So much did his handful cover. Twelve white keys of the piano. Rachmaninoff’s fingers were so large that, to this day, scientists are trying to determine if he suffered from any condition. Arachnodactyly, gigantism, Marfan syndrome—all came under the medical microscope, but without any definitive conclusion, as he did not exhibit the characteristic symptoms of the aforementioned.
The safest diagnosis? He simply had large hands. Something the eminent Russian composer and piano virtuoso exploited to his advantage, composing pieces of such difficulty that perhaps only he could execute them flawlessly to this day. Like the captivating second piano concerto—which, for me, stands as one of the best pieces in the history of classical music—with its dizzying speed, passion, and romanticism.
Innovative and groundbreaking, Rachmaninoff was the best version of himself, setting the bar at his fingertips. I remembered him the other day when I came across a foreign article about the mystery of the size of his hands. With just one click leading to another, I found myself on the outskirts of an otherwise ordinary human, with flesh and bones, who met the expectations of his admirers with masterpieces.
Apart from the personal introspection inevitably triggered by his portrait, you realize that on our collective level, mediocrity reigns supreme. I don’t know if it’s a Mediterranean symptom or if that’s just who we are, a small shop—half of it, at that—with its accessories. The certainty is that we don’t reach where we could spread our fingers. We’re accustomed to leaning on our elbows and staring into nothingness, resigned to circumstances, external saviours, opportunistic agreements, deus ex machina, and the once beloved “let’s sweep it under the rug,” all sprinkled with the plastic gold dust of “don’t complain, so we can keep going.”
That’s why, Mr. President, the world felt disappointed. Not because you are a corrupt monster thirsting for power and wealth, and the only way to control the game was to climb to the top. Because the healthy part of your voters and beyond—those of us who never dipped our fingers in honey because it’s not in our DNA—thought that the end had come for corruption, embezzlement, and sleaze. And when you betrayed them with your actions, they rightly felt betrayed.
You assured them that “your hands could cover twelve white keys.” You could have not said it. Alas, now the enchanting sirens are to blame. And about a year later, we know with certainty that the political bazaar will prevail to protect itself first, cover its backside, and then everything else. How it will appoint ministers, advisors, and hangers-on. How match manipulation will continue to control football. How flattery is more valuable than toil. How the environment is for something quaint for those who want to halt progress. How education will remain hostage to the guilds that scream change but erupt in hives at the sound of it. How we are famous worldwide for whitewashing. How there aren’t many things left for us to be proud of. This train also passed. Without erasing what has happened and is happening.
Before his concerts, Rachmaninoff’s wife would button his shoes (they had buttons), so that he wouldn’t break a nail and wouldn’t give anything less than 100%. He despised mediocrity and compromise so much. He set the bar so high that others had to pass underneath.
