Listening
Old proverbs say that everyone has a song inside them, what these old proverbs don’t know is that this isn’t metaphorical. Everyday people are composing masterpieces that they aren’t even aware of and I am party to them.
Today I’m sitting in a coffee shop overlooking the market of this beautiful city. The songs here are quaint and self absorbed, there is variety, but as a rule of thumb they tend to consist of little ditties and chimes. It’s why I like to listen here.
I am sat in a window seat on the second storey, I’m just people watching, I haven’t decided who to focus my attention on yet. A few possibilities have arisen, but nothing of the calibre I am searching for today. The girl behind the counter was preoccupied with her busy day; I thought she might be promising as when I ordered my Chai Latte with Soy a brief jubilant refrain caught my ear, other than that though her song is the low hum of somebody deep in concentration and the routines of daily life. A slight disappointment really.
Through the window I find it hard to listen to other peoples songs, they become a murmur, as if your next door neighbour has music on and you can just about make sense of it through the wall. If I wanted to hear the shoppers’ songs though, I would’ve sat outside. Today I’m after something a bit different. The general throng in the coffee shop are groups or couples, deep in discussion and not too bothered about their inner musings, I seem to be the only person sat alone. Damn.
I wait; I’m not really giving any listening a worthy attempt, just keeping myself open to the compositions around me. Groups and couples on a market day tend to be a score of the mundane with overtures of superficial excitement. No one here is really concerned about their deeper issues. It makes for boring listening.
A rag tag group of ‘scene’ kids appear on the stairs, their collective sound a mass of grinding bass lines and distorted guitars. With the entrance of their young, enthusiastic composing, I decide to make good my escape. I don’t think I’ll find what I’m looking for there. Even if I did, I doubt I’d be able to hear it over the jumble of heavy riffs and screeching solos.
Just as I step out onto the street, he walks by. His song a single cello, playing a lilting, haunting arrangement. That one person’s song could be so sparse and so melancholy intrigues me. I have never heard a song as honest as this. I follow him from a distance, I don’t need to see him, I just need to follow his beautiful tune.
He rounds a corner and stands by the wall, pulling a cigarette from its packet. He is unaware that his movements are in perfect rhythm with the meter of his song. I sit down on a bench near him, striking a pose as if I am waiting for someone. I am lost in his composition, riding the wave of his cello score.
His phone goes off and the music stops. He looks at his phone, looks left to right and slowly, yet deliberately he walks to the bench I’m sat on and joins me. I can’t hear his music anymore, he just stopped it. This is unusual, the music is usually a constant, I have never heard someone stop their music. He tries to light his cigarette, once, twice, the third time he shakes his lighter beforehand, no joy.
“Got a light?”
His voice has the same timbre as the cello in his song, I am shocked into silence and stupidly hand him my lighter without saying a word. He looks me in the eyes; he seems to be put out by my odd response. I realise I must be staring. How did he just stop the music? No one can stop their music, it just flows out subconsciously.
He lights his cigarette and passes the lighter back to me.
“Want one?” He asks. I must still be gawking at him like a madwoman.
“Sure.” They are the first words I’ve said in this encounter and I’m pretty sure he must think I’m a simpleton.
He hands me a cigarette and I light up in silence, trying to keep my eyes fixed ahead of me and not on him.
His music sparks up again, slowly at first, creeping up to continue the haunting cello piece, this time little refrains of guitar lick over it. It’s a restive song. I find myself moving a leg to its rhythm, a gently but slow tapping of my heel.
He notices this movement and looks sideways at me, a crooked smile playing across his face; his hazel eyes holding an intrigue all of their own.
“Do you believe in fate?” he asks in his cello voice, still perfectly in time with the song. Unbidden a smile comes to my face.
“I’m not sure, why do you ask?” Our tones are so informal yet we have never met before, his restive song seems to be working a kind of magic on me.
“I think I was fated to sit on this bench today.”
I say nothing, his tone says he doesn’t expect a reply from me; he’s just airing his thoughts. His music drifts on between us, I notice is fingers lightly tracing on his jeans in time with it. I wonder if he’s somehow aware of his music, if that is that how he stopped it.
I close my eyes and rest my head back slightly. We sit in apparent silence and yet awash with sound.
“You write a lovely melody.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud. I open my eyes to peak at him, sure that I have just concreted the fact that I am insane. He just smiles his crooked smile, his hazel eyes still staring forward.
“I thought you could hear it.”
I am shocked but his smile remains, he blinks as if at peace and his eyes stay on the wall in front of him. All I can do is gape at him. He looks off to the end of the alley, urgency in his actions; his music ups its pace slightly yet remains as beautiful as before. He stands up suddenly, doing up his jacket, looking at a point just behind me, down another alleyway.
“I’ll be here tomorrow, same time.” He tosses me one last boyish smile, turns and slowly walks away. With his back to me he waves over his shoulder and says,
“My name’s Benjamin.”
I sit in stunned silence, unable to move and chase after him, unable to bombard him with questions, unable to even make sense of my thoughts. He knows I can hear his music; he doesn’t question me on it. He throws me what could be construed as an invitation to see him again…and then he leaves.
This was my first encounter with Benjamin.
