Air Hat

Erzsi and Zoli are bumping along on the train from the Great Plain to the hilly Tatabánya. They open the carriage’s window, the summer wind blows in their face. They turn their faces against the wind. Zoli can see a little bit. Erzsi was born blind. It is not an everyday journey, they go among new children and adults in Miss Klári’s music class. They are excited, happy and giggling. 

Erzsi laughs out loud: Ho, this is an air hat! Zoli touches his head, smiling: I have an air hat, too. They are travelling, raising and keeping their faces against the wind, sometimes touching their own and the other’s head. There, you’ve got the air hat.

They told us about this three days later. Is there really an air hat? Perhaps there isn’t. Most seven-year-old children are unsure if the product of his or her imagination will be considered ridiculous. But a grimace, a disapproving hum, a smiling blow to the soul, and the realities of imagination disappear into the abyss. 

A blind child can be even more sensitive. When he invents a movement, will it be proper? Do other people move like that? Perhaps he should imitate to be like others but how should he imitate? He could go “looking” for props, but he can only grab fences. Props are safety, fences are obstacles. In his dreams he is a magic steed, a griffin or a plane. 

These are all things of fables - imagination, even the plane, for him. In his imagination beauty and force, energy and bravery, speed and flight appear to him: what is imaginary and what is real? His eyes see only blackness when he opens them after dreaming, should he go on dreaming with eyes open?

I teach blind children and learn a new world. For me, the world is full of colours and movement is full of energy. For them colours are products of imagination, and movement is full of caution.

My facial expression is my most important aid in teaching. I never call to a child without looking into his or her eyes. I teach sitting on the floor so that our eyes would be at the same level. I have hundreds of ways of teaching them to read from each other’s eyes. I encourage, promise, greet, give signs, evaluate, reject, warn, encourage, call and send with my eyes. But my eyes can’t be my messengers here. I have to look for different aids. Perhaps my voice?

While I am singing, they keep silent, I can see the attention on their faces turned towards me. But they make noises and jump around to the music played from the tape recorder. Corelli’s charming, short Badinerie disappears in the din. I gather the group around me and explain that while music is speaking, they can move and dance, but they shouldn’t speak.

 Why? János shouts: Because in the noise we can’t hear the music. A great insight, János, let us now try again. The Badinerie starts, but the tiny period of silence is washed away by the awakening hustle and bustle. Shall we dance? Pairs hold on to each other, and jump around unsteadily. Their movements do not follow the beat, they are having fun. 

They don’t understand what I want, among their memories of “dancing” none was connected to musical attention. Sighted children start out similarly. Their “dance” is either made up of previously learnt steps and then they are working from their memory, or they are just jumping around happily for the joy of movement. No movement starts from their imagination. The “dance” I would ask for does not fit any of the pigeonholes of their previous experiences, even the word is disturbing, I should find another one. 

How do I initiate movements among sighted children? I recall in mind a beginning class, a similarly noisy one. How do I lead them to attention? With my own movements. I move, I dance alone then I look for partners with my eyes. I initiate musical movements, touching, stroking the faces or hands of some, or the backs, heads, or legs of others. However, the connections I make are not always tactile. I approach, call, appear and pass. I live in music, together with music. I don’t “teach” movements, but render my attention, my turning towards music perceptible through my movements. They can see me. Here they can’t.

I wonder: is it all the same for them how I move? Do they feel some sort of irradiation from my movements? Perhaps my spiritual composure. How close should I be to them? How should I convey myself to them? I inspire sighted children with my energy and intensity. What can a blind person perceive from these?

I always tried not to imitate. My movements burst spontaneously, in many variations, they are renewed unexpectedly. I am surprised: is this mine, too? My pupils see these free ideas, and they follow “freedom”, not the movements themselves. 

A blind child can’t partake in any of this. Words are not enough, movements are confined for me to tell and show them how many parts of her body she could move in how many ways. Should I find similes?

Our method is “metamorphosis” helped by imagination. You can be a ladybird, a snake, a squirrel, a bat, an eagle or a seagull. Anything. Whatever you imagine.

The sighted child has never seen an eagle, still, he or she can represent it. In Bendegúz’s unforgettable scene the eagle was sometimes flying, but it dedicated the musical cadences to rest in different parts of the room. Always in front of his mother. It could clearly be seen as he was standing high up on a cliff’s ledge, turning his head slowly, majestically. True, sighted children can have some sort of visual experience of flying, for example, of the gulls circling above the Danube or the tomtits fluttering on the branches of the trees in the garden. 

