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THE BUSKER OF TORREVIEJA
Part 2 of 2
Nik Morton
The programme for the following
night was a mixture of Debussy, Ravel and Haydn, and I soon got lost in the
music.
At
the end I bowed and peered into the auditorium as the lights went up. I noticed
the distinctive headdress of a nun in the back row. Without another moment’s
thought, I hurried off-stage, rushed round to the exit doors and nudged my way
through the crowd.
I was in time.
“Excuse
me, Sister,” I said, tugging at her black cotton sleeve.
She
turned and her bright brown eyes gazed straight at me. “Yes? Oh, Mr. Jacobs,
this is a pleasant surprise–”
“Sorry
to interrupt, but...”
And
then I saw the young woman alongside the nun. How had I missed her? The nun’s
habit had drawn me, I suppose. I guessed that the nun was barely in her
thirties, while the elusive busker was about eighteen, shorter than the nun,
with long curling black hair, staring grey eyes with long lashes, a flawless
complexion and thick full lips. There was a bruise on her temple, and yellowing
under the eyes. “It’s this young lady I’ve come to see,” I explained awkwardly.
The
young woman smiled and shook my hand. “Thanks for coming to my aid.”
“Sofia
told us all about it,” said the nun. “You rescued her, didn’t you?”
“Yes,”
I said sheepishly.
“I’m
Sister Teresa from Santa Clara’s hostel for the homeless. Sofia is one of our
charges.” She held out a hand and we shook firmly.
“Hola.”
I turned back to Sofia. “Well, I’d just like to say that your playing...” I
paused, staring.
Sister
Teresa said, “There’s no need to be embarrassed, Mr. Jacobs. Many people don’t
realize at first. Sofia’s been blind for a number of years.”
* * * *
After mild curiosity on our
arrival in the tapas bar round the corner from the theatre – it isn’t every day
a nun sits and eats fast food, after all – nobody paid us any further
attention. I ordered coffees and portions of tortilla.
I
couldn’t keep my eyes from Sofia’s face. Eyes are supposed to be the windows of
the soul but her windows were blank. Yet the tenderness of her smile, the
slight tilt of her head as she listened to conversation and the background
sounds of her surroundings, tended to diminish the shock of her unknowing
stare. Besides, she had found an outlet for her soul through music.
“I’m
sorry, Sister, I didn’t realize Sofia was – couldn’t see...”
“Mr.
Jacobs,” Sister Teresa said in a tone that gave me the distinct impression that
she’d like to wring my neck. “We don’t subscribe to the absurd politically
correct lobby. Sofia’s blind. Has been since her drunken father threw her
downstairs on her sixth birthday. She isn’t deaf. Talk to her.” She tempered her words with a smile that put me at
ease. “She’s too polite to say so,” she went on, “but Sofia probably gets
pretty irate being talked about in the third-person, just like I’m doing, you
know?”
Sofia
leaned forward, touched Sister Teresa’s sleeve and shook her head, as if to
say, “Let it go.”
Suitably
chastised, I said, “Sorry, Sofia.”
“Stop
apologising, Mr. Jacobs!” Sofia laughed, a tinkling musical sound.
“Your
music yesterday, it caused me to turn the car round – if I hadn’t, God knows
what would have happened!”
Sister
Teresa nodded. “God knows, indeed.”
“Er,
yes, well...”
Sofia’s
lips curved and her eyes crinkled at the corners and my insides seemed to
somersault. “Sister Teresa has asked me not to busk...” She shrugged. “I’m just
stubborn!”
“Amen
to that!” said Sister Teresa, and both women clasped hands spontaneously.
I’d
never met anyone like either of them. Sister Teresa possessed the serenity and
poise of a devout religious person. As for Sofia, I simply marveled at her good
humor in the face of adversity: blind, homeless, the victim of a mugging and
God knows what else, yet she smiled out at the dark threatening world.
“Don’t
you feel anger?’ I asked her. ‘After what those men did?”
Sofia
shook her head. “I feel sorry for them. They’re obviously incapable of
appreciating music. Their lives are probably empty, loveless, while mine has
the love of the hostel’s sisters. They doubtless steal to feed their drug
habit, while the sisters feed and clothe me. Their souls are barren, while I
have music...”
“Yes,
music,” I echoed, moved by her words. “Your violin, though; it was smashed.”
“I
was upset about that, naturally. It was a generous gift from one of Sister
Teresa’s benefactors. But my main concern was to get away. I’m used to running
away – well, before I found the hostel...” She sighed. “I’ll just have to save
for another violin.”
Inescapably,
I thought of Milly, of all the material riches she and her society friends
possessed, and suddenly I understood how poor they were in contrast to this
stubborn young woman.
