Word: sonja
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It’s noon by the time I end up at the train station. When I left, the orange-labeled bottle had disappeared. But Sonja was pouring a glass of white wine for herself and the clay bust of Wagner glistened in the sun. My train speeds south to Nuremberg, and soon I am typing up my coverage of Bayreuth—opening hours, phone numbers and other small details. The morning is driven out of my head...
...maid Gerlinde joins us. She also takes some coffee. “But Sonja, it’s such a beautiful Saturday morning. What I would really like to drink is some champagne...
...Sonja jumps up, and is soon back with a French bottle. Gerlinde fetches glasses and proceeds to uncork the champagne with a confident hand. I am still a little surprised: at the early hour for champagne, and at the friendly atmosphere of this motley group...
...constantly, Wagner drifts in and out, not like a specter, but like an old friend. For Sonja and Gerlinde, Festspiele productions are ways to remember the year something happened. And of course, there were the times when Gerlinde’s brother-in-law worked at the Festspielhaus: How many productions they got to see then...
...warm and Gerlinde’s idea really seems excellent. Soon I have missed the 10 a.m. train. But Richard Wagner is a little closer now. I have found those for whom he is not an elitist pleasure, but just a very regular, if exciting, part of life. As Sonja clucks about a new recording she just bought, and Max asks her to play it for us, I bask in my new understanding of this town...