He is like the rest of the people in that auditorium, until he places his violin on his left shoulder, like Atlas, but more graceful in the way he carries the whole world, tilting his head to reveal the curve of his proud chin.
He inhales slightly, like taking in the breath of God. In that instant, he becomes one with his four strings. With some horsehairs and a hollow piece of wood, he makes them sing, weep, laugh.
The world ceases to be a burden to carry, but a prize. The world wakes and dances with him, twirling round, absorbed in the lyrical magic, unsubstantial yet powerful enough to vibrate all its constituents.
The old men lift their droopy chin and look up alert.
The old women push aside their walking chair.
The old couples reach out their hands for each other.
The violinist no longer sees. He is the music. He becomes one with the waves of sound crashing towards the shore of happiness and mutual understanding.
He is Atlas, only not bent down, but with his chin raised.