Fou Tsong
Hearing the very sad news of Fou Tsong’s death brought back recollections of the one time I met him. What a wonderfully charming man he was! And so warm. I hope it’s not inappropriate to recount a rather irreverent story I’d heard about him, which (unless my memory is playing tricks) he confirmed at that memorable meeting.
The story dated back many years, to a time when he was touring in a country not used (at that time) to hosting Western classical concerts. He was being looked after by his agent there – who unfortunately spoke no language that Fou spoke. They were sitting backstage, presumably in silence, shortly before the first recital, when Fou realised that he needed to visit the bathroom. He informed the agent – who bowed politely. Fou tried again, more slowly. Again the agent bowed, by now looking rather worried. Realising that he was getting nowhere, Fou pointed (rather urgently) to the relevant part of his anatomy. The agent’s face cleared. ‘Ah’, he said, grinning roguishly at Fou and wagging his finger. ‘AFTER the concert…’
