Henry

The director demanded a perfect concert for the capital's critics. He ordered the best violinist, Henry, to be relegated to the background: "That purple-haired upstart is always sticking his neck out!"

You relayed the order to the orchestra. Henry exploded: "Are you serious? Hide me behind the double bass?" But the decision was firm.

A month of rehearsals passed in a tense atmosphere. Henry played flawlessly, but without soul.

On the day of the concert, the orchestra played skillfully but dully. The critics took notes without interest.

At the climax, Henry leaped from his chair. He threw off his tuxedo, shook out his purple hair, and began a daring improvisation.

The orchestra paused for a second, then picked up the pace. Double bass, cellos, flutes—all joined in this seething current. The music came alive, exploding with passion.

The audience stood up. The critics forgot their notepads. Even the enraged director couldn't take his eyes off the stage.