Monti s Czardas

I stood by the open window of my hotel room at Petrozavodsk’s Onega Palace, taking in a breathtaking view. The dark waters of Lake Onega lay beneath low, heavy gray clouds. Ancient spruce trees lined the shores of Ivanovsky Island, embodying the austere, hard-earned beauty of Karelia—a land wrested from Finland a century ago. I breathed in the clean, cool air and suddenly remembered a line from the Soviet cartoon Vacation in Prostokvashino. Uncle Fyodor’s mother, inhaling the country air, sighs: “If I had a second life, I’d spend it here.”

No. Absolutely not. I wouldn’t spend it here—not even close. This land is far too severe for a southerner spoiled by sunshine, someone who has never lived north of the forty-fifth parallel. And in any case, I wasn’t allowed to admire the view for long.

There was a knock at the door.

A local man had arrived to show me around the regional capital. While I pulled on my shoes and ran through the usual checklist—cash, electronic room key, documents—I heard Igor’s phone ring. It was his son.

From the conversation, I gathered that Igor Orlov’s thirteen-year-old had taken advantage of his father’s absence and skipped a music lesson. Igor was in his early sixties, and from the way he spoke to the boy it was obvious how deeply he loved his late-born child.

“What does your son play?” I asked.

“Accordion,” he whispered, covering the phone’s microphone.

“What’s his name?”

“Valera.”

“Let me talk to him,” I said, and without waiting for an answer, took the phone from Igor’s hand.

“Valera, this is Uncle Yura. Listen carefully, son. When I was your age, I spent five years in music school. My father grew up in a village and believed that the most respected guy around was the one who could play the accordion. Having survived the German occupation of the Donetsk region, he was convinced for life that a German accordion—especially a Weltmeister with three-quarters of an octave—was the greatest musical instrument ever invented. Arguing with him was pointless.

“So from eleven to sixteen, I went to music school. I resented him for it—especially when my friends were outside playing soccer on a basketball court or ping-pong on a rickety table warped by rain, while I was grinding through Strauss waltzes, learning solfeggio, or memorizing composers’ biographies for music literature class. On Sundays, I sang in the choir while my buddies were fumbling with girls in dark movie theaters during afternoon screenings.

“By then, I already understood something important. The village accordionist might be popular, but he missed out. While he was squeezing buttons to keep the local dances going, his friends were holding girls close. And the guy who dances with the girl is the one who walks her off toward the hayloft when the music ends.”

“I understood all that,” I went on, “but I didn’t argue with my father. I kept studying. Later, I realized the real lesson wasn’t learning to play an instrument—it was building character. Learning how to push through difficulty and ignore temptation on the way to a goal you’ve set for yourself.”

“So… did music school ever actually help you?” the boy asked timidly, probably a little stunned by the lecture.

“Playing the accordion? No. I haven’t touched one in forty years. But the lessons sharpened my ear. I won’t say I have a great voice, but at least I sing in tune. And there’s one funny story connected to all that—it happened about seven years ago and actually helped my career.”

I glanced at Igor and raised an eyebrow, silently asking permission to continue.

He nodded. “Go ahead.”

“My company was invited to Hungary to help with a matter of national importance. Our delegation was small—three specialists—and I was added at the last minute. Our hosts flew us in on a Friday evening, even though work wouldn’t start until Monday. That was deliberate. They wanted us acclimated, adjusted to the time zone, and free to explore beautiful Budapest.

“One weekend afternoon, strolling through the city with my two bosses, I pointed out a street musician playing a gorgeous tune on his accordion.

“‘Monti’s Czardas,’ I said casually.

“‘Oh, come on,’ my boss laughed.

“His deputy chimed in, ‘There’s no way you know what some street musician is playing in the middle of an Eastern European capital. Not a chance.’”

I shrugged—believe it or not, your choice. We were about to walk on without even tossing the man a few forints when the accordionist suddenly sped up, began to dance, nodded vigorously, and shouted, “Monti’s Czardas! Monti’s Czardas! Igen, igen! Monti’s Czardas!”

My stunned bosses stopped, stared at the dancing Hungarian, then looked at each other—and finally at me.

“But how?” the senior one asked.

“Simple,” I said. “A broad education in world literature, history, architecture, and the visual arts—plus professional expertise.” I tapped my temple with my finger. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have taken me along.”

And, enjoying the moment, I added, “My IQ is off the charts.”

Of course, that was a joke. In reality, I wouldn’t be able to distinguish Monti’s Czardas from any other czardas—or even pick it out from a gypsy violin piece—if I hadn’t played that very composition at my final exam in music school.