I first realized something was wrong when I didn't hear a clarinet. I
know, most of the time, not hearing a clarinet is not a cause for
concern, especially if you live in the Old City. Wagon wheels,
trolleys, factories, shopkeepers shouting their wares, beggars
shouting at shoppers, policemen shouting at beggars. There's always a
lot of noise, and most of the time, none of it is a clarinet. But I
was on Stuffschert Boulevard, at four in the afternoon, just past the
west side of the Downtown Crossing station, and at that particular
place at that particular time, there was always a clarinet playing.
I looked both ways up the street. I even went down
into the underground station, and checked both corners of both
platforms. I got ugly looks from the stationmaster, who thought I was
trying to jump the gate for a free ride, but I didn't find a clarinet
player.
His name was Clarence. I never knew his last name.
He was short—almost as short as
me, which is short for a thirteen year-old girl. He always wore the
same too-large twill pants held up with suspenders, and a flat cap on
his greasy curls. He was half blind, and half deaf, and every day,
from seven in the morning until seven at night, he stood on that
street corner and played for all he was worth.
I once wondered why the police didn't call him a
nuisance and drag him away. He only knew about half a dozen
songs—"The Bugle Call Rag,"
"St. Louis Blues," "In the Mood," and "The
Saints Go Marching In"—which he played in continuous cycle,
all day, every day. So, of course, I looked into it. Apparently, this
was tried, some ten years ago, before I was really interested in
anything other than lunch and thumb sucking. Seven times they locked
him up, once for thirty days hard labor. The moment they let him go,
back on the street he went.
If it were hot like today, he would open his shirt
and roll up his sleeves. If it were icy cold and snowing, he would
wear a scarf and a worn-out coat with only one button. If it were
raining, he would wear a plaited reed mat tied on his head, sticking
out more than a foot in front to make a little roof for his
instrument. Two summers ago, when the hurricane hit, the police had
to lock him up to keep him off the street. Last winter, in the
Valentine's Day Blizzard, a local parson just about dug him out of
the snow and dragged him to the parsonage. There are only three
things you can count on in this world: death, taxes, and Clarence.
A tall bearded man, wanting to be elected, or
wanting to say something to those that were, was standing on a soap
box and shouting about letting women vote or banning alcohol or
passing a law against the 72-hour work week or all at once. Gentlemen
and clerks tried not to look at him, or at the beggars who dogged
their steps, and the beggars tried not to look at the police who
eyeballed them.
No Clarence.
Then I saw someone I knew, an old panhandler
called Robin, who was carrying a box and a fiddle in a sack. He
stopped, right in the center of the street where Clarence would have
played, and put his box down. He was wearing two pairs of shoes,
which would have been odd enough by itself, but the second pair was
wrapped around his knees.
"Robin." I approached him. "What
are you doing?"
He grinned at me, showing his remaining teeth,
which were mostly on the left side of his face, owing, he said, to an
angry cannibal with a large stick. The story of how he avoided
getting eaten, if a cannibal had knocked his teeth out, was long and
varied, and never made much sense, however he told it. There are
three kinds of people on the street: my
people (the ones I can talk to, and trust most of the time), the
Other People (who I'll talk to, but only a fool would trust), and the
Wrong People (who
I don't talk to, and don't ever let find me alone). Robin was one of
the second group.
"Watch," he said. He opened the back of
his box, which I now saw had two holes cut in the top. He stepped
into these holes, and closed the back behind him, so it looked like
the shoes on his knees were standing on the box. "Pretty good,
eh?"
"Are you supposed to be a dwarf?" I
asked. "You don't look anything like one. Your arms are too
long."
"Nay, then," he said, affecting an
accent I couldn't quite place. "I'm an old sailor-man, a vet'rin
of the navy, see? I was cursed by a witch docker on the Ivory Coast,
weren't I? Took me legs off, and put me feet back where me knees
should be."
"Uh..." I said, not sure what else to
say.
"Zac'ly. Was there
ever a more pitiable sight, than a vet'rin, misshapen by 'is service
to 'is country?"
"That's... quite a story," I said.
"Now don't you go writin' 'bout this in that
rag o' yours, this 'ere idea is my inter-leck-chool property, see?
I'm not givin' it away for less than five dollars." He took the
fiddle and bow out of his sack and let the sack fall to the ground.
I tried not to laugh. "Don't worry, I won't
write it up. But Robin, why are you setting up here? This is
Clarence's corner."
"Who? I don't see nobody 'round 'ere."
"Clarence always plays here," I said.
"Law o' the street, love. 'E ain't 'ere, I
am, it's my corner."
Technically, Robin was in the right, there. But I
doubted most folk would pounce on Clarence's corner the moment he
disappeared, and Robin's ridiculous accent was irritating me.
"Well, you let him have it when he comes
back," I said.
"Beat it," Robin said, which I should
have expected.
I gave up on him, and looked up and down the
street again. There was no sign of Clarence, but I did see a cabby I
knew. He was the driver of the cab that had taken me from the
orphanage when I was nine, a middle-aged African man who has always
recognized me ever since. To me, he couldn't have seemed more
wonderful if he had wings and drove a golden chariot. He was the man
who took my little hand in his gloved hand like I was a lady, and
carried me away. I will always remember him. Even if he didn't have a
mechanical left arm, mostly hidden inside his sleeve, except for the
hum and whir it made when he moved it, and of course the wire that
came out from under his jacket to the battery he carried slung over
one shoulder. To him, though, I should have been just another fare.
Yet he never forgot me.
"Mr. Alemu!" I called to him.
He smiled at me brightly. "Miss Inka."
"Mr. Alemu, have you seen Clarence?"
He shook his head sadly. "No, miss, he has
not been here for three days. Only the fiddle man."
I wanted to ask him where Clarence could have
gone, but there was no reason he'd know. It was just strange. "When
you saw him last, did he look sick?"
"Ah, miss, it is hard for me to say. Mr.
Clarence has always looked sick to me. If I see him, shall I tell him
that miss is looking for him?"
"No," I shook my head. "No, Mr.
Alemu, I'm just worried."
"Hey, charcoal!" the driver of the next
cab in line called. "Are you going to take this fare or should
I?"
A pair of rakish-looking men wearing pork pie hats
with bright hat bands and no waistcoats were watching us, hips thrown
out and lopsided grins on their faces.
"Go on," I whispered to Mr. Alemu. He
took my hand in his and kissed it quickly. I could feel the metal
fingers through the glove, but the touch was soft and gentle.
I strolled away, passing the next cabby on the
far side of his horse. He was a round little man with hair so blond
he hardly had any eyebrows.
I waited until two very fine gentlemen were
headed his way, then I shouted at him. "You watch your mouth!
Tub o' lard!"
"Eh? Come here, you!" He started to come
after me, but his horse was in the way, and before he could get
around he noticed his fare.
I skipped off a few yards while he tipped his hat
to the gentlemen. Then I took a straw out of an inside pocket on my
vest, and blew an orange pip at his horse's end just as he was
reaching for the cab door. The horse nickered and started off down
the cobbles without him. I ran the opposite way. I don't like it when
people insult my friends.
One of the curious things about life is how hard
it is to tell when what you're doing is going to matter. I'd created
an enemy in a big fat cabby, but I've never seen him since. On the
other hand, just looking for a homeless guy no one cared about got
people killed.
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