Fridolin Grunewald

Fridolin Grünewald, a prisoner of a tight schedule and his own seriousness, attended the avant-garde production of "Demons" at a Parisian theater in search of a change of pace. A man who shunned any excess, he was pierced by the chorus of blindfolded "angels," and especially by the soloist's low, velvety voice, full of power and pain.

He waited for her at the stage door, feeling ridiculous. When she appeared without makeup, in a simple dress, he stepped forward.
—Forgive my tactlessness. I was at the performance. Your voice… it’s mesmerizing.
“Thank you,” she replied quietly, her light gray eyes studying him.
—My name is Fridolin Grunewald.
—A very severe name for a person who came to an avant-garde mystery.
—I'm looking for contrast.
—Did you find it?
—I think so. In your voice.

Her insight struck him as a shock. She saw not the viewer, but his weariness.
—Let me offer you a cup of coffee. I'd like to hear it again. Your voice.
She paused, weighing his proposal.
"My voice isn't for coffee. It's for silence and for shouting. But... okay. Let's go, I know a place."

And the mighty Fridolin Grünewald followed her, surrendering to the chaos that he had suppressed within himself all his life.