Huddled carefully under a building outcrop to keep dry every labored movement of his body gives witness to the pain. His plastic tip jar lies empty in front of him. The worn and peeling veneer of the cello reveals the strain of life on the streets.
With a gentle smile he turns to me and says, ‘My intention is to be presentable. Not great or successful, just not a disgrace.”
His hand gently strokes the long-curved neck his thin boney fingers slide across the weathered fingerboard. Tattered hairs of the bow breathe gently across the strings. Vibrating, dancing with delight to every wide slow vibrato. Flute-like harmonic rises and falls under the rain-soaked skies. In that moment, a glimmer of what was fills the night with texture dancing away the fleeting petty thoughts of life.
The gentle minstrel plays with a serene elegance, without shame, full of grace and beauty. The wisp of a man once heralded in the highest circles of society the son of Salem. Star of the royal conservancy in Brussels stands majestic.