Читать книгу My Midsummer Morning - Alastair Humphreys - Страница 18

IT WAS TIME TO busk for the very first time. Throughout the morning I had hatched escape plans, justified delaying tactics and concocted excuses for compromise. But such self-destruction was not necessary. Not yet. For I had not failed. I merely had not begun. How our minds magnify that little step which separates where we are from where we wish to be! Leaping from a high rock into an enticing river; telling the boss you quit; speaking to the attractive stranger who keeps catching your eye: just one scary step gets us where we most want to be. But too often we flinch and build our own barriers instead.

The sun was high as I stooped to drink and splash my face in the fountain. The bleary drunks prodded each other and watched with bloodshot eyes. The fountain commemorated the Reconquista of 1809 when Vigo became the first town in Spain to expel Napoleon’s army. Trees lined the square and on three sides there were stately nineteenth-century buildings. The fourth side lay open, leading towards a shopping street. The pensioners on the bench shuffled expectantly and the man in the Panama hat mopped his brow. I mumbled an apology for the disappointment that awaited them. I flicked through my music sheets to find the tune I was most comfortable with, a nostalgic old folk tune called ‘Long, Long Ago’. I pegged it to the stand and took a deep breath. Then I began to play.

The ghoulish screech ripped the silence and my daydreams apart. Nails clawing down a blackboard. Shivers up the spine. I had hoped, somehow, that I might have become miraculously skilful since the last time I had practised. In fact, I was even worse than usual. My finger positions were all wrong and the bow trembled across the strings. Everyone turned in surprise. Screech, screech, screech! A sweat of shame and self-ridicule trickled down my face. Each note sounded jagged and raw. I lost my place in the music and had to begin again.

I threw my head back, screwed up my face and growled angrily. There was such a gulf between my ambition and my ability. The plan was doomed before it even began. I was an idiot. I had been too flippant, too idealistic. What a mess! I dearly wished I was not here.

It consoled me in my cowardice knowing that Laurie had felt much the same way before his initial attempt at busking. He was a proficient violinist, but he was young and beginning his first adventure. So perhaps we were about equal in our nerves. ‘It was now or never. I must face it now, or pack up and go back home,’ wrote Laurie. ‘The first notes I played were loud and raw, like a hoarse declaration of protest … To my surprise, I was neither arrested nor told to shut up. Indeed, nobody took any notice at all.’

I stood in the middle of the Praza da Princesa playing ‘Long, Long Ago’ over and over. Beads of sweat ran down my flank and into my trousers. There was no crowd of fawning fans. No cascade of coins. Not even a round of applause. Just indifferent Spaniards accelerating past. I had known this would happen. But I had not known how it would feel.

The timid averted their gaze and lengthened their stride. The stoical reacted by not reacting. A businessman glanced up from his phone but didn’t flatter me with a second look. A young woman in a leather jacket wrinkled her nose as though I stank. I was a visitor in her town behaving like a tedious fool.

I faced two options. Both were simple but neither was easy. I could stop playing, melt back into the streets and regain my blissful anonymity. It was so tempting. Or I could stick it out here in the plaza, daring myself to keep failing. If I quit now, the whole journey was over before I had walked a single step. I did not know how to catch rabbits, and I am more accomplished at foraging in supermarkets than forests. I had to earn money. I could not hide behind any excuses. I had no Plan B.

But what I did have was clarity. I had only one job to do. And I must do it with all my might. It was not easy, but it was simple. My legs shook. Half my head begged me to stop. But the rest of me, fists clenched, knuckles white, said no. Just finish this song. You can always ride one more mile, row one more minute, walk one more step, play one more song.