“Don’t
worry about Sofia’s violin. Somehow, the Lord will provide a replacement.” The
determined set of Sister Teresa’s chin made me believe she could achieve
anything she set out to do.
“I
believe you. Please call me Adrian. Both of you.”
“Adrian.”
Sofia smiled beautifully and I felt something unravel inside me.
* * * *
When I returned to the Cabo
Cervera hotel I felt lonely, empty and strangely unfulfilled.
As
I entered our room, Milly stormed at me for missing the after-show party. She
accused me of being uncaring, of being selfish.
She
was so right, of course, though not in the way she meant. “Yes, Milly, I have been uncaring.”
She
stamped her foot. “Don’t call me Milly!”
“I
haven’t cared about people for a very long time, Millicent. Real people. You know, those who live in the actual
world, those who suffer from real bruises not bruised egos–”
“What’s
this rubbish?” A cunning tone entered her voice. “It’s that girl – that busker
– she’s got to you.” She sneered, her lips twisting. “Wait a minute, now I
remember, someone said they saw you with a young woman and a nun...” She
laughed. “It isn’t the girl, it’s the nun! Are you kinky – does the habit turn
you on?”
“Please
stop this–”
“A
frustrated old nun!”
“Sister
Teresa’s not old, Millicent. She’s a good honest–”
“You’ve
gone and got religion, is that it?”
Saddened,
I shook my head. “No, Milly, I haven’t. I’ve gone and got my humanity back. I’d
lost it on the way to being famous.”
I
heard the vase shatter against the wall as I shut the door behind me.
* * * *
My savings account was bulging.
Expenses came out of a separate bank account – Milly could have that to settle
the hotel bills, I thought as I booked into a somewhat cheaper pension.
The
following morning, on my way to the Santa Clara hostel, I bought a reproduction
baroque violin. Its tone was nasal, but pure.
I
felt surprisingly self-conscious as I was shepherded to Sister Teresa’s office.
My pulse raced at the prospect of speaking to Sofia again. I was being foolish;
it was probably misplaced pity that impelled me to come.
At
that moment, the office door opened and Sofia came out with Sister Teresa.
I
smiled and could feel my heart fluttering.
“Oh,
Adrian!” exclaimed Sofia. “How nice to see you!”
“How’d
you know–?”
“Your
after-shave. It still lingers in the memory after yesterday.”
You’ve
lingered in mine, I wanted to reply. Instead, I said, “I brought you this.” I
glanced at Sister Teresa and she nodded okay.
“It’s a new violin,” I ended lamely, thrusting the instrument into Sofia’s
hands.
Her
eyes could not light up with pleasure, but her smile was radiant and her
complexion took on an attractive flush. “Thank you, Adrian.”
Excitedly,
her long hands ran over the instrument, smoothly gliding across the maple
back-plate, fingers daintily plucking the strings.
* * * *
After lunch, Sofia played
Tartini’s Devil’s Trill sonata for
the inhabitants of the hostel. They all sat enraptured by her amazing control
of the music. The final movement, where she trilled on one string while
executing swift passagework on another, was extraordinary, performed with
exquisite assurance. I was thrilled by her choice as poor Tartini had been
sadly neglected for too many years.
However,
more than the music captivated me.
I
never went back. My purpose in life shifted quite dramatically. I left behind
Milly and the world we had inhabited.
Later,
I wrote to Milly, apologizing for ending our personal and commercial
relationship on such a sour note. I made a point of saying that I’d always be
grateful for her sponsoring me and making it possible for my music to touch so
many people. She never replied. Later still, I saw her photo in Hello and she was on the arm of a young
handsome film star. She was smiling and seemed happy.
From
that moment when I listened to Sofia playing, my destiny was sealed.
Sofia and I
are very happy. We now tour the world, putting on concerts for the benefit of
several charities. And we send a percentage of our fees to help fund Santa Clara’s
hostel for the homeless in Torrevieja.
***
This story won 3rd prize in the Third
International Story Writing Competition, Torrevieja, Spain. Published in the
anthology Another Look, May 2007.
Reprinted in When the Flowers are in Bloom and Other Stories (out of print), 2012
Reprinted in When the Flowers are in Bloom and Other Stories (out of print), 2012
Copyright Nik Morton, 2007, 2012, 2015
If you liked this story, you may like my two Spanish themed books published by Crooked Cat:
Amazon UK :-
Amazon UK :-
2 comments:
I have just read "The Busker of Torrevieja" and loved it. I came across it purely by accident. I live in Torrevieja so could picture where the events took place. Funnily enough I live opposite the Cabo Cervera Hotel. I will be following your blog from now on.
Hi, Jackie, thanks for responding. I greatly appreciate your comments. I'm glad you liked the story. You may see some other familiar places in SPANISH EYE (plug!)
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