Those who were born blind can’t. How could they imagine it? They raise their arms and move it, because they know from others that birds’ wings move in this way. But the knowledge deriving from others pervades only the uppermost layer of consciousness, only the speckles of sand on the surface of a desert. How could we tell a blind person about the flight of birds, their energy, their gliding, swinging, balance, their rise and quick plummet?

Only poetry knows a language approximating these things. For poetry is the brother of imagination, and imagination is our greatest creative power. The ancient folk song Fly bird, fly, fly to the Ménaság does not explain how the bird flies with the message of love. The flight is clearly conveyed by the tune. If we sing it or listen to it, we sing together with the bird until it sits down on the frail shoulder of the imprisoned boy’s lover and tells the message with which it was entrusted. The beloved girl is introduced with one word only: the bird is sent to her frail shoulder. The fragile girl appears in our imagination as a kind, delicate, lovable person.

The music without lyrics splashes into the lakes under our consciousness in a similar way. Or it soars high above our consciousness, above the clouds and the stars, on the fiery chariot of Elijah. Its boundaries and dimensions are unknown. The reins of the fiery steeds are held by imagination, even for blind children. I can aid their free movements on the fiery chariot of the imagination, better than through any explanation or movement. I must win them over to musical attention.

Yet so far they have been jumping around, bumping into each other giggling as if Corelli had composed merely background music. I crawl on all fours from one to another. Évi is sitting alone, I hold her hands and raise them to music. The course of the melody leads: Évi has recognized this! Her little white hands are drawing melodies into air. Now I have to turn to the noisiest ones, they are out shouting Corelli again. 

I crawl to Brigi who is vehemently tugging at Terka, I detach her and take her on my back. I am a tortoise and you are my shell. Brigi stops kicking around in surprize, her tense muscles slowly loosen up, she relaxes and nuzzles up to my back. I am dancing and stroking courses of melody on the back of my Brigi-shell. I can feel her unkempt curly hair on my neck, it is a very nice feeling, we fit together well. But the thick little body of the seven-year-old Brigi presses me down, and I run out of breath and collapse at the end of the music. Attila is hopping with János, they are holding hands and shaking their body as in a disco shouting encouragement to each other. 

Corelli is just the same razzle-dazzle as any other racket. I wait until the music stops: I only stop music in emergency situations. One has to be patient enough for a one-minute piece. Then I call together the “heap”, come close, everybody. Closer, closer, really close. I speak very quietly about Corelli who may have received this beautiful tune in his dream. He then woke up, and wrote it down happily. Those who play it, the whole orchestra, every violinist, cello and bass player loves it. They look at the score together, make music, and rejoice together. Can you hear how they rejoice? They don’t shout, although it is true that you can rejoice in that way, too, but not only in that way. How else? Don’t say it but show it, joy can be shown in your movements and on your face. Even in your smallest toe. Search for it, where is it? It is where Corelli’s strings start tingling.

The start is surprisingly good, their attention lasts a whole minute, they are curling and pulling their toes, trying to find the strings. I am glad about the success, so I liberate them from toe-attention: You may go anywhere in the room, music will be with you. Erzsi and then Évi start out with careful steps, groping about. János holds his hands in front of his face turned up to the sky, my heart is in my mouth, my eyes are clouded with tears. Attila, however, is coming looking for János, friendship is more important. He eventually finds him, and draws him away from Corelli. The magic moment is over. 

To sighted children I indicate my wish to gather into a “heap” with my eyes and the movements of my hands: I’ve got something important to say, I can only say it from very close. One can only shout to children dispersed faraway in the room. Shouting can’t be a message, it can only be an instruction.

I would like to wave my hands to make a sign, I sit down in the middle of the room: only then do I realize that my system of signals is not working here. I start murmuring quietly, monotonously like a praying wheel, reeling off unknown text quietly. They are surprised and gather around me carefully. I sing my message as a recitativo: I would like you to gather around me close, closer, even closer than that so that you hear my whisper. The instruction in this unusual form is a novelty, more like a game. It can turn into anything, and it raises curiosity among them. They understood me, my message is received by their antennas, I am relieved. I am singing and looking at their faces. 

Erzsike is beautiful. Her face’s delicate features are framed by the arch of her brows above her big blue eyes. She reminds me of the face of one of my little girls a long time ago. There was the same profound silence in Szilvia’s round blue eyes. 

Szilvi could see, but would not let others catch a glimpse of her through her eyes. Her beauty as she was staring somewhere far away reminded me of the lake of tears. Tears, Judit, tears, tears – as the complaint of Bluebeard reverberates in me to Bartók’s music. 

Erzsike, dance for us alone, please. We will be watching you and will whisper about your movements to the children. Erzsike sighs, and prepares herself. Show with your face if you are ready for music in your soul. Show with your eyes – I say at different places. Can she show it with her face? She can, she nods a bit with her raised head.

I hold Attila, I would whisper to him what I see, but I am lost for words. More clever adults are already whispering to the children in their arms. What could we say? Now she is raising her arms, circling high above, now she is letting them down, lowering her head, hugging her knees. She is embracing music – I let the word slip, glancing at Attila whether he would laugh. He is not laughing, the notion is clear, he understands. He must be embracing music, perhaps light, too. 

During the solo they are not stirring. I experience again the familiar silence, the clear spell of receiving, it is a sacred moment, somebody is sharing himself with us. Superficial dancing, the usual pleasantries never receive this kind of attention. We are receiving fresh air, a blessed breeze from the other side.

We never applaud, at the end of her dance we go to Erzsike for a hug or a stroking greeting. The directress, Katalin H. whispers to me: This was a miracle, this is the first time I have seen her smiling. She always cries, and wants to go home. She loves her mother and her home. – She is six years old, she couldn’t study in her remote village. 

I too was taken to a city high school from our village at the age of ten. There were a hundred of us put up at the nunnery’s boarding school, nine of whom attended school somewhere else. Among these I was the only first-grader. The mornings without Mother! The bag, the lessons, the coldness, the indifference! Everything and everybody was alien, I was frightened, I even forgot to sing. Vacation will never come, there won’t be a vacation anyway, or by that time the house and everyone else at home will sink. 

What about the six-year-old, blind Erzsike? What are the smells and sounds like here? What is the touch of the wall like? What are the morning vapours like? Can she fall asleep without Mother’s lap? To whom should she complain, cry and be sulky? A sighted child’s attention may be engaged by the visible stimuli of the world. For a blind child the mother’s bodily warmth, irradiation, the throb of her veins, her skin, the touch of her hair, the tone and vibration of her voice, the melody of her speech, her accents are the enchanting unity, the only source of safety. 

Even the nicest instructor is a strange mix, a supplement and my powers alone are not enough. My children can help so I suggest - On Saturday we’ll be together, Panni, could you bring Erzsike along? On Saturday she can go home for a weekend break. Erzsike, would you like to come to Miss Klári’s children on Saturday? Then you’d have to wait until next week to go home. All right – she says immediately – I’ll go to Miss Klári’s children. I’m going to go home next week.

Erzsébet Király, the six-year-old baby nicknamed Böbi has set out with this sentence towards her independent adult life. It is a rough, thorny, scary path for many, full of evil traps. Beware – said my clever Böbi – adults hurt one another. They sometimes hurt children, too – added Marci. The children I have taught for longer time know the most beautiful thing: they provide safety. They pay special attention to new ones, little ones, and those with disabilities. 

Böbi’s first road proved to be a smooth, brave path, she was shown around and introduced to everyone, they called her to dance and warmed her up with their love. I could draw Böbi’s last one and a half years with courses of melody, the arches of music.

I’d like to dance solo – she whispers into my ears in one of the classes – I have found out something. It’s a surprise. She stands up, securely, bravely, turning her face towards the music set and nodding. She dances standing, this is the surprise. She sometimes bends her knees, but her soles stick to the floor. Her feet stand in parallel, stiffly. She moves with her arms, beating out the Händel rhythms, she draws an arch with arms spread high up, then at the end of the arch lets her arms fall. 

With a new course of melody she raises them again. Her attention is almost sizzling, she is looking inside. She finishes with head dropped. As if she were eavesdropping, she stays a little bit even after the final chord. She smiles and turns her face towards me. It was a surprise, wasn’t it? How did you know I was sitting? I knew you were watching – she says joyfully. Tell us about the surprise, Böbi. 

Yesterday I dreamt that today I would stand up and dance standing. Why did you dance sitting so far? It is safer, – she explains – I can’t fall while sitting. But yesterday I dreamt I could do it standing, and there would be no problem. What exactly did you dream? I was sitting on my bed, my legs hanging down, and then I stood up and was dancing. Oh, that will be a nice little surprise! – she says with a mischievous smile – and it was one, right?

