'The Busker of Torrevieja' - part 2 of 2

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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 3^rd 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

 

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 :-

 

Blood of the Dragon Trees

 

Spanish Eye

 

Amazon COM here                   Amazon COM here

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday Story - 'The Busker of Torreveija' part 1 of 2

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THE BUSKER OF TORREVIEJA

 

Part 1 of 2

(part 2 tomorrow)

 

Nik Morton

 

Milly was at least ten years older than me – I was twenty-five and she was a bit hazy about her date of birth. Whatever she wore, she always looked stunning. The black sleeveless dress was in some kind of all-over stretch lace and the net underskirt rustled as she turned to gaze at me. “Adrian, be a dear and zip me up,” she said, fixing a pearl earring. Her hazel eyes shone with the anticipation of seeing Tomás, her new conquest for this evening.

            “Certainly, Millicent.” She didn’t like me calling her Milly. “You look ravishing, by the way,” I said, truthfully enough, obliging with the zip.

            The mood was changed by a rapid knock on the hotel room door.

            “That’ll be Tomás,” she said. “Let him in, will you?”

            Tomás Rivera had moved from Madrid to Torrevieja ten years ago and thrived on the considerable and delightful cultural delights of the town. In every way, he was Milly’s kind of guy. He pumped my hand vigorously. “You are sure I am unable to twist your arm for a meal first, young man?”

            I declined. “Sorry, I have to prepare for my performance later.”

            Milly wanted glamor and excitement, while I was only a fairly staid if talented flautist. True, she liked having me hang on her arm at society events, and to begin with she’d sponsored me till I became known. I’d thought we were in love but after a while it became obvious that this was not the case. I suppose I should’ve realized sooner, but maybe I was selfish, not wanting to jeopardise my comfortable life, touring and staying in the best hotels, playing my music and making recordings. Perhaps all artistes are self-centred like me.

            As Milly left with Tomás, I tried to submerge any thought of self. I must live for the music. Only the music was important. Not Milly, not my happiness, and certainly not me.

* * * *

It was a hot July. On our way to the Teatro Municipal, the early evening buzz of Torrevieja’s paseo intruded pleasantly enough through the open windows of the limousine. My driver Emilio had explained, “The air-con, it always breaks in summer.”

            Then I heard a remarkable, beautiful sound, a violin playing a Tartini sonata, though I’d never known it expressed with such feeling. I leaned forward. “Emilio, turn up the volume, will you?”

            “The radio, it is not on, Mr. Jacobs.”

            The music was fading, I was losing it. “Emilio, stop the car!” Normally, I didn’t make a habit of being rude, but that music really got to me. I peered out the rear window and glimpsed a figure with a violin on the corner of the block we’d just passed.

            Emilio pulled over smoothly, reversed into a side street and, to the accompaniment of blaring car-horns, he crossed the traffic and headed back the way we’d come. Thankfully, not a policeman was in sight.

            “Where are we going, Mr. Jacobs?”

            “We passed a – a busker. I want to hear him play.”

            “Sí, vale, Señor.” His tone suggested that he was humouring an escaped inmate from an asylum. I had to admit, I wasn’t acting rationally. But that music had really affected me.

            Up ahead three people were scuffling on the pavement. As we approached, I realized it was two men fighting a woman – and she was the busker.

            “Pull in, Emilio!”

            “This is not a good idea, Señor.”

            “Emilio!”

            He slammed on the brakes and I bundled forward. Fortunately, the drinks cupboard was shut or I would’ve been wearing it.

            By the time I’d opened the door and stepped out, the two men had knocked the woman to the ground. “Hey!” I shouted. “What are you doing?” A stupid thing to say, but it got their attention.

            My stomach churned sickeningly: the woman lay quite still. I was about to get Emilio to call for an ambulance when I heard something that made my mouth go very dry and my legs seemed to lose all prior knowledge of mobility.

