We are supposed to perform at 7.30 in the evening, and nobody has told us
where. So we gather at the steps by the loggia, which is where all the action
seems to be centered today. The piazza in front of the loggia is crowded
already, a confused jumble of laughter, conversation, snatches of song,
drumbeats and the sounds of violins, accordions and trumpets, all rising and
falling through the festive air. More people straggle down the street and
gather at the loggia, where Matjaz, of the Enoteca (wine bar), and his crew,
have set out two large tables, groaning under the weight of cheese, olives,
cured meats, and – the source of the most joy – wines, all proud products of
Istria.
The loggia and piazza in front of it
Luckily, the rain which has fallen through most of the day
has taken a break, although the skies still look ominous. After the sunny warmth
of the days so far, the chilly wind is most unwelcome, and shawls, jackets and
sweaters make their appearance.
Our group has claimed the steps by the side of the loggia,
the steps that lead into the art gallery which is having an opening. Streams of
people climb up past us into the gallery, some smartly dressed in suits, others
in far more casual attire. An old woman,
thick in the waist and ankles, her face lined and weary, struggles slowly up
the steep steps. At once, Olinda
is there, grinning broadly, and yelling, “O, che bellina, bellina signorina!”
He bows low, takes the old lady’s hand, kisses it, and helps her up gently,
step by step, exclaiming all the while that she was such a “bellina!” The old
lady beams, and how she glows, how all that attention and warmth makes her feel
young and pretty again! Olinda
gave her a magical gift that moment, a gift which no money can buy: the gift of
feeling young and special and beautiful, if only for a few moments.
The old lady walks on, but the mood lingers.
The steps by the loggia - our "stage" for the day
An elderly English couple, looking bewildered at the noisy
chaos around them, approaches me eagerly. “Did I hear you speak English?” the
gentleman asks me, his clipped British accent sounding comically out of place
amid the raucous bedlam all around. I assure him that I do, and he wants to
know what exactly is going on. He is clutching at a copy of the evening’s
program, but nothing in it seems to correspond to what is going on. I try to reassure him that we are just as
bemused as he is by the goings-on, but ask him to stay on, since our group would be performing sometime in the hopefully not-too-distant future. Looking
relieved, and thanking me profusely (for what?) the couple leaves, trying to
embrace the chaos, to believe that out of it would emerge, by some miraculous
process, order and harmony.
The wind picks up, and dark clouds scurry across the gray
sky. It is well past 7 o’clock now, supposedly the time when the art gallery
opening is to take place, and people continue to pour up the stairs into the
gallery. Surely it would explode if any more went in. Nothing in particular is
happening, but nobody seems bothered by this. Jane toys with the idea of just
canceling our performance, but we are psyched up, and we veto that idea. She
goes into the gallery to see if she can grasp a thread of sense of what is
going on, and emerges a quarter of an hour later, saying, “let’s just go ahead
and start singing – this is as good a time as any”. And we do, and launch into
a beautiful rendition of Adios Kerida, and suddenly the crowd falls silent and
listens and watches with rapt appreciation. Kwaheri follows, and the listeners
respond with alacrity to the change in mood and rhythm, and clap and move along
with gusto. Singing, clapping, Olinda and Manuel
performing magic on their drums, we walk around the loggia to the front of Bastia where we entertain
Bruno and the others with a rousing Siyahamba. We are like Pied Pipers – a
large crowd follows us wherever we go. There is plenty to keep their cameras
and video cameras busy. We finish with
the Song of the Ass, one of my favorites.
Now it’s time to party! Miraculously, the skies have
cleared, and we enjoy the most spectacular sunset I have seen so far in
Groznjan. Motovun, on the opposite side of the sunset, is bathed in an almost
holy glow. I regret not having brought my camera – it is so surreally
beautiful, and I don’t know if I will be lucky enough to enjoy such a sight
again. I get up to get the camera, but the moment has passed. Motovun still
glows, but the magic is gone, the holy sheen, erased.
Sunset on Motovun (on the far hill)
Sunset views
A group of elderly Croatian men from the surrounding
villages plays a medley of songs, rousing, fast-tempoed numbers and tender, slow
ones. There is a guitar, a clarinet, a trumpet and an accordion, and the sound
carries through all the streets and perhaps across the hills and valleys to the
neighboring villages as well. Wine is flowing freely, and in the loggia, a huge
pan is brimming with beaten eggs, which are being scrambled with truffles, a
local specialty. The aroma that wafts into the air is tantalizing, and a large
group gathers around, plates in hand, waiting patiently for the eggs to be
cooked. When we are finally served, and taste it, it is well worth the wait.
The aromas merely hinted at the heavenly taste.
A group of us takes our plates and drinks to the open area on
the other side of the loggia, and I am soon deep in conversation with a man,
Adriano, who speaks in a rapid, bullet-fire Istro-Veneto dialect. He slows down when I tell him that the last
time I spoke fluent Italian was over twenty years ago, although he is nice
enough to tell me that I still speak good Italian! He is all enthused by the
fact that I am from India,
and announces this loudly to all the men who are standing around arguing about something
football related.
This excites the men a lot, and they gather around me,
wanting to know which part of India
I’m from, where I live now, the name of the language I speak. One of the men
suddenly remembers, and reveals with tremendous pride, that the Croatian
ambassador to India in New Delhi is from nearby Buje, a local boy who has done Istria proud, who has traveled further than most of them
ever dream of. A boisterous argument erupts over his name. Giovanni, asserts
one; another dismisses that instantly saying, no, not Giovanni you idiot, it’s
Paolo. Nonsense, snorts a third, I know for a fact that it’s Alessandro. My
uncle’s sister-law’s nephew went to school with him. He is shouted down at
once, and suddenly they arrive at a consensus. It is Dino, but of course, it’s
Dino who has gone to Delhi!
They look at me eagerly, and I have to confess that no, I have not met Dino in Delhi.
The men return to their football-related argument, and I
continue talking to Adriano. He grows flowers, he told me, beautiful flowers of
many varieties. He proposes that we get married, and when I laughingly point
out that both he and I are already married, he invites our whole group to his
place for pizza instead. We will probably go next week, if all goes well.
The band of old men are joined by our guitarist and Olinda, and everyone
crowds into the loggia. It is crammed full with dancers – singles, couples,
groups in circles, with those taking a break from the dancing standing on the
sides and clapping along. Several people ask me to dance with them, and, far
away from home, from familiar people, from inhibitions and from
self-consciousness, I do, and have a whale of a time.
The elderly English couple makes their way to me. They have been looking for me, they say, to
thank me and the group for our lovely music. They are glowing, and look relaxed
and happy. They have had a wonderful evening, and will take back very special
memories. A feeling of great pleasure floods through me, and for that moment, all's right with the world.
A deliciously decadent berry and cream concoction makes its
way to us, and we all tuck in, calories, cholesterol and other such evils be
damned.
It is nearing midnight now, and the crowd in the loggia has
thinned. The music is somber now, bedtime music, soothing and soft, and the
mood turns calmer and more intimate as clusters of new-formed friends chat
quietly with one another. The soothing murmur of conversation mingles with the
music. These are the only sounds of the night.
It has been a long day. I bid farewell to everyone remaining
in the loggia, and walk the few steps back to my room. I am struck once again
by the power of music: to form bonds, to provide such pleasure and joy, to open
hearts and minds to everything that is beautiful and harmonious.
More to come!
