Читать книгу My Midsummer Morning - Alastair Humphreys - Страница 20

NOW: A COIN IN my case and hope in my heart! I had earned my first busking money. A euro! A bag of rice. A beginning. I held the coin up in the sunlight and kissed it. I was rich!

Laurie had a similar delighted epiphany that something as intangible as a mere song could be converted into cash. This alchemy revealed a world of possibility. ‘I felt that wherever I went from here this was a trick I could always live by.’

Shorn of fear, I dived back into my repertoire, looping through my five little songs again and again, but this time playing with joy and confidence. It is probably no coincidence that more success followed. Two elderly ladies laughed at me, fumbled in their handbags, and gave 50 cents each. I had predicted that I would earn nothing in Vigo and that it might take days before I got my act together. I saw myself picking ears of wheat and pilfering crusts from café tables. But instead, I was rich on the very first day! And, like most wealthy people, I now wanted even more.

I sawed away, panning for gold, giddy and greedy with the rushing release of nerves and the thrill of exhibitionism. And the money: so much money! I gazed in awe at the three gleaming coins in my violin case.

A lady strode through the plaza – jeans, blouse, smiling – aged about 50. She looked both prosperous and friendly: promising. She paused and peered into her handbag as though preparing to give me something. Then she changed her mind and walked on, flipping her hand at me. I presumed that she had noticed how bad I was. Oh well … nearly … At least someone had considered me.

Later, as I was packing to leave, the same woman returned, and this time she gave me a euro. She explained that earlier she had no change in her handbag. This was becoming decadent!

Laurie was also struck by gold fever, recalling, ‘Those first days … were a kind of obsession; I was out in the streets from morning till night, moving from pitch to pitch in a gold-dust fever, playing till the tips of my fingers burned.’

A sturdy pensioner sat down to rest. He groaned as he lowered himself onto the bench, bracing his hands on his thighs. When he heard me playing, he did not smile. He watched with his jaw set and face expressionless. I grew nervous. After only a song or two he signalled me to stop, waving with his palm downwards in the Spanish fashion.

‘Am I really so bad?’ I wondered.

He beckoned me over and motioned for me to sit beside him on the bench.

I was rushing, the old man explained, playing too fast. I needed to allow space in the music.

‘You know the expanding ripples when you throw a stone into a lake? That is music. The silences make a tune. The unique pauses are what make a life. My name is Antonio. Now, play me “Guantanamera” again.’

I returned to my violin. I left spaces. I played, as much as I was able, with passion. I really tried. When I finished the song, one of the drunks leaning on the fountain laughed and called out, ‘más o menos’. His pals showered me with the lightest ripple of applause. And Antonio dropped a coin into my violin case. It glittered with treasure like an overflowing pirate’s chest. Four whole euros!

Antonio then launched into a rambling philosophical monologue that I only half grasped, explaining that my journey and my life was like the children’s game La Oca. In La Oca you have to be willing to roll the dice and go for it. If you want to move forward, you must risk and accept whatever triumph or disaster comes your way. I was a free spirit, like the swan in La Oca, he said. I should feel proud of what I was attempting, and be as brave as I dared to be.

After a sleepless night and the day’s exhausting emotions, Antonio’s kind words brought a lump to my throat. It was just the rousing speech I needed to get me over the next hurdle. It was time to walk.