Bartok

Bartok


Peter, the youngest son of Bela Bartok, wrote to his father in the summer of 1940. He was staying in Lisbon, hoping to take one of the next ships to New York. The censure cleared the letter from any additional information. Only one phrase, purely abstract: I`ll be in one of the next ships.
That`s it.
A week later his feet touched the sidewalk of Broadway street.
His feet touched the earth but he could not cease to feel that his whole world was still shaking. He stood in front of the train station, looking around, not knowing which way to go. Each direction seemed equally wrong for he had not his father`s address. Peter felt like he was lying under the debris of a giant puzzling labyrinth without any idea how to escape from it. He had left the old world not having the key for the new.
Perhaps at the same time Bela Bartok lunched unaware of the dilemma of his son dilemma. Peter assumed that the unique solution was to leave himself on the pure chance, to take the first street, to catch the first clue which could eventually lead him out of that labyrinth to his new home. The pure chance appeared in the person, more precisely, in the back of an old man who passed by him at the same time.
Peter went after him, not led by curiosity (sooner or later the man would be eventually swallowed by an obscure entrance). He had to ask someone, anyone, even that old man with grey hairs, under the Borsalino hat and that white a bit worn out trench coat.
My father is famous, no doubt. Anyone should know where he lives.
Excuse me, Mister, do you know where lives Bela Bartok, the famous composer? No, I`m not one of his pupils, I`m his son.
Peter imagined the conversation that would follow.
But things went differently for the Bartok`s family. They were living in a small two room apartment and the neighbours were constantly complaining about the piano. Peter could not suppose that America is flooded with hundreds of thousands painters, writers, musicians, who have left Europe just like him. Yes, he could ask the old men who was walking in front of him, wearing a cheap Borsalino hat and white trench coat.
Someone should know, Peter said to himself, the world is not an endless road, and he hoped that the end is near, for example, this sidewalk.
Peter was shortening the distance little by little. The man was walking slowly so Peter had to slow down. He was nervous, because, except Mr. Kleinman, a bizarre man he met on the ship, that would be his first conversation in english. I must start with “Excuse me, Mister” I must do it now.
He approached the man, still embarrassed and mumbled “Excuse me”, but didn`t finish the phrase (already rehearsed numerous times in his head), because his old father turned round.