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Well guarded by its two stone lions, the main branch of New York City' s public library turns its back upon a French-style garden open to the street and occupying the rest of the block. Although it is located in a bustling neighborhood close to Grand Central Station, back then the park had a rather unsavory reputation, so that it was in genera1 avoided, with good reason: as a case in point, the well-known bassoonist and conductor Robert Coles was mugged there in broad daylight and died of the injuries sustained during that attack.
Despite this reputation, every work-day at lunch time, when the weather is good, a numerous audience gathers on the small central mall People settle on the benches or on the ground with their sandwiches and sodas, or remain standing one by one or in small groups. All are there for one reason only: and this good reason promptly appears in the form of a middle-sized, soberly dressed man, a neat beard continuing his Abyssinian profile, who positions himself at the top of a short set of stone steps, and alone, without any musical accompaniment, a1most without motion or expression, sings.
Yes, he sings, and what he sings, in his untutored but rich and powerful voice, are operatic arias! Puccini, Verdi, Mozart, Mussorgsky, Wagner, all the great arias are in his repertory. Occasionally, he does not scorn a whiff of Offenbach, a touch of Frantz Lehar, a medley by Gi1bert and Sullivan. But his main repertory consists of operatic arias, truly grand operatic arias.
He sings without regard for the type of voice required, bass, baritone, or tenor. Not that he has one of those extraordinary voices extending across all ranges. Simply, he transposes those arias into his own possibilities, and indeed why not, if it comes out fine? He can be heard even in the street despite the traffic noise, always heavy at that time of day, so that many a passer-by pricks his ears and comes to join the audience, seduced by our bearded siren.
Power of songs, power of the human voice, magic power of music incarnate! The great majority of the audience would be extremely surprised to learn that what it listens to with great pleasure are operatic excerpts, this snobbish and boring branch of show business reserved for wea1thy New-Yorkers who, from generation to generation, are wont to keep their reserved seats with a plaque to their name at the Metropolitan Opera, shrine of obsolete music.
Yes, they are quite run-of-the-mill, these people who gather around our singer everyday at noon in the unsavory park. No one applauds between arias, nor at the end. When he has finished for the day, he merely comes down his stone steps, exchanges a few words with some acquaintance, and very simply returns to his everyday work, which one would guess is of a modest nature
The groups unravel, each one goes his own way. At one o’c1ock, the park is empty. Apart from a few bums, prostitutes, or sexual deviates, it will remain deserted until noon of the following day, when a new audience gathers for another impromptu recital…
A Hunting Trip to Daghestan and other stories Page 7