            “Richer meat here, eh, Fedor?” said the taller one, eyeing me. He was grinning. I wasn’t. My face felt frozen, the blood draining from it.

            And still not a policeman in sight.

            Instinct must have taken over from common sense. I reached inside the car and grabbed my flute case. Purposefully, I walked toward them, even though adrenalin pumping down to my wobbly legs told me that I was going in the wrong direction. I guessed – hoped – that they were cowards.

            “Just watch, Igor!” said Fedor and rushed me.

            I’ve guessed wrong, I thought with a sinking feeling. Somehow, I side-stepped Fedor’s charge and luckily brought the flute case crashing down on the back of his head as he passed. He let out a yelp and slid unconscious to the pavement.

            Both the case and flute were broken. What was Milly going to say?

            Igor came at me with a knife and I forgot all about Milly.

            I was in over my head and knew it. My legs felt like jelly and my heart pounded.

            Igor lunged, but I backed off in time and the blade slashed the front of my jacket. Blood roared in my ears; I was angry that my life would end here and now, on this orange-tree lined street.

            My back bumped into an ornate cast-iron lamppost. I had nowhere to go.

            Igor grinned, and I noticed that he needed a dentist.

            The high-pitched squeal of car-tires caught our attention. The limo mounted the kerb and Emilio stormed straight at Igor, who decided to run.

            As Emilio braked, I turned to the woman – but she was no longer there. Only her broken violin.

            Shakily, with trembling fingers, I picked up the ebony fingerboard and spruce top-plate, pieces of wood that had so recently been an instrument capable of sending waves of emotion that wrenched at my heart. A heart that was now pounding with relief. Thanks to Emilio, I was still alive. But did I really feel alive?

* * * *

When I finally arrived at Torrevieja’s impressive theatre, Milly sounded a little uptight over my delay. That’s understatement. And when I told her what had happened she went ballistic and railed at me for being irresponsible. She held my hands, stroking them. “You can’t get involved in brawls, Adrian! The damage you could do to your hands – it’s too great a risk!” She was simply concerned about my ability to play music.

            Very altruistic, I thought. “I couldn’t let those thugs get away with–”

            “Your heart’s in the right place, dear,’ she interrupted, ‘even if your head isn’t. You can’t put your livelihood on the line for some silly busker!”

            My cheeks felt suddenly very hot but, before I could respond, one of her acolytes said, “Time for the concert, darlings!”

            ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ I said and shrugged off her imploring hand and ignored her whispered words of good luck. Break a leg? That woman busker had made exquisite music and now her instrument was broken beyond repair. How many buskers were there in Torrevieja? God knows! All I knew was that it was a long time since I’d been so affected by anything like that busker’s music.

            My hands trembled with reaction but, somehow, I had to go on and perform. Be a professional, I told myself, as the applause echoed round the Teatro Municipal.

            Since the evening was humid, no one remarked on my appearance in shirt-sleeves and cummerbund. I didn’t have a spare jacket but I used my spare flute.

            No matter how hard I tried to be detached, I was haunted by the sound of the woman’s violin, so I don’t believe that I played too well. Fortunately for my nerves and reputation, it was a fairly simple programme, Love Themes from the Movies. Popular stuff, like We have all the time in the world, Bilitis, Tara’s Theme from Gone With the Wind, Love is a Many Splendored Thing, and Three coins in the fountain.

            I received rapturous applause and was grateful but felt no familiar warmth from the approbation.

            Next day, I telephoned the few musical instrument shops in Torrevieja and the outlying area. The F-holes in the violin’s top-plate were unusual and easy to describe. At the third shop the owner recognised the violin. He complimented me on my Debussy solo two weeks earlier in Murcia and regretted that all he could remember about the violin was that a nun had bought it about six months ago. He offered to search his records, but I told him not to bother. Since I had not seen a nun busking, it seemed likely that the violin was stolen. End of the line.

