The chime rang heavily on the stone step, echoing against the brick walls of the subway station. The heavy gold coin bounced, wobbled in the air, and flashed a merry, winking orange up at Massoud in the warm light of the metro’s mouth. Then dove back down, tinking again and again as it tumbled down the steps to rest below him.
Slightly more annoyed than anything at first, he stilled his thin fingers on the guitar strings and glanced up, his dark brown eyes scanning the edges of the station, up where it met with the sidewalk. No passing pedestrian had thrown it down at him. His caution and suspicion were not unfounded. It could be a trick, to send him chasing after one coin to steal the bait-money of a couple of paper dollars and a few quarters already in his swati cap. Frowning, he retreated a step or two to lift up the coin, and found it much heavier than anticipated. It was a full dollar, slightly abraded by the fall, but clearly well taken care of beforehand. Sacagawea squinted knowingly over her shoulder, appearing to wink due to the new scratch across her face. The effect had him huff a brief laugh to himself, and he dropped the impressive tip down into his upturned hat, and he relaxed.
Massoud had only been playing this early because it was better to keep the guitar strings warm before the morning rush picked up, so that he remained in tune for all the people that would pass, pockets jingling with the unwanted change from their coffee purchases. He’d had no audience that he was aware of, not unless he counted the homeless couple huddled in the lee of the staircase below, or the occasional early dog-walkers and joggers. The gold coin floated warmly in the colourful cap, and brought Massoud’s fingers around to play a flighty, high octave ditty he’d heard from a music box once. Perhaps unconsciously, he plucked the same note the coin had made as it struck the stairs more loudly than the others.
A streak of whimsy had him more alert now as he played, recalling his mother singing the tune to him and telling him about Peri, the fairyfolk who played their roles as helpers and tricksters both in stories. Perhaps, he thought, one had dropped the coin out of the air for him, in thanks for his early morning music. As he smiled down to his guitar, another harsh ping struck against the steps. This time, the coin bounced toward his legs, and he brought one of his brown leather shoes down on top of it to still it. His head whipped around, and then up again, but again, there was no one to be seen. This time, however, he saw a flick of motion - just a small streak of brown from the second floor balcony of the shop nearest the stairwell. Like the coin, the window glowed softly orange in the chilly morning air. He stared, and waited, but no one came to the window. As his eyes focused, he could tell it was open; the tan curtains moved when a bus passed on the street above.
He began to play, after a short while of nothing happening. The first business people were starting to tromp their way past him, and he could not afford to miss many tips, not these days. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the golden window above, until his neck developed a crick and he began to fantasize himself a swain standing underneath his beloved’s bower. The fantasy affected his music, and he again went back to a more whimsical, lighter fare that tinkled and teased among the passing commuters, winning the occasional nickel and dime off them the way children might pickpocket a crowd just for mischief.
And then she leaned out. Moussad’s breath caught in his throat, sure for half a second that he had plucked her into being. Skin the colour of a chestnut glowed like an ember in a fireplace, and a white sleeveless shift draped loosely around her. Her hair, uncovered and loose, tumbled forward as she peered down at him, one hand in a fist, and drawing forward. She saw him looking, and recognized that she’d been caught with a girlish giggle. Still, she flung the third dollar coin down, and Moussad’s hand flicked out to catch it in midair, startling an older woman who bustled quickly down the stairs, glaring back at him and his big satisfied grin.
His eyes remained on the young woman, however, who drew her arm back in to the safety of the balcony, and twisted it to pull her long hair back away from her face. As she turned to head back inside, she lifted her free hand to open and close all of her fingers in a graceful, fluttering wave, and disappeared inside, where for the rest of the morning Moussad serenaded the commuters of Market Street, his eyes and thoughts above their heads to the happy golden glow of the window, which thereafter remained empty - but open.
Slightly more annoyed than anything at first, he stilled his thin fingers on the guitar strings and glanced up, his dark brown eyes scanning the edges of the station, up where it met with the sidewalk. No passing pedestrian had thrown it down at him. His caution and suspicion were not unfounded. It could be a trick, to send him chasing after one coin to steal the bait-money of a couple of paper dollars and a few quarters already in his swati cap. Frowning, he retreated a step or two to lift up the coin, and found it much heavier than anticipated. It was a full dollar, slightly abraded by the fall, but clearly well taken care of beforehand. Sacagawea squinted knowingly over her shoulder, appearing to wink due to the new scratch across her face. The effect had him huff a brief laugh to himself, and he dropped the impressive tip down into his upturned hat, and he relaxed.
Massoud had only been playing this early because it was better to keep the guitar strings warm before the morning rush picked up, so that he remained in tune for all the people that would pass, pockets jingling with the unwanted change from their coffee purchases. He’d had no audience that he was aware of, not unless he counted the homeless couple huddled in the lee of the staircase below, or the occasional early dog-walkers and joggers. The gold coin floated warmly in the colourful cap, and brought Massoud’s fingers around to play a flighty, high octave ditty he’d heard from a music box once. Perhaps unconsciously, he plucked the same note the coin had made as it struck the stairs more loudly than the others.
A streak of whimsy had him more alert now as he played, recalling his mother singing the tune to him and telling him about Peri, the fairyfolk who played their roles as helpers and tricksters both in stories. Perhaps, he thought, one had dropped the coin out of the air for him, in thanks for his early morning music. As he smiled down to his guitar, another harsh ping struck against the steps. This time, the coin bounced toward his legs, and he brought one of his brown leather shoes down on top of it to still it. His head whipped around, and then up again, but again, there was no one to be seen. This time, however, he saw a flick of motion - just a small streak of brown from the second floor balcony of the shop nearest the stairwell. Like the coin, the window glowed softly orange in the chilly morning air. He stared, and waited, but no one came to the window. As his eyes focused, he could tell it was open; the tan curtains moved when a bus passed on the street above.
He began to play, after a short while of nothing happening. The first business people were starting to tromp their way past him, and he could not afford to miss many tips, not these days. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the golden window above, until his neck developed a crick and he began to fantasize himself a swain standing underneath his beloved’s bower. The fantasy affected his music, and he again went back to a more whimsical, lighter fare that tinkled and teased among the passing commuters, winning the occasional nickel and dime off them the way children might pickpocket a crowd just for mischief.
And then she leaned out. Moussad’s breath caught in his throat, sure for half a second that he had plucked her into being. Skin the colour of a chestnut glowed like an ember in a fireplace, and a white sleeveless shift draped loosely around her. Her hair, uncovered and loose, tumbled forward as she peered down at him, one hand in a fist, and drawing forward. She saw him looking, and recognized that she’d been caught with a girlish giggle. Still, she flung the third dollar coin down, and Moussad’s hand flicked out to catch it in midair, startling an older woman who bustled quickly down the stairs, glaring back at him and his big satisfied grin.
His eyes remained on the young woman, however, who drew her arm back in to the safety of the balcony, and twisted it to pull her long hair back away from her face. As she turned to head back inside, she lifted her free hand to open and close all of her fingers in a graceful, fluttering wave, and disappeared inside, where for the rest of the morning Moussad serenaded the commuters of Market Street, his eyes and thoughts above their heads to the happy golden glow of the window, which thereafter remained empty - but open.
---
Originally published on Reddit.
Inspired by art owned by Pascal Campion, [website]
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