Always asking why, yet asking the wrong whys.

The coins fell into the violin case, one after another, with a cling. His face shifted between a captivating smile that invited pedestrians closer, and his resting sad face that took over his profile when he played. Sueños Diabólicos was not particularly hard to play, but it was one of those pieces that due to its speed sounded more complicated than it really was.

Tapping the beat with his feet. Tempo increasing. People clapping. “Close your eyes, just be…” he said to himself, “faster, faster, and again, once more… once again.” He opened his eyes, about fifteen people had gathered around him, clapping to the rhythm, heads swaying, smiles, and hey, hey, hey…

Abruptly, he moved the bow from the violin to his mouth, commanding silence. Frozen before those eyes, he walked, softly and intentionally, to the centre of the improvised theatre. Drawing circles in the air with his bow. Same melody slowed down, from festive to solemn. He locked eyes with a child who was imitating him, and in that trance, they both increased the pace, while circling each other like two Jedi duelists.

He finished the song and bowed to his opponent and to the audience. More claps, more coins, and in his eyes a joyful thirst for water.

He winced at the sun, and thought it was time to find another spot in the market. The audience was clearing up, only an old man remained looking at his case.

A poorly maintained figure of silver hair and wrinkled gestures eyed him. He watched him collecting the coins, enchanted by how the violin was tucked in its case, as a baby who had earned a restful night’s sleep.

Luis, the violinist, acted as normal as he could. Yet there was something unsettling about the old man, who was searching his pockets, “maybe a coin?” He thought but discarded the thought immediately, the old man’s pants didn’t look like they carried any coins, or documents, just dirt. “Probably homeless,” Luis called it.

Luis turned around and began his walk.

“Rega, rega, rega.” The old man said, closing the distance between them with two long strides.

“Can I help you?”

“Ah English, ken ken, I can do English, you latin, you not American?” The old man kept looking in his pocket, and finally said, “you played good, but have no coins for you. But I take you good secret falafel place and you pay me a portion.”

There was something in those absent eyes that made Luis agree to the deal, and off they went.

“Walk slow, my friend, I just had operation, you know, they opened me up, and removed things from me.” He lifted his old, patched t-shirt and showed a scar-less abdomen, “the operation was long, almost four hours,” he raised his right hand, counted his fingers, and showed four. “Very painful.”

“I can’t see anything,” Luis said, embarrassed that there was nothing there to see, yet sympathetic to the pain of such a long surgery.

“Of course, you can’t, I was treated by the invisible doctors, the same ones that treated Fernanda del Carpio in Macondo!![1] I thought you were latino!” He snorted at him, and without letting it sink in he continued, “the falafel is around the corner, don’t look at me like that and don’t worry, the falafels are not invisible.” He cleaned some beads of sweat from this brow with his hand, and then looked at his hand examining his wet fingers, “so we were born, one day, but, my friend, but we don’t understand this world, this reality. You walk around with a violin, and I walk penniless, neither of us know where we belong, you want to know about good falafel, I want some coins to eat. The invisible doctors always say, ‘as soon as you realise you can ask, you meet lies; as soon as you realise you can walk, you find prison.’” He opened his arms in a welcoming gesture, that meant the opposite; it declared the city, and maybe the world, a prison.

Luis was not sure if he was done speaking, or waiting for a response from him, “in case of doubt, remain quiet!” His thoughts had clearly trust issues.

“Amigo, you play only violin?” The old man asked, “Eeee eeee eeeee, is like a crying cat… you good, but not good for me. Can you twang twang twang a guitar?”

“I can play some chords, not many, why don’t you like the violin?”

“Why? Why? Why? Lama… lama… lama…” he trailed off, “Khaver She-li! The why is not important, this is no philosophical question, this is no business case, this is music, you like or you don’t. Basta!”

The old man’s erratic command of English puzzled Luis. “He’s quite a character, or quite a few,” he thought looking at his companion trying to figure out where in the market they were.

“There!!! Go go! time for food!” He rubbed his stomach and marched on without waiting for Luis.

“Yael, Chaim Sheli,” the old man greeted the woman that was tending the small food corner. “I brought you a musician, bring your old guitar, we will play something for you.”

Luis felt anxious and embarrassed, Yael seemed happy with the interaction, and played along.

“When she comes, you play three or four chords, and I sing!”

“Which chords? Which song?”

“The three chords you know, they just need to sound good.”

“Yael, you pretty lady, thank you for the guitar, did you see how this world is? This is not the one I fought for,” his voice cracked, his head cocked to one side. He gestured her to hand the guitar over to Luis. “I wanted a better world, and better time for you all.” He stood up tall and proud, “ahem-ahem,” he cleared his voice. No one in the small restaurant seemed to care. Only Luis was swimming in discomfort and secondhand embarrassment. “ahem-ahem, first, I need to pee, sorry.”

The old man confidently disappeared between the tables.

“Sorry, I don’t know what’s happening, I met him in the market. He said something about falafel, and I’m so sorry.” Tsinvari’s apologetic voice was silenced by Yael’s hands.

“Relax, Dror is a sweetheart, he usually brings street performers, he pities your kind. He would call you a lost soul, one that aims for art and music, and only lands in mini-shows.”

“You know him?”

“Betach, betach! He’s like our father, he owns the building and the restaurant,” she said proudly, “He had a hard life,” she pointed at her temples, “this world messed up his mind, he wanders around during the day, and we bring him home every evening.”

“Maybe you could take him to a hospital? Somewhere where personnel would care for him 24/7.”

“No, we thought about that many years ago, we realised something, society messed up his mind, not his soul. He brings joy to everyone, and knows a lot; He’s a gift. Plus you need a village to raise a child, or to care for any member of it. You need an intentional village.”

“Khaver, amigo… música, twang twang the guitar!” Dror was back.

“G major, B minor, D major, A major,” The guitar murmured in an endless loop. Dror matched the tune and sang a rhymeless song. Verses that shattered metrics and empty hopes. Yael’s eyes simply said, “he’s a gift.”

Luis’ resting sad face betrayed a hint of hope.

Until it is Sunday again,

—Rene

[1] One hundred years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez