Monti s Czardas

I stood by the open window of my room at the Onega Palace in Petrozavodsk, taking in the view.
The dark waters of Lake Onega lay beneath low, heavy clouds. Along the edge of Ivanovsky Island, ancient spruce trees stood in silence, carrying the austere beauty of Karelia—a land that felt older than history itself.

I took a breath of the cold, clean air and caught myself thinking—almost word for word:
If I could live my life again, I would live it here.
Henry James.

The thought lingered for a moment.
Then I shook my head.
No. Not really.

This place is too harsh for someone raised in the sun. I’ve never lived north of the forty-fifth parallel, and it shows. There’s a weight to this landscape—a kind of quiet endurance—that doesn’t belong to me.

And in any case, I didn’t have long to stand there.

There was a knock at the door.

A local guide—someone I had “accidentally” come across on the web—had come to show me the city. While I pulled on my shoes and went through the usual routine—cash, key card, documents—I heard his phone ring. It was his son.

From the conversation, it became clear 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. The way he spoke—firm, but careful—made it obvious how much the boy meant to him.

Listening to him, I found myself thinking: the habit of weighing every word belongs to men who once carried real responsibility—men whose decisions could affect hundreds of lives. Retirement changes nothing. He remained the same—calm, focused, choosing each word with precision. You don’t hand a nuclear submarine to just anyone.

“What does he play?” I asked.

“Accordion,” Igor said quietly, covering the phone.

“Name?”

“Valera.”

I held out my hand. “Let me.”

Without waiting for an answer, I took the phone.

“Valera, this is Uncle Yura. Listen carefully. 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 man around was the one who could play the accordion.

He had lived through the German occupation of the Donetsk region, and for the rest of his life he was convinced that a German accordion—especially a Weltmeister—was the finest instrument ever made. Arguing with him was useless.

So from eleven to sixteen, I went to music school. I hated it. While my friends were outside playing soccer on cracked asphalt or ping-pong on warped tables, I was stuck with Strauss waltzes, solfeggio, and composers’ biographies. On Sundays, I sang in the choir while the others were already figuring out girls in dark movie theaters.

By then I understood something. The village accordion player might be admired—but he misses the point. While he’s working the buttons to keep the dancing going, someone else is holding the girl. And when the music stops, it’s not the musician who walks her away.

I knew all that. But I didn’t argue with my father. I kept going.

Later I understood why. It was never about the accordion. It was about discipline. About doing something you don’t want to do—and doing it anyway. That stays with you.”

Silence on the line.
Then, cautiously:

“Did it help?”

“The accordion? No—I haven’t touched one in forty years. But it trained my ear. I wouldn’t call my voice anything special, but at least I can stay in tune. And there’s a story connected to that—something that happened about seven years ago. Oddly enough, it ended up helping my career.”

I glanced at Igor and allowed myself a small smile.
Igor raised an eyebrow. I shrugged.

“My company was invited to Hungary to assist 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 begin until Monday. That was deliberate. They wanted us acclimated, adjusted to the time zone, and free to take in Budapest.

One weekend afternoon, while walking through the city with my two senior supervisors, we came across a street musician playing a beautiful tune on his accordion.

‘Monti’s Czardas,’ I said casually.

‘Oh, come on,’ my boss laughed.

His deputy added, ‘There’s no way you can tell what some street musician is playing in the middle of an Eastern European city. Not a chance.’”

I shrugged—believe it or don’t.

We were about to walk past without even tossing the man a few forints when the accordionist suddenly picked up the tempo, began to dance, nodded vigorously, and shouted:

“Monti’s Czardas! Monti’s Czardas! Igen, igen! Monti’s Czardas!”

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

“But how?” the senior one asked.

“Simple,” I said. “A broad education—literature, history, architecture, the visual arts… and a bit of professional training.”

I tapped my temple lightly.

“Otherwise, you wouldn’t have brought me along.”

The former submarine commander looked at me more closely.

“You serious about Monti?”

I smiled.

“Not really.”

A short pause.

“Truth is, I wouldn’t be able to tell Czardas from any other gypsy tune… or even from a violin piece.”

I shrugged.

“Unless I had played that exact one at my graduation exam.”