer who was led past the boxes to the choice seats in front. As he passed close by, Dylan recognized him as one of the men at Schonberg’s house for the party. He was the one who had talked to him about Laurence. His name was… Something Something. He frowned, trying to remember. Something Grahame. That was it. Like Dylan, Grahame didn’t blend into the audience. Gregory. No. Gideon.

A man in a tail coat came out from the wings. Smoothing his impressive handlebar mustache, he bellowed, “Ladies and gentlemen, a few weeks ago La Bohème had the great pleasure of introducing you to higher class entertainment when we introduced a world-famous ar-teest who’s a favorite with all of you and even your kiddies. After a triumphant tour of wild, romantic Hungary where he played for the king, he has returned. Here he is by popular demand, the star of the evening: London’s own Prince of the Gypies, youngest son of the King of the Gypsies—Chavula Dohnányi!” The applause and whistles were deafening. Geoffrey strode onstage with a confident swagger.

This was a Geoffrey Dohnányi Dylan had not even known existed. Chavula? Tight black trousers were tucked into calf high, polished black boots that emphasized his long legs and lean build. He wore a white blouse unbuttoned to the wide, fancifully embroidered sash of blue, crimson, and gold that was knotted at his waist. His hair was brushed back and the gold hoop was audaciously displayed. He lowered his head slightly and threw a seductive glance at the audience, emphasizing it with a slow grin.

The mother in the box breathed, “Cor’. He’s so byoo-tiful.” Her husband growled, “ ’e’s a bloody mandrake, I don’t doubt.” The whistles became louder, and then Geoffrey’s expressive face became serious. He tucked his violin beneath his chin and positioned the bow. Silence fell like a blessing upon the raucous crowd.

Dylan had never heard a violin played as Geoffrey Dohnányi played that night. The piano accompanist floundered and quit; no one noticed. Geoffrey’s slim body was in constant motion from head to feet, almost dancing when he played a czardas that had the people clapping in rhythm, slow… slow… faster… faster… and still faster until his fingers were flying over the strings. He stopped, breathing hard; the rhythmic hands burst into wild applause. He played songs they could sing. He played Schumann. He played musical jokes, making the violin hiccough, and whine, and scold. He played magic.

Suddenly Dylan gasped aloud. St. Joan! Dohnányi was playing the theme from his St. Joan! But he dared—dared to alter the theme itself! Bad enough that he had once criticized the first violin and cello parts, but to alter the theme was unpardonable! And yet…. He listened, frowning. Dohnányi’s improvised double stops produced a grating dissonance perfect for portraying the fatal flames that reached for the Maid of Orleans.

The audience was uncertain how to react to the serious music. The applause was more of a question than an accolade. “What kind of music was that?” yelled the man in Dylan’s box, waking one of his children. “Need a new fiddle, boy?” Scattered boos answered the man. With effort, Dylan resisted the urge to drag the idiot into the street. One may as well paint rainbows for the blind!

Geoffrey’s skin shone with perspiration as he bowed low. Straightening, he said, “I wish to close with a song I remember from many years ago when I played with my father. It is called Romnichel. I dedicate it to my people.” Geoffrey positioned the violin once more and drew the first melting tones from the strings. Romnichel was sound wrapped in velvet. The simple, rich melody spoke of wide, black skies with a single star, of the smells of dewy grass and rich, damp earth. Romnichel invaded Dylan’s being; the lush, broad vibrato became part of his heartbeat, and he knew he would feel that music so long as he lived.

There was a momentary hush as the song ended. Geoffrey slowly raised the violin and bow as if offering them to the god of music. The silence was broken by an eruption of applause. As the audience applauded and stamped, whistled and called for more, Geoffrey bowed again before leaving the stage.

Dylan pushed against the crowd streaming through the door. He had to talk to Geoffrey. Had to! He found his way to the backstage area that he hoped led to the dressing rooms. Power! he thought. Such power! And he’s so young! I’ve got to talk to him—damn it, he shouldn’t have changed my work without—my god, the power—I wish I didn’t want him—must talk to him—beautiful, so beautiful—and he didn’t know whether he meant Geoffrey or the music.

End of excerpt.