… to be concluded tomorrow…

Writing Guide-02 - Beginnings

Whether a short story or a novel, the beginning is very important. It's probably the most edited and changed aspect of any written work. It has to do several things at once: pull the reader in, create character or atmosphere or scene, or ask a question...

Both beginners and readers often ask ‘How do you start?’ How isn’t so important as just sitting there and doing it; as they say, apply bum to seat and write. Anthony Burgess said: ‘I start at the beginning, go on to the end, then stop.’ While Mickey Spillane commented: ‘I write the ending first. Nobody reads a book to get to the middle.’

A writer has to read to understand story structure – whether in a novel or a short story. Many stories begin half-way through then you get the beginning as a flashback or through memories or character disclosure. Ideally, you should start at a dramatic high-point, though not the most dramatic high-point – you leave that for the end. The most important thing is to pull the reader into your story – because if you don’t, then you’re likely to lose the reader. The reader only has to close the book, after all. There are plenty of books out there, all vying for readers. The writer has to grab the reader so that once involved in the book’s world and characters, the reader won’t let go until the end.

There are countless stories and articles in magazines seeking the reader’s attention. People only have a limited time to devote to reading. They will cherry-pick what interests them. The same goes for books in shops. A browser will look at the cover, perhaps the blurb on the back and maybe the first page. If that first page doesn’t grab the browser’s interest, the book is replaced on the shelf. The words you’ve sweated over for days or weeks or even years, even if they get published, may only merit an initial sixty seconds of consideration from a book-buyer. Make those first words count, make them say, ‘You’re going to enjoy this book and love the characters and marvel at the plot.’ Easier said than done, true.

What kind of hook can you employ? That depends on your story. The story’s theme, place and characters can all pull the reader in. Raise a question in the reader’s mind – a question that demands an answer, which means having to read on to find out. That question can be literal, from the mouth of a character, or hinted at by the narrative, suggesting that everything is not what it seems.

Starting a story with characters speaking is a good idea, as the reader gains a great deal through speech – the character reveals himself by the way he talks, there’s interaction between people, and there’s even a hint of eavesdropping in the character’s world.

Two classic beginnings spring to mind, one from a novel, the other from a short story.

‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.’ – Nineteen Eighty-four, George Orwell.

To begin with it seems as though we’re getting a boring weather report then we’re brought up short by the significance of the clocks striking not twelve, but thirteen. What on earth is going on? we ask and read on to find out more.

‘As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.’ – The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka.

Clearly, it must be a fantasy, but it demands the reader’s attention as we learn about Gregor’s nightmarish feelings of isolation and sacrifice.

Not surprisingly, both authors have contributed words to the English language: Orwellian, Big Brother, Kafkaesque, for example.

Of course you’re not always going to manage to seduce the reader in the first sentence. But you should be trying to use every one of those early words and paragraphs to intrigue the reader, to pique her interest.

Yes, you’re bound to find published examples where the beginnings are bland or even quite ordinary. Usually, these are written by established writers who can indulge themselves because they have a ready readership. Dickens began A Tale of Two Cities with a philosophical viewpoint about the times of the French Revolution and started Bleak House with an atmospheric description of fog. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking that because a famous author does things his way, you can emulate him. You’re fresh, new and unpublished – and need every trick in the book to get noticed. That means writing a good beginning that quickly hooks the reader.

Don’t sit in front of a blank sheet of paper, though, just because you can’t think of a good beginning. Get the story – or first chapter – written. The beginning can always be changed and improved afterwards.

The following beginnings come from a selection of my published short stories.

BEGINNINGS – PUBLISHED SHORT STORIES

I CELEBRATE MYSELF
The stench was overwhelming, a mixture of mildewed fast-food, feces, rotten fruit, used sanitary towels, crumpled tabloid sheets of the New York Daily News and God knows what. I gagged and fought back the bile that threatened to lead a revolt of my stomach as I crawled over trash in the shadows. If my husband could see me now, he’d have a fit.

