By Julian Gallo
The old man giggles with delight as he watches the kitten frolic in the front garden of the row house. Darting from one end of the garden to another, attacking leaves, pouncing on an unseen enemy, the old man can’t take his eyes off it. No one pays the old man with the scraggly white beard and dirty black overcoat any mind. He’s just another one of the homeless denizens who are often seen around the neighborhood. Not that the old man notices them either. The playful kitten is far more interesting and pleasing to his aging eyes.
‘That’s enough, Maestro’.
‘Keep quiet, Earl’, the old man says with a wave of his hand. ‘Leave me alone’.
The kitten stops running, looks up at the old man. It’s seemingly frozen, its eyes wide, as fascinated with the old man as the old man is with it. When the old man draws near for a closer look, the kitten scrambles away, vanishing in an instant.
‘Is that enough now, Maestro?’
‘You see what you did, Earl? You scared the poor kitten away. It was just playing, enjoying itself. Why do you always have to be such a killjoy?’
‘Why don’t we go home now, Maestro.’
‘I want to sit in the park awhile, if that’s all right with you’, the old man growls. ‘It’s a beautiful morning.’
‘Isn’t it a little cold?’
‘Maybe for you’, the old man mutters under his breath, then picks up his tattered shopping bag and hooks it over his bony wrist.
It is a beautiful morning — one of those crisp, cool days where one can find a solitary spot on a bench beneath the autumnal leaves, watch them spiral to the ground and collect around one’s feet; where one can breathe without feeling as if they’re inside a sauna, those humid, oppressive summer months now just another page on the calendar; where it’s still warm enough to be able to watch people enjoying themselves before winter’s hand comes crashing down upon everything. The old man can’t decide which season is worse, and autumn was always his favorite. The perfect balance, as pleasant as listening to a sonata.
The old man crosses the street and enters the park through the Washington Arch, stops to listen to a violin player for a moment, then moves on when he realizes the musician isn’t to his liking. He turns up the path, just to the left of the fountain, and seeks out his usual bench, hoping it isn’t occupied. It isn’t, and he picks up his pace in order to claim it before some smart ass does.
He can’t hear the violinist anymore, or at least he can’t hear him so that it will disturb him. He puts his shopping bag down on the bench, then rummages through his pockets for one of the half-smoked cigarettes he picked up off the sidewalk, and a book of thrown away matches. He finds a suitable one, pinches it to make it more round, then lights it with a match. The cigarette calms his nerves, exhaling the smoke slowly, like a breathing exercise. The cigarette is a little stale but he doesn’t mind. It’s better than nothing.
Poor little kitten. Where did it go?
He feels sad now, worried about the kitten, which was about half the size of a rat, and he fears if the poor creature encounters one, the rat would tear it to pieces. He considers walking back over to the little garden to see if he can find it but he’s too tired now and just needs to sit. His feet hurt, as does his back from stooping over for so long, and his joints ache. To help quell his discomfort, he removes a half-empty bottle of whiskey from his coat pocket and takes a sip. It feels warm as it glides down his throat, that familiar taste so soothing to him. He screws the cap back on and stuffs the bottle back into his pocket, wanting to save it, for he cannot afford another one.
‘You haven’t learned anything, have you, Maestro.’
‘Oh, shut up Earl! Leave me be! For Christ’s sake, you’re always such a pain in the ass!’
‘Would you prefer if I kept quiet?’
‘What do you think, Earl? You’re always talking. Yap, yap, yap…’
It’s quiet now and the old man shuts his eyes, allows the cool breeze to wash over him. He can hear the dead leaves rustle past his feet, the fluttering of his shopping bag. All he asks for are moments of peace and quiet. He raises the cigarette to his lips and takes one last drag before dropping it to the ground. When he opens his eyes again, he sees a black squirrel nosing around on the lawn. He’d been seeing a lot of black squirrels lately, which weren’t very common in years past. It makes him think of the kitten again, and he looks towards the small garden across the street where he initially saw it, but he can’t see anything well from that distance. When he turns his attention back to the squirrel, it scurries away behind a tree.
The man who was playing his violin beneath the arch is now walking up the path, his instrument and bow in one hand and a small bucket in the other. He sits down on a bench a few yards away and begins counting the change in his bucket. Bespectacled and well dressed, with short dark hair, there is a gentle air about him. The old man watches as the young musician pockets his change, then sits back on the bench to relax, the violin and bow now resting on his lap. The old man wonders what kind of violin it is.
‘You’re remembering, aren’t you, Maestro.’
‘I thought I told you to be quiet, Earl.’
‘Just saying, is all.’
‘Well, how about saying nothing.’
The young musician looks at the old man and watches him for a moment, then turns his attention back to his private thoughts, fingering the bow on his lap. The old man sees he’s just a kid, no more than twenty years old. How long ago it seems when he was that age, when life was full of opportunities, when dreams were possible. He’s curious about the violin, what make it is.
‘When was the last time you played, Maestro?’
‘You talking again, Earl? Not going to leave me alone?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘A long time ago, you know that. Too long, in fact.’
‘I remember those pieces you composed. They were very special.’
‘Yeah, special’, the old man groans. ‘Apparently not special enough.’
The young musician leans forward on the bench and stretches into a yawn, then places the violin under his chin and raises the bow. He begins playing, a rather odd piece, unlike what he was playing to all and sundry from under the arch. He’s playing for himself now, something the old man immediately picks up on. He has the old man’s attention now.
‘Sonata for Solo Violin by Bartók’, the old man says, then listens for a moment, recalling the days when he first learned the piece. It’s a difficult piece, not for amateurs. He’s a little more impressed with the young musician now.
‘He plays very well’, the old man says.
‘Why, you didn’t think so before?’
‘He was playing like a million others before. This is different. He’s showing some promise. Haven’t I taught you anything, Earl? Don’t you ever listen to me?’
‘You taught me a lot, Maestro.’
‘I wish you’d stop calling me that.’
‘It’s a term of respect.’
‘Respect, sure’, the old man says. ‘You don’t respect me as much as you annoy me. Now be quiet, I’m trying to listen.’
The old man no longer sees the young musician. The scenery fades away and transforms itself to those long hours in the studio, his fingers raw from hours of practice, his raging headaches over the pieces he tried to compose, where he poured his heart and soul and no one gave a damn. He thought he had something to offer but apparently no one else did. He could take solace in the act of composing and playing, believing the future was open to him, that all he needed was a chance. The present once again reemerges and he studies the young musician’s face, the determination, the passion, the love of the music, not caring at all no one is listening to him but someone is, someone who understands, someone who’s been there.
‘He plays wonderfully.’
‘Will you be quiet, Earl! I’m trying to listen. You’re always talking. Can’t you shut up for once?’
The young musician’s touch, his tone, his feeling for the piece reveals he’s a serious musician, not just some busker looking to make a few dollars on the street. Then why is he doing so? All this talent wasted on those who either couldn’t care less nor even understand what they are listening to. It isn’t about that, though, and the old man knows it, the young musician knows it.
‘Why are you crying, Maestro?’
‘Oh, Earl, why don’t you shut the fuck up and leave me be.’
The musician is distracted for a moment, looks towards the old man watching him from his perch on the bench. He’s momentarily curious as to who the old man is talking to, then realizes once he get’s a better look at him. The young man smiles, nods hello, an acknowledgment that he knows the old man is moved by his playing. That’s all that matters, to allow the power of music to soothe one’s troubled soul. He sees the tears streaming down the old man’s face and feels for him, is touched his playing can do that for someone, but the reasons behind the old man’s tears are far more complex than the young musician realizes. The old man keeps waving his hand, a gesture which is often used to shut someone up but the young man knows it’s not directed at him. The young musician feels sorry for the old man, and there’s a moment where they hold one another’s gaze. The musician understands, more than the old man realizes. Again, the musician nods, acknowledges the old man’s presence, as the tears continue to flow from the old man’s eyes.