The magnanimous today

I'm in a hurry. I still have to go to the hairdresser. I want to write an article about winter depression at Sumo wrestlers. There is a birthday party tonight (I promised to bring a bottle of wine) and I'm having a friend over for dinner who is vegetarian (I should not forget to buy some vegetables and packs of meat substitutes).

I rush past the toy store. I am looking with admiration at the sweet offerings of a chocolate shop, when I'm struck by a touching guitar riff. Do I know this song? I stand still and try to find out where the sound comes from. A group of people is standing around a street musician. I slowly walk towards them. Enchanted by the beautiful melodies, I join the audience. With our hands in our pockets and our necks buried in the high collars, we listen mesmerized.

The busker is dressed in a long anthracite-colored leather army jacket. He wears brown shiny boots. But no matter how dark and heavy his clothes are, the artist himself is thin, tall. His hair is jet black and combed tightly back. The bright eyes are set deep in their sockets and look at the spectators inquisitively.

From a distance, the boy looks like Nick Cave. But then again not. While Nick Cave always has something of a serious priest, a grave minister, this singer is more vulnerable. He likes to perform but is still too shy. A lion cub hesitantly exploring the new terrain.

The sky turns wine red, the light is bright, sharp. It freezes a few degrees. It is typically one of those days in December when the last remnants of autumn are being cleared away and winter is already cautiously, reluctantly making its appearance.

And in this silent, freezing cold we are lifted by the music. It is as if the artist puts us in a preheated carriage which is drawn by a couple of impressive, Belgian horses. The carriage gently rocks us through the streets of the city. Our eyes are closed, our heads rest peacefully on each other's shoulders. There’s no sorrow, there is no yesterday, no tomorrow. There is only the magnanimous today.

When the song ends, we applaud enthusiastically. I completely forget that I am in a hurry. I no longer need a new hairstyle, meat substitutes. Let alone that I am still interested in winter depressions of Sumo wrestlers. I remain standing in the hope that we can take another tour in the carriage drown by those Belgian horses.

The young man picks up his guitar again, accompanied by loud cheering. But with a fierce movement he smashes the musical instrument to pieces on the cold cobblestones. Two or three times he makes this quick, furious movement that causes the thin wood to fly in all directions. The many spectators recoil in horror.

This is how the artist stands in the high street. Angry, hopeless, scared. He holds the remains of what was once a guitar in his cramped hands. One by one the onlookers leave the scene. Disappointed, startled. I am about the last one to remain.

“Would you like a cup of hot chocolate?” I dare to ask.

Not much later we find ourselves in a small coffee shop. Rough stone walls, wobbly tables, the warm smell of apple pie. The boy drinks the hot chocolate. I took rooibos tea. The broken guitar is in the trash. The owner is trying to solve a crossword puzzle.

“I've had that dream for so long,” the would-be artist mutters. “I have wanted to be a musician for such a long time. I would like to perform, I would love to hear my music on the radio, I would die to know that my songs are being streamed by millions and million music lovers. And what have I achieved after all those years? I just play some songs in a lifeless city, in an even more lifeless street.”

He puts his mug down. The table moves gently back and forth.

“Usually, I can get over it. The disappointment, the rejection, the pain. But sometimes, sometimes I get so angry. With myself, with the people, with society, with the world, with the universe.”

A week later, I am walking through the high street. It is drizzling, a chilly wind blows against my face. Then I hear the now familiar sound. He is there, the artist. With a different guitar. He plays confidently, calmly. And for a moment. I feel simply happy again.