This evening I went down to my program archive and rummaged around until I found the record of what was undoubtedly the most spectacular event of my modest career: a solo recital in the huge, white, mirrored Spanish Hall of Prague Castle, built 1602-6 to house the sculpture collection of Emperor Rudolph II. It was part of the 1996 Prague Spring Festival. The glossy program book opens with a greeting from Václav Havel, the playwright, man of action and first democratically elected president of Czechoslovakia, and then of the Czech Republic. I played Rameau, Bach, and obscure Spaniards.
I was picked up from the airport, driven to my hotel, generally looked after and driven back to the airport by a young musicology student named Lenka. The quiet, petite redhead was an acute intelligence, and within minutes we were talking about manuscripts of early keyboard music. She was unfailingly efficient and polite during my stay in that glorious city. Later, by way of thanks, I sent her a duplicate I had of an important facsimile.
***
Last night the world was shocked by the latest mass shooting, as such individual events are termed in order to distinguish them from the many wars presently ongoing. 14 people were gunned down at the Faculty of Arts at the Charles University in Prague. Naoko read on Japanese Twitter that a professor of musicology was among the victims. That was a shock. There aren’t that many around in any case, so what are the odds of one being a victim of such a deed?
Of course I wanted to know more. “The Guardian” informed me that the gunman’s very first victim was the head of the musicology department, Prof. Dr. Lenka Hlávková. I found a picture. It was unmistakably the girl of 1996.
***
Is there any point in writing about this senseless tragedy in such an insignificant space? Just now, as an exercise in mourning, I listened to Josquin’s Déploration on the death of Ockeghem, a work at the heart of Lenka’s field. I mailed the university’s music department with condolences and asked to be kept abreast of any memorials. Her telephone number is still listed on their website as director. And yet I need to express my own disbelief to myself, because putting thoughts in order and seeking human contact, even in digital form, is a palliative at such moments. I don’t know if she had a partner or children. What would be their solace?
I don’t really understand why I am so aghast at a single life cut down when so many are perishing violently or in misery at this moment in history. Yes, I knew her briefly; yes, she was a kind of colleague; yes, she was a particularly charming personality. We are informed by the media that an hour before she was killed she wrote a mail to a colleague about the 2024 festival. I suppose all those small connections just bring the idea of a madman, pointing a gun at a living body and pulling the trigger, closer to home when it involves a face recalled. All the other, anonymous horrors should have the same effect, but don’t. “No man is an island,” but some fellow creatures are nearer in spirit than others.
There have been recently been deadly terror attacks just minutes from my German home, but they didn’t affect me like this has. This was personal. Is it that Musica herself was a victim? Was Lenka a random human sacrifice, and did this wretch just happen upon her first – or was she a target, representing something beautiful that a twisted mind loathed and needed to exact revenge upon? They haven’t told us yet. “Motivation” is still being sought. If and when it is found, will that make what happened more comprehensible?
I had not brought this old, very brief acquaintance to mind for more than a quarter century. Yet it was embedded in me like a seed that blossomed again in death, as if I had seen Lenka yesterday.
R. I. P.
December 22, 2023
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