The music floated on the humid air of summer, through one open window over the loving argument of a long married couple, through another open window, across the alley where Pete the wino lived, and into the park, where a young boy sat with his sketchbook, under the tree planted by his grandfather, though the boy did not know this.
He had never heard such music, filled with exquisite joy and pain. There were no voices, only a single instrument, an instrument for which he had no name.
He watched his fingers trace new lines on the cheap paper of his sketchbook. One day, he would have a real sketchbook, he promised himself. Real charcoal, too, not No. 2 pencils.
He did not try to control the sketch before him. He let his hands have free reign, watching the figure reveal itself. His best drawings were made this way, tapping into some hidden part of himself.
The figure was sitting, in a straight backed chair. There was a sort of droop in the figure’s spine. His legs were spread apart, holding a large instrument, a sort of giant violin standing on the floor. One hand held a stick in front of the strings, the other hand caressed the end of the strings.
The face, when his hands drew it, was old, with worry lines, unkempt hair, and at least a day’s growth of beard. The mouth was straight, though certain wrinkles bore witness to its ability to smile.
The eyes, though, radiated energy, power, and love. Wide open, staring at something, perhaps a memory.
And just as the face was finished, the music stopped. The boy heard, felt its absence, not just with his ears, but with an emptiness in his heart.
The boy stared at the face on the paper. Who was it? He looked at the sky. It was getting close to sunset. His stomach growled. He’d had nothing to eat today. He closed his sketchbook, put his pencils in his pocket, and stood up. His legs had fallen asleep while he sat under the tree, and he stood still while the tingles went away.
He walked slowly, wary of all the strangers on the sidewalk. A month or so ago, a madman had grabbed his sketchbook and run away. The boy clutched its replacement tightly.
His eyes scanned the houses on the other side of the street. Old Victorians, once proud, now run down, with rotting gingerbread void of color. He’d drawn many of them because they were nearly black and white, perfect subjects for a boy with no money for pastels.
And then, he stopped. For on the porch of that house, that old house on the corner, with more weeds than lawn, he saw the face his hands had drawn on the sketch pad.
Impulsively, he crossed the street, ignoring the blare of horns chastising him, he strode up the short walk to the porch where the old man sat.
The man looked at him, with a mix of curiosity and caution.
The boy opened his sketchbook, and held it open for the old man to see. “I think this is yours.” He began to tear the page out.
“Come sit with me. Leave the drawing in the book.”
The boy sat down, tentatively, on the wooden stairs. There was only the one chair on the porch.
“You’ve been watching me?”
“No. I heard music, and the music sort of controlled my hands, and I…”
The old man nodded. “Bach will do that. A sort of magic. None more powerful than Suite No. 1 in G Major.”
“The cello has magic, too. Come back tomorrow and I will show you.”
Thus began a boy’s education in music, and a friendship that lasted until the old man died. And this is how a street urchin became a famed concert cellist. And this is why that boy, now a man, performs free concerts in that park, filled with pickpockets and addicts who, for a little while, listen and hear the voice of God through the strings of a cello.
© 2019 Leland Dirks. If you like this story, check out my others. Here’s a link to my books: www.amazon.com/author/lelanddirks
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