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 inner 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 flickered over the chain of his watch.
Flock of pre-schoolers filled the view with chatter, like bird’s 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 perched 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 and curves inside it. I fancy I can see one of them is very young and is smiling.
I inch closer to the window, cupped my chin inside my right palm, and, as my way is, 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!
But I fancy I see it all now under the pretense of writing an official looking paper.
Gold-coloured quinces lined on top of an old wardrobe made of walnut wood, so heavy it can never be moved. Rooted to its spot in the village.
Here comes a young gypsy girl, her bare feet dance with the first snow. Her laughs fly over the rooftops and tricoloured flags that cut the air like a knife inside the overly decorated wedding cakes.
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 arching in yearning. Eyes closed she imagined him coming to her, once everyone is too drunk to care for musicians.
Jumping over the fence and the old barn-wall, then just a step through the open window. 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 inside his armpit and inhale deeply. 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 tune I do not recognize.
Back to the official looking papers that made me dream ….