Afternoon Melody
Music was playing as I stepped out of the shower, the style of music that wafts from quaint European alleyways, past old stone buildings and burbles over cobblestones. I walked through to my room, drying myself, the music was coming nearer, and I realised it was coming from the street outside. I stepped out onto my balcony, into the breeze and a bright leafy day, and was glad to have moved to Berlin.
A little way up the street, two men in berets were strolling along, one with an accordian and the other a trumpet, and they were playing and swaying, and the tune was light and happy on top but with an undulating smiling melancholy underneath - I do not know how they produced such a contrast with just the two of them, or how they made a melody and a rhythm as though there were three or four, but then I know almost nothing of music except that I rejoice to hear it played well and especially so when it is played on a sunny afternoon in the middle of the week beneath my window.
The trumpeter saw me standing on the balcony and I nodded and took some coins from my pocket. He held his hat out and they all fell into it cleanly from a story up, and he thanked me and bowed, and then knelt to take a few more coins from a little child who was running up to him. There were other children on the pavement and they were dancing, with no self-consciousness, as children can.
The tune changed to a harder quicker beat, and faded down the street through the spring trees, and I stepped back inside.
A little way up the street, two men in berets were strolling along, one with an accordian and the other a trumpet, and they were playing and swaying, and the tune was light and happy on top but with an undulating smiling melancholy underneath - I do not know how they produced such a contrast with just the two of them, or how they made a melody and a rhythm as though there were three or four, but then I know almost nothing of music except that I rejoice to hear it played well and especially so when it is played on a sunny afternoon in the middle of the week beneath my window.
The trumpeter saw me standing on the balcony and I nodded and took some coins from my pocket. He held his hat out and they all fell into it cleanly from a story up, and he thanked me and bowed, and then knelt to take a few more coins from a little child who was running up to him. There were other children on the pavement and they were dancing, with no self-consciousness, as children can.
The tune changed to a harder quicker beat, and faded down the street through the spring trees, and I stepped back inside.
Comments