Читать книгу My Midsummer Morning - Alastair Humphreys - Страница 19

AN EMBARRASSED LAUGH BURST from my mouth after yet another tune fizzled out. But this time a man on the bench responded with a small smile. A smile! My busking had earned something at last. This was progress. But it was only a matter of time before people tired of me and the police ushered me away, so I turned to my best song. ‘Guantanamera’ was my jolliest piece and – being Cuban – vaguely close to Spanish music.

‘Guantanamera,’ I explained, hesitantly, to the bench, after stuttering through the closing notes.

‘Más o menos, more or less,’ said my ally, kindly. He was a mild-looking gentleman of about 60, resting a pile of heavy supermarket bags at his feet.

The men next to him continued to ignore me, stony-faced. In their situation, I would have done the same. Make eye contact with a crap foreign busker and he’s certainly not going to leave you in peace. Better to keep your head down and your money in your pocket.

Back in England, Becks used to dish out musical advice above and beyond trying to coax me into playing some of the right notes in approximately the right order. One afternoon she described what to do ‘once you’ve got a crowd gathered’. I raised an eyebrow at her sassy optimism.

‘They will all be clapping along to this,’ she proclaimed as I lumbered through a ponderous nursery rhyme. ‘Spaniards are very rhythmical.’

I resisted asking whether she had ever been to Spain, and sighed. ‘I honestly don’t think a crowd is going to gather to listen to this.’

There was no solace in proving myself right.

My stomach rumbled but I had not earned a crust. It was time for what is always a good plan when you are vulnerable. Be humble, look people in the eye, acknowledge your faults, trust yourself, trust the world, smile, then try your best. I wiped my eyes on my shirt, tidied my music sheets and started again. Song after song, I failed to snare my first coin. Every tune was strewn with errors. But I was enthusiastic now, a less timid person than when I woke that morning. I had to persevere, be patient, keep hoping, and trust the people of Vigo.

After what felt like a lifetime sawing away, one elderly gentleman rose from the bench. He walked towards me, stooped and leaning on his stick. He looked smart in his dark glasses and tweed jacket, with neatly combed hair. I anticipated his words:

‘Señor. Enough! Spare us. It is time to move on. Por favor. Give us back our peace, I beg you.’

But he did not say that. Instead, he put his hand into his pocket.

Surely not!

The old man pulled out a coin and handed it to me with a small smile. And I thought I was going to burst with exhilaration and amusement and relief. I had done it!

Nor was it just a copper coin. He gave me a whole euro! In the weeks of doubt before departure, my mantra to prevent me from wimping out of the trip had been, ‘If I can just get one euro, somehow, I can buy a bag of rice. With a bag of rice, I can walk for a week. Walk for a week and after that anything becomes possible. Just one euro. That’s all I need. One euro. Somehow …’

That gentleman gave me much more than a euro. He gave more even than a bag of rice. For he gave me hope.