buy myself something to eat. At this vision of the future, sweat prickled inside my clothes and I felt an irresistible need to get away from this whistling scarecrow. I turned and walked.
‘Hey, you.’
He was limping along after me. He walked painfully, pressing a hand to his groin and pitching sideways at every other step, but he could still move at speed.
‘You!’
He grabbed hold of my sleeve. Although his clothes were wrecked, he wore a fresh carnation in his lapel, its tight green bud barely showing the white furled inside.
‘Where are you going?’ he said. ‘What’s the hurry?’
He grinned the ingratiating grin he used on his patrons, and whistled a couple of notes.
‘Wait a minute. Listen. Listen, I had some songs.’
He was close enough for me to smell decay on his breath and see the clots of grime in the tangled white mop. His fingertips brushed my guitar case.
‘They call me idle,’ he said. ‘They call me good for nothing. But I don’t believe them. They don’t know our calling, you and me. They don’t know what we are.’
He nodded, showing me the gaps in his teeth.
‘You see? I’m just like you. A flâneur. I walk through the city. I hear its songs and I sing them back, and all I ask in return …’
I wanted to walk away, but there was something needy in his face, something desperate, that would not let me.
‘I was a guitar man once, too,’ he said. ‘I made songs in my time. Such songs. Set them on their feet, they’d fly. You know what I’m saying?’
He tapped the back of my hand.
‘I can tell you know. There’s nothing like making a true song, a real one. It might take a lifetime but it doesn’t matter. It costs you everything but you never think twice about paying. But then it stopped. I lost it. Something went wrong, and all the songs left me. It was a long time ago. I can’t remember.’
His fingers rested on my hand that was gripping the guitar case. His eyes were fixed on the instrument.
‘I wish,’ he said, ‘I only wish I could try once more to play my songs.’
I held tighter.
‘I only want to borrow it,’ he said. ‘I think maybe it’ll come back. Maybe I’ll play like I used to. I only want to play one song.’
He was staring at me in what looked like dire need. I pictured the two of us sitting down on the kerb and opening the case, and then his ragged voice lifting and his fingers rippling over the strings to release unforeseeable music. I imagined him restoring the guitar to my arms, and rising with a new ease, relieved of his pain.
‘One song,’ he said. ‘Give me one song.’
I pulled away, grimacing in apology, and started walking again. Behind me the whistler began to shout.
‘Who are you?’ he bawled. ‘Where are your songs?’
He was still following me, dragging along with his broken gait, and before I could get away he made a grab for the guitar. We tusselled, and as I wrested the case away from him he stumbled backwards and fell. Sitting up, he coughed and wiped snot across his face with the back of his hand.
‘They’re not your songs, boy,’ he said. ‘They’re mine. You’ll see.’
He looked up at me with the same sly surmise I had seen on his face to begin with.
‘A mirror,’ he called after me. ‘It’s like looking into a mirror!’
But I heard no more from him, because as I turned another corner I realised where I was. This was Serelight Fair. The night’s journey fell into place: I’d been here often enough pulling rickshaws for stag parties, and tonight I had only failed to recognise the district’s drunken thoroughfares because I’d come by a roundabout route. I was fifteen minutes’ walk from Three Liberties and my own bedsit.
As I set off in the right direction, the past night already seemed less than real.
* * *
It was close to dawn by the time I got back to the bedsit, exhausted from walking. Looking around, I saw that I hadn’t been back here in days. Heaps of dirty clothes lay
‘Hey, you.’
He was limping along after me. He walked painfully, pressing a hand to his groin and pitching sideways at every other step, but he could still move at speed.
‘You!’
He grabbed hold of my sleeve. Although his clothes were wrecked, he wore a fresh carnation in his lapel, its tight green bud barely showing the white furled inside.
‘Where are you going?’ he said. ‘What’s the hurry?’
He grinned the ingratiating grin he used on his patrons, and whistled a couple of notes.
‘Wait a minute. Listen. Listen, I had some songs.’
He was close enough for me to smell decay on his breath and see the clots of grime in the tangled white mop. His fingertips brushed my guitar case.
‘They call me idle,’ he said. ‘They call me good for nothing. But I don’t believe them. They don’t know our calling, you and me. They don’t know what we are.’
He nodded, showing me the gaps in his teeth.
‘You see? I’m just like you. A flâneur. I walk through the city. I hear its songs and I sing them back, and all I ask in return …’
I wanted to walk away, but there was something needy in his face, something desperate, that would not let me.
‘I was a guitar man once, too,’ he said. ‘I made songs in my time. Such songs. Set them on their feet, they’d fly. You know what I’m saying?’
He tapped the back of my hand.
‘I can tell you know. There’s nothing like making a true song, a real one. It might take a lifetime but it doesn’t matter. It costs you everything but you never think twice about paying. But then it stopped. I lost it. Something went wrong, and all the songs left me. It was a long time ago. I can’t remember.’
His fingers rested on my hand that was gripping the guitar case. His eyes were fixed on the instrument.
‘I wish,’ he said, ‘I only wish I could try once more to play my songs.’
I held tighter.
‘I only want to borrow it,’ he said. ‘I think maybe it’ll come back. Maybe I’ll play like I used to. I only want to play one song.’
He was staring at me in what looked like dire need. I pictured the two of us sitting down on the kerb and opening the case, and then his ragged voice lifting and his fingers rippling over the strings to release unforeseeable music. I imagined him restoring the guitar to my arms, and rising with a new ease, relieved of his pain.
‘One song,’ he said. ‘Give me one song.’
I pulled away, grimacing in apology, and started walking again. Behind me the whistler began to shout.
‘Who are you?’ he bawled. ‘Where are your songs?’
He was still following me, dragging along with his broken gait, and before I could get away he made a grab for the guitar. We tusselled, and as I wrested the case away from him he stumbled backwards and fell. Sitting up, he coughed and wiped snot across his face with the back of his hand.
‘They’re not your songs, boy,’ he said. ‘They’re mine. You’ll see.’
He looked up at me with the same sly surmise I had seen on his face to begin with.
‘A mirror,’ he called after me. ‘It’s like looking into a mirror!’
But I heard no more from him, because as I turned another corner I realised where I was. This was Serelight Fair. The night’s journey fell into place: I’d been here often enough pulling rickshaws for stag parties, and tonight I had only failed to recognise the district’s drunken thoroughfares because I’d come by a roundabout route. I was fifteen minutes’ walk from Three Liberties and my own bedsit.
As I set off in the right direction, the past night already seemed less than real.
* * *
It was close to dawn by the time I got back to the bedsit, exhausted from walking. Looking around, I saw that I hadn’t been back here in days. Heaps of dirty clothes lay
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