We listen to Bach today, the Preludium in G major is trickling from Glenn Gould’s piano, it floods the room, fills every nook. Come on, let us look for sounds. Where you find sounds, touch them. If you can catch them, put them in your pocket. They start out with wary steps, groping and shuffling around. The gym is spacious with rib-stalls on one of its walls. Laci reaches them, crying out: The Rib-stalls are full of sounds! – and he grabs the sounds by the handful, stuffing them into his pocket. Évi takes heart, goes after Laci, searching for sounds along the rib-stalls all the way. She slowly progresses, putting the sounds in her pockets. At the end of the piece she halts. There are no more left. – she says. Sure there are – Laci encourages her – lots of them remained here, they are hiding.

Attila has taken only a few steps so far. Once again this music, please – he asks. Bach’s music is trickling again. Attila is crawling towards the rib-stalls on all fours. A sighted child would run fast to such fast music, Attila is progressing andante, carefully. I feel his difficulties on my skin as I am crawling on all fours with closed eyes. I don’t even reach halfway and my direction is not correct either. János, lead me on, please. 

Where? To the rib-stalls. I have closed my eyes and I can’t see. János has not stirred so far, now he springs up readily, takes my hand and leads me safely to the rib-stalls. We are looking for sounds, we are stuffing them into each other’s hands, there are lots of them. We flop down by the rib-stalls, and draw curves of melody on each other’s face from the sounds caught, carefully so that they would not fall.

I am learning, every minute I learn something new.

Zsuzsa brings a guest, the ten-year-old Anna who is blind and hard of hearing. She pulls her long, black hair over her face as a curtain. I don’t know how much she can hear from our music through her hearing aid, and how she feels it in her body. She doesn’t move, not a little bit, nothing. I lie down next to her putting my head into her lap, she touches me. You have short hair – she says loudly – why? I like short hair. Do you have anything on your face? A lot of wrinkles, just touch it. You are old. You are old. Will you die soon? I don’t know, but I hope not. I like to live.

If you die, will they be sorry for you? They may cry for me. In villages in the old times they used to bewail the dead singing. They invented beautiful tunes, they talked to the dead singing, they were sad and bid farewell thus. They lit a candle beside the deathbed. What is a candle like?

My first candle, the one that was lit for my christening may still live in the depth of my memory. I must surely have seen it. They say I was not crying. I have seen many candles since then, small joyful Christmas candles on the branches of tall pines. Candles to cry beside, too. My mother is dead, my father is dead, the candle is burning, the flame gets longer and is blurred, through tears it vibrates in beams. 

Let us light a candle for a farewell-singing. Anna, could you hold it. Isn’t it burning you?

Candles are the passion of all my students, and have always been part of our farewell-singing ceremony. On our Christmas celebrations everybody has one we stick them into apples. They are moulding the wax, and shaping it on their drawing boards, I am always worried about the carpet. On one occasion Éva ran home at night for an iron and blotter, we could get the wax-drop out of the carpet, thank God, the cleaning lady was not angry. What is a candle like? Hold it, Anna, it won’t burn you. It shines, its flames are dancing. 

Six weeks later Anna asks: May I sing alone? And she starts a dirge, Oh dear, dear, dear, oh woe is me, oh dear, dear. We are sitting enchanted, thunderstruck, the tune is bumping along on the “dears”, it rises up, plunges, it is full of woe, the most beautiful dirge. If I cared about my funeral, I would like to have such a dirge, only such, a dirge by Anna, nothing else. 

Anna suddenly, unexpectedly stops and asks in her ordinary voice: Did you like it? Why did you like it? Did I sing beautifully? Let’s go dancing, Anna. I can’t. Yes you can, hold my hip, here, right behind me, I’ll lead you on. Anna is holding on, stepping behind my careful steps braver and braver. We are spinning now, the Divertimento is in three four time. 

Dance with Mozart – I encourage her – release me, don’t hold on to me, I’ll be here to protect you, you can’t bump into anyone, go now, alone. She starts, with Mozart. I whisper to her: I am here, bravely, spread your arm, you can spin now, you won’t bump into anything, I’m protecting you. My arms spread wide open, can’t take my eyes off Anna, the room is full, many are dancing. Now she mustn’t bump into or trip on something. She doesn’t trip and doesn’t bump. Was I beautiful? – she asks from behind her hair – Did you like me? Why did you like me?