Guitarist

He sat in the shadow of the palazzo, strumming his guitar. During the day, he was a doctor, an architect, a lawyer. His mornings were marked by neccesary routine - the mundanity of paying school fees and filing tax returns.

He came to the square in the late afternoons. He set up his equipment as the masses of tourists trickled away, seeking out restaurants and cafes around the square, drawn by their aromatic warmth and the promise of a hot meal.

He began to gently strum his guitar, cradling it to his person like a child, slipping into the melody, playing only for himself. In the dappled afternoon sunshine, pigeons pooled around him, milling restlessly and hopping away in little alarmed ripples as an American tourist bounced a basketball nearby. Swarms of visiting high school students hooted and caroused, indifferent to the historical significance of their surroundings. Unmindful of all this, the musician played on, caressing the strings of his guitar, familiarly, like a lover; intoxicated by the whispered secrets he coaxed out of it.

Dusk turned to night and the square emptied. As the evening lights came on, the archway under which he sat became a dramatic backdrop, framing him in a halo of lumination. A sudden cold breeze ruffled his air. He played on.

The night deepened. The guitarist's music echoed across the empty corridors behind him, heightening the grandeur of the setting. The hordes of tourists, stultified by heavy dinners of pasta and wine and trudging wearily back to their hotels and hostels, paused for a few minutes to listen to him play, mesmerized by the strains of his Spanish guitar. They murmured in appreciation, pulled a Euro or two out of their pockets to drop into his open guitar case, took a photograph, and then drifted away. Oblivious, the guitarist played on.