As I arrived in Petrozavodsk, I was taken aback by the unusually delightful weather for Karelia. Despite the overcast skies, the temperature hovered slightly above twenty degrees Celsius, a rather atypical occurrence for this northern city that Peter the Great established in the early eighteenth century.
Residing at the Onega Palace hotel, I was treated to a mesmerizing vista from my open window. The inky waters of Lake Onega, the somber gray clouds above, and the majestic centuries-old spruces gracing Ivanovsky Island captured the true essence of Karelia's beauty. Breathing in the crisp, invigorating air, I couldn't help but recall a line from the beloved Soviet cartoon "Vacation in Prostokvashino," spoken by Uncle Fyodor's mother: "Oh, if I had a second life, I would spend it here."
However, as much as I admired the scenery, I couldn't fathom living so close to the Northern Polar circle. This land was far too severe for a sun-loving Southerner like myself who had never experienced life beyond the forty-fifth parallel in the Northern Hemisphere.
Interrupting my contemplation, a knock on the door startled me. It was Igor Orlov, a local man whom I had connected with online and who had quickly become a person of professional interest to me. Sporting a warm smile, he greeted me in person, and we exchanged pleasantries.
My morning visitor graciously agreed to give me a tour of the regional center, although I was more intrigued by his recent past than the history of the city.
As I dressed, I instinctively touched my forehead, ensuring my glasses were still perched there. Next, I checked my lower abdomen to confirm that I had properly fastened my fly, and then patted the right side of my chest, assuring the presence of money in my breast pocket. Finally, I repeated the gesture on the left side, making certain that my documents were secure. To my guest, it might have appeared as if I were making the sign of the cross, but in reality, I was merely double-checking my belongings.
Suddenly, his phone erupted into a loud ring, indicating an incoming call. As he answered, it became evident that his son was on the other end of the line. Throughout their conversation, Orlov's deep affection for his thirteen-year-old son, who had taken advantage of his father's absence to skip a music lesson, became apparent.
Curiosity piqued, I inquired, "What musical instrument does your son play?"
Igor replied in a hushed tone, covering the microphone of his phone. "He plays the accordion."
"What's his name?" I further inquired.
"Valeriy," he responded.
"May I speak to him?" Without waiting for a response, I took the phone from Orlov's hands and said, "Valeriy, it's Yuriy, your father's friend. Listen closely, son. When I was your age, I spent five years attending music school. My father, who hailed from a village, believed that the first man in the village was the one who could play the accordion. Having experienced the German occupation in the Donetsk region, he firmly believed that the German accordion, particularly the 'Weltmeister,' was the greatest musical instrument in history. There was no use arguing with him. From the age of eleven to sixteen, I attended music school, spending hours playing waltzes by Strauss, studying music theory, and delving into the biographies of composers for my music literature class. On Sundays, I even sang in the choir, while my friends were busy in dark cinema halls, fondling their female classmates. By that time, I understood that the village accordionist, though popular among the locals, was missing out on many experiences. While he played the accordion and entertained the young villagers with lively dances, his peers were wooing girls and stealing kisses in the twilight of the haylofts after the dance. Despite this realization, I didn't argue with my father and continued my musical studies. As I grew older, I recognized that my music education instilled much more than mere instrumental proficiency; it shaped my character. It taught me how to overcome challenges and resist temptations on the path to achieving my goals."
"Did your music education ever come in handy?" the young man asked timidly, slightly bewildered by the unexpected moralizing.
"The ability to play the accordion? No, not really. I haven't touched one in forty years. However, the lessons undoubtedly influenced the development of my musical ear. I can't claim to possess a great singing voice, but when I do sing, I manage to hit the right notes. I'd also like to share a humorous incident related to my music education, which occurred seven years ago and played a role in advancing my career." Glancing at Igor, I raised my eyebrows, silently asking for his approval to share another anecdote.
Orlov nodded and whispered, "Go ahead."
"The company I work for received an esteemed invitation to visit Hungary and contribute to the resolution of a matter of national importance. As part of a small delegation consisting of three specialists, I was honored to be included. We arrived in Budapest on a Friday, even though our official work was scheduled to commence on Monday morning. The gracious Hungarian hosts allowed us ample time to adjust to the new time zone, acclimate to the local lifestyle, and explore the magnificent sights of Budapest.
On one of the weekend days, as we aimlessly wandered the streets of the Hungarian capital, I drew my colleagues' attention to a street musician who skillfully played a beautiful melody on his accordion.
"Czardas Monti," I casually remarked.
"Oh, come on," my boss chuckled.
His colleague, concurring, added, "You couldn't possibly recognize the composition being played by a street musician in an Eastern European capital. Impossible."
I shrugged nonchalantly, as if to say, "If you don't believe me, let it be," and suddenly, my memory transported me on a wave of nostalgia.
"Let it be, let it be, let it be, whisper words of wisdom, let it beeee," I started singing in my head.
However, just as we were about to continue our journey, without even dropping five hundred forints into the musician's hat, the accordionist picked up the tempo, started dancing to the music, and energetically nodded his head while repeating, "Czardas Monti, czardas Monti, yes, yes, Czardas Monti."
My astonished bosses halted in their tracks, turned to the dancing Hungarian musician, exchanged glances with each other, and then looked back at me.
"But how?" the Colonel inquired.
"Quite simple," I replied. "A vast knowledge of world literature, history, culture, and, of course, professional expertise. It's all stored up here," I said, lightly tapping my temple with my index finger. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have brought me along."
Savoring my little victory, I concluded with a phrase, "My IQ is off the charts."
Of course, it was all in jest. I wouldn't have been able to distinguish Vittorio Monti's composition from any other violin piece played in a Romani camp if I hadn't performed it myself during my music school graduation exam.