He served his term in the Army in another end of the country, at Satu Mare. "My profession made me the man of the day in the Army. There was a performing arts group and a brass band. I performed for officers, at New Year's Eve celebrations, as a member of the ensemble of the unit? I made music at the Militia's Ball, at the restaurant, and my wife served refreshments? We married then."

Gică Diricel came back home with an ethnic Hungarian wife. His father and stepmother put up with him for a while, then drove him away. He rented, then built a house in a Romanian district of the village. His marriage has been a failure. They did not have any children. As a childless family is inconceivable, Gică adopted a suckling from the orphanage. The boy's education has also been a failure. Today Gică's adopted son is a do-nothing who has already served several terms in prison for common-law offenses. However, he fathered a child, Gică' grandson, to fill Gică' home -- an illegitimate child whom the grandparents must look after all by themselves.  Gică' wife became discontented and quarrelsome, always finding fault with Gică and, more seriously, with the neighbors. Gică Diricel, an honest and highly regarded man, is quite affected. His endeavors to remain the best musician in the village are now doubled by his efforts to keep up appearances of respectability in all spheres. But he is clearly losing the former battle. His half brother Radu, the son of Gică's hostile stepmother and about 15 years Gică's junior, a man still in the prime of his life, a virtuoso violinist and leader of a strong ensemble which he can rely on, for it is made up only of his family members, carries the day. It's true that Radu does not sing, as was the custom only a generation ago, but his wife and daughter are vocalists. Perhaps he does not know too many old melodies either, but he apparently manages pretty well with newer songs, dances, and light music pieces. He has another advantage too. He knows how to perform, just like the "real" interpreters from the radio and TV, gorgeous concertante folklore pieces that are halloed with the prestige of the mass media broadcasting networks. Gică hates him with all the bitterness of his wretched childhood and with all his pride as former local star. The two brothers do not talk to each other. When a villager wants to hire one of them, he knows he had better not mention the other brother. The insults they exchange are transmitted through relatives and common friends, themselves Gypsy lăutari from the same village. (It is interesting to note, though, that some of these musicians cooperate professionally with both brothers, depending on the clients' requirements.) Their most unquenchable anger is caused by the real or alleged deception practiced on the public by the other rival. But lately Gică Diricel's public has been thinning out alarmingly, and he has made desperate attempts to tip the scales in his favor. In summer, for instance, he sets up his amplification equipment in the courtyard at midday, preferably on holidays, turns on the sound to the maximum, and makes music in front of it together with his ten-year-old grandson, who plays the accordion.