(Published in Beat to a Pulp ezine. This tells you the narrator is a female, probably in New York, and she's married. It also assaults the senses)

NOT TO COUNT THE COST
Up to that time I thought we could cope with anything. Until the snow struck. It wasn't the predicted heavy snowfall but a freak intense blizzard: ice spicules pummelled the canvas-covered trucks, sent up a deafening rataplan from the vehicle bonnets; the temperature plummeted to minus ten degrees. I used my black habit's voluminous sleeve to wipe a circle of visibility in the misted glass and peered out the lead truck's windscreen. Seconds ago there had been a road up ahead, with the prospect of another two hours' drive in these hostile Bosnian Mountains to the Mirvic Orphanage. Now there was just a white wall.

(Prize winning story published in Rom-Aid News and subsequently in Costa TV Times. We experience the threat of intense cold and it's a nun narrating. We know it's Bosnia and she's on a mission of mercy.)

THE END IS NIGH
All the churches in the world were full. And the synagogues. And the mosques. As an atheist I wasn’t surprised that all this prayer wasn’t working. Unfortunately, nothing else was, either. Science had no explanation. For five years now there hadn’t been a single baby born. Not one. Plants and flowers no longer bloomed. They didn’t die, they just never blossomed into flower, their leaves a dull grey.

(Published in the December issue of the Coastal Press. It's the future and disaster has struck our planet. A question is posed, and hopefully the reader will stick around to find out if there's an answer...)

NOURISH A BLIND LIFE
Not long now. My tenacious hold on this mortal coil is weakening but I have no regrets as I look down and for the first time in sixty years see myself, lying there, still trapped within that faithful, old husk. There is no bitterness in me; the poor body served me well enough, impaired as it is: it kept me going until I met her and fifteen years beyond.

(A prize winning short story based on a real life, attempting to step into another person's shoes. Published in a number of places, including this blog. Again, it poses questions and the reader should be wondering what happened to make the narrator so sanguine about his plight...)

OUTCAST
She came out of the godforsaken planet's seasonal mists, struggling under her immense weight. She wasn't welcome.

(A Christmas story commissioned for the Gatehouse Magazine. Transposing Christmas Eve to an inhospitable planet. Why wasn't she welcome?)

THE HOUSE OF AUNTY BERENICE
Purple was etched beneath her wide eyes. The slightly built girl in the shadowy doorway wore an eggshell-blue dress and apparently nothing else. Some people answer and look as if they're truly at home, in body and spirit; somehow, she didn't seem to belong, not here in this dilapidated house, not in shadow.

(Published in Dark Horizons. A character who begs to be understood. Why is she there? Questions that require answers.)

DUTY BOUND
A mountainous landscape populated by dragons strode out of the swathes of sauna steam and approached me. Hiroki Kuroda was tattooed over his entire torso and down to his wrists and calves; at a glance he gave the impression that he was wearing long johns, instead of which he was a walking exhibition of yakuza body art. As a member of the yakuza, a Japanese criminal organization similar to the Mafia, he endured hundreds of hours of pain simply to show that he could. Hiroki waved with his left hand; the little finger was missing at the first knuckle.

(A Leon Cazador story, published in the Coastal Press. Surreal image that creates a mysterious character and potential threat.)

ENDANGERED SPECIES
He had large eyes, big ears and, surprisingly, his middle finger was very long on each hand. ‘He looks cute,’ I said, lowering the photograph of the little aye-aye. His hair was black and he had a long bushy tail. His eyes seemed to be expressing surprise at finding himself in a cage rather than the diminishing rain forests of Madagascar. Perhaps the daylight conditions affected him too, which wasn’t strange really, as his kind is nocturnal. ‘But,’ I added, shaking my head in mock-concern, ‘my fiancée wants something a bit more exotic. Know what I mean?’

(A Leon Cazador story published in the Coastal Press. Again, slightly surreal till the reader realizes the description is not a man. Starts to ask questions - why the mock concern? What's going on here? Read on, I hope it says...)

Next time, I'll look at some novel beginnings.