Even though his playing echoed all the way to the train station above, people walked past as if no one was there. Who else pays attention to an old street musician in the morning rush these days? A wizened gentleman with a harmonica, no younger than his years, dressed in a wide jacket, with a winter cap on his head, hemmed at the bottom, which never covered his ears, but was like a škrnicl a moth in the air, and gloves that you can take your fingers off to do this and that.
The gentleman was not at all bothered by the boisterousness of the passers-by. Caught in the rhythm of his old tunes, played a thousand times, he stretched out the bellows of his accordion with his eyes closed and his mouth half open, as if he were performing in front of a standing-room-only audience. Now and then someone threw a coin into the basket at his feet, but the gentleman did not even flinch. I suppose someone could have picked up all his change and he wouldn't have noticed. And there was no fear of anything like that happening. The passers-by looked more like horses than people. With headphones in their ears, faces squinted and shoulders slumped, they were mulling over their worries, and they usually didn't even hear the cyclists who were nervously ringing their horns trying to chase them off the cycle lane.
How much frustration must have built up every morning down here under the train station. How many silent curses, ominous thoughts and gloomy glances, which did not even pass the gentleman's lips because of their stern stare. He continued to play. The harmonious tones wove melodious threads around his heart like laces, drowning out the noise of the bustle of the city.
Even while tying the laces of my running shoes, I wondered if I would see him. I looked at my watch and wondered what day of the week it was. Monday and Wednesday don't escape him, but maybe Thursday will come this week ... Weather has never been an obstacle. In the warmer months, he was cooled by the breeze passing through the narrow tunnel, while in the winter months he was kept warm by a hat, sweater and gloves. A few metres before the ramp leading under the railway tracks, I strained my ears to hear if his the accordion is already warming up the vocal cords. In the mornings, when I would just bump into a wall of awkward silence of passers-by, my thoughts would spend the next hour hoping that I might meet him on the way home.
At nine o'clock it was already late for him. Masked in a handkerchief covering my mouth and red cheeks, I slowed my pace before that turn to catch as much as I could of the... Invisible. Moments that travelled through the ear canals to the heart and filled it with melodies from the very morning, whose bouncing pulse was kept up until the evening! It lasted only a few seconds, but sometimes I felt as if I had heard the whole concert. My blood boiled. Although the sun's rays never shone into that dark underpass, it now glowed with splendour. There were no fiddling horses. There were no people with phones in their faces. There were no nervous cyclists. There was only a gentleman stretching the bellows of his old accordion. All that echoed between the walls was the melody of old songs, played with the heart of those who truly love what they do.
The morning run always ended with haste ... and impatience. A quick shower and I was back running down the street towards the bakery, counting my change as I went, so as not to be late for work.
"A meat bun, a chocolate fudge and a hot tea to go, please."
A few metres before the underpass, a wave of rush and restlessness hit the intoxicating melody that curled the corners of my lips. I stopped, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. As if to fill my lungs with the heartiness that lingered between the concrete walls. I slowly approached him, and without a word, I set my bag and tea down on the empty accordion case at his feet. I don't know if he ever saw me, and it didn't even seem to matter. His eyes were closed and his mouth was slightly open. His accordion was singing. I watched him blend into the melody. How he enjoys it endlessly! Sitting on stage in front of a standing-room-only crowd, playing flawlessly without a single mistake! All the spotlights are on him... There is nothing else. There is only him ... And the accordion.
Summer has come to an end, autumn has turned into winter... I thought he only took a break during the summer holidays, when his grandchildren might visit him. That he had not yet started the first day of school because it did not fall on a Monday. Perhaps he forgot that the holidays were over for the first week ...
Until I turned the calendar and thought we were already in January. Although I run almost every morning, I hadn't met the gentleman yet. Not even at nine o'clock. I am slowly accepting the fact that he will be gone. Sometimes I look for reasons and wonder what happened to his instrument and whether he ever put on the scarf I put on his accordion box as a Christmas present that December day ...
The Lord may be gone, but his mark on the place remains - the melodies he soaked the walls with remain trapped beneath the railway tracks. They are always there. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays too. Trapped in my heart, and maybe in yours too, if you've stepped out of your frenetic rhythm of fussing and worrying for just a moment one morning.
Go on, give it a try. In an underpass or on the promenade that winds through the city centre. Notice them playing. Close your eyes and you will feel the power of the melody flowing all the way to your heart. Nestle carefully and brighten your day.
Posture. Listen. Feel. Just a moment is enough.
Nuša Maver, 22. 4. 2025
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