As I sit looking out of a window of the building,
I wish I do not have to sit in this cubical, far above the street, and write official looking papers. On schedule.
I look down into the street and see people walking. Each with its own self.
And how I envy them! None of them knows about my papers and my deadline.
There is a woman in a bright orange dress. She smiles at the man walking next to her. He takes her hand in his. Ray of sunshine dances on the chain of his watch.
Flock of pre-schoolers fill the air with chatter, like birds’ wings flapping against the warm air. Bouncing from side to side, in awe of the world; so new and so vast. Eyes wide with wonder.
Three young man cross the street. Each carries stiff black box. They perch them against the corner of an indifferent looking building.
An accordion, a violin and a bass. And an empty box left open for coins. I fancy I can see the shine of worn velvet stretching over the curved insides. I fancy I can see one of them is very young and is smiling.
I inch closer to the window, cup my chin inside my right palm, and, as is my habit, begin to dream.
Of the village stretched beside a lazy river. The village I most needed to know, but most did not know.
Oh the dusty roads! Oh the shiny horses!
Village that shimmered with opulence from the richly coloured embroideries left to dry in summer breeze. For new brides.
But I fancy I see it all now under the pretence of writing an official looking paper.
Golden quinces lined on top of an old wardrobe made of walnut, so heavy it can never be moved. Rooted in its spot for times nameless.
Wedding parties on horses; jewelled harnesses shimmering like diamonds against the pale winter sky.
Here comes a young gypsy girl, her bare feet dance with the first snow. Her laughs fly over the rooftops and tricolored flags, cutting the air like a knife through an excessively decorated wedding cake.
There is that window with lace curtains she always left just ajar, (accidentally if anyone asks), while she waited for him. Shivering and puling the sheets all the way up to her chin. Heavy linen brushing her nipples, beck arched in yearning.
She would close her eyes willing the time away. As soon as they become too drunk to care for musicians, he will come to her; jumping over the fence and an old barn-wall, then just a step through the window left ajar.
High leather boots and hat with pheasant’s feather tucked aside.
He always smelt of leather polish, horse shit and tobacco. She would bury her face into his hair, his chest, his stomach, inhaling all of him.
First roosters sang above the village when he left her, wet and open like the furrows after the first ploughing in autumn.
When they married her off to a distant town, he sold his horses and paid gypsies to play until their strings snapped and their fingers bled. Lazy river spat his body somewhere downstream, his throat slit.
And now I fancy I hear that same old song and girls dancing, like no time has passed at all, like we have never left the village with the broad, lazy river … Aye how limited, but how full this dream has been.
We have visited it all; the colours, the smells, the love, the loss … what else is there to do but to stay? And that we cannot do.
Accordion cries across the street. I turn my gaze and see three young man playing the song I do not recognize.
Back to the official looking papers that made me dream ….