the silence, returned to their workless ways. All but the beggars on O'Connell Bridge, who, through the year, most of them, tried to give as good as they got.
"They have their self-respect," I said, walking with John. "I'm glad that first man up ahead strums a guitar, the next one a fiddle. And there, now, by God, in the very center of the bridge!"
"The man we're looking for?"
"That's him. Squeezing the concertina. It's all right to look. Or I think it is."
"What do you mean? He's blind, isn't he?"
The rain fell gently, softly upon gray-stoned Dublin, gray-stoned riverbank, gray lava-flowing river.
"That's the trouble," I said at last. "I don't know."
And we both, in passing, looked at the man standing there in the very middle of O'Connell Bridge.
He was a man of no great height, a bandy statue swiped from some country garden perhaps, and his clothes, like the clothes of most in Ireland, too often laundered by the weather, and his hair too often grayed by the smoking air, and his cheeks sooted with beard, and a nest or two of witless hair in each cupped ear, and the blushing cheeks of a man who has stood too long in the cold and drunk too much in the pub so as to stand too long in the cold again. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and there was no telling what lurked behind. I had begun to wonder, weeks before, if his sight prowled me along, damning my guilty speed, or if only his ear caught the passing of a harried conscience. There was an awful fear he might seize, in passing, the glasses from his nose. But I feared much more the abyss I might find, into which his senses, in one terrible roar, might tumble. Best not to know if civet's orb or interstellar space gaped behind the smoked panes.
But even more, there was a special reason why I could not let the man be.
In the rain and the wind and snow, for many long cold weeks, I had seen him standing here with no cap or hat on his head.
He was the only man in all of Dublin I saw in the downpours and drizzles who stood by the hour alone with the drench mizzling his ears, threading his ash-red hair, plastering it over his skull, rivuleting his eyebrows, and washing over the coal-black insect lenses of the glasses on his rain-pearled nose.
Down through the greaves of his cheeks, the lines about his mouth, and off his lips, like a storm on a gargoyle's flint, the weather ran. His sharp chin shot the guzzle in a steady fauceting off in the air, down his tweed scarf and locomotive-colored coat.
"Why doesn't he wear a hat?" I demanded.
"Why," said John, "maybe he hasn't got one."
"He must have one," I cried.
"He's got to have one," I said, quieter.
"Maybe he can't afford one."
"Nobody's that poor, even in Dublin. Everyone has a cap at least!"
"Well, maybe he has bills to pay, someone sick."
"But to stand out for days, weeks in the rain and not so much as flinch or turn his head, ignore the rain—it's beyond understanding." I shook my head. "I can only think it's a trick. Like the others, this is his way of getting sympathy, of making you cold and miserable as you pass, so you'll give him more."
"I bet you're sorry you said that already," John said.
"I am. I am." For even under my cap the rain was running off my nose. "Sweet God in heaven, what's the answer?"
"Why don't you ask him?"
"No!"
Then the terrible happened.
For a moment, while we had been talking in the cold rain, the beggar had been silent. Now, as if the weather had freshened him to life, he gave his concertina a great mash. From the folding, unfolding snake box he squeezed a series of asthmatic notes which were no preparation for what followed.
He opened his mouth. He sang.
The sweet clear baritone voice which rang over O'Connell Bridge, steady and sure, was beautifully shaped and controlled, not a quiver, not a flaw, anywhere. The man just opened his mouth, which meant that all kinds of secret doors in his body gave way. He did not sing so much as let his soul free.
"Fine," said John,
"They have their self-respect," I said, walking with John. "I'm glad that first man up ahead strums a guitar, the next one a fiddle. And there, now, by God, in the very center of the bridge!"
"The man we're looking for?"
"That's him. Squeezing the concertina. It's all right to look. Or I think it is."
"What do you mean? He's blind, isn't he?"
The rain fell gently, softly upon gray-stoned Dublin, gray-stoned riverbank, gray lava-flowing river.
"That's the trouble," I said at last. "I don't know."
And we both, in passing, looked at the man standing there in the very middle of O'Connell Bridge.
He was a man of no great height, a bandy statue swiped from some country garden perhaps, and his clothes, like the clothes of most in Ireland, too often laundered by the weather, and his hair too often grayed by the smoking air, and his cheeks sooted with beard, and a nest or two of witless hair in each cupped ear, and the blushing cheeks of a man who has stood too long in the cold and drunk too much in the pub so as to stand too long in the cold again. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and there was no telling what lurked behind. I had begun to wonder, weeks before, if his sight prowled me along, damning my guilty speed, or if only his ear caught the passing of a harried conscience. There was an awful fear he might seize, in passing, the glasses from his nose. But I feared much more the abyss I might find, into which his senses, in one terrible roar, might tumble. Best not to know if civet's orb or interstellar space gaped behind the smoked panes.
But even more, there was a special reason why I could not let the man be.
In the rain and the wind and snow, for many long cold weeks, I had seen him standing here with no cap or hat on his head.
He was the only man in all of Dublin I saw in the downpours and drizzles who stood by the hour alone with the drench mizzling his ears, threading his ash-red hair, plastering it over his skull, rivuleting his eyebrows, and washing over the coal-black insect lenses of the glasses on his rain-pearled nose.
Down through the greaves of his cheeks, the lines about his mouth, and off his lips, like a storm on a gargoyle's flint, the weather ran. His sharp chin shot the guzzle in a steady fauceting off in the air, down his tweed scarf and locomotive-colored coat.
"Why doesn't he wear a hat?" I demanded.
"Why," said John, "maybe he hasn't got one."
"He must have one," I cried.
"He's got to have one," I said, quieter.
"Maybe he can't afford one."
"Nobody's that poor, even in Dublin. Everyone has a cap at least!"
"Well, maybe he has bills to pay, someone sick."
"But to stand out for days, weeks in the rain and not so much as flinch or turn his head, ignore the rain—it's beyond understanding." I shook my head. "I can only think it's a trick. Like the others, this is his way of getting sympathy, of making you cold and miserable as you pass, so you'll give him more."
"I bet you're sorry you said that already," John said.
"I am. I am." For even under my cap the rain was running off my nose. "Sweet God in heaven, what's the answer?"
"Why don't you ask him?"
"No!"
Then the terrible happened.
For a moment, while we had been talking in the cold rain, the beggar had been silent. Now, as if the weather had freshened him to life, he gave his concertina a great mash. From the folding, unfolding snake box he squeezed a series of asthmatic notes which were no preparation for what followed.
He opened his mouth. He sang.
The sweet clear baritone voice which rang over O'Connell Bridge, steady and sure, was beautifully shaped and controlled, not a quiver, not a flaw, anywhere. The man just opened his mouth, which meant that all kinds of secret doors in his body gave way. He did not sing so much as let his soul free.
"Fine," said John,
Similar Books
