Bohemia Village Voice

[From ‘Bohemian Bagatelle‘, published 1979 by the Bohemians]

PRELUDE

He stood in the market-place of a small country town, slowly adjusting the straps of his accordion, shabbily dressed and swarthy of face, a bright handkerchief tied around his neck, and an old felt hat pushed back off his forehead, showing his untidy, curly, black hair.

Then with a few opening chords, he broke into one of Brahms’ Hungarian dances. Passers-by stopped and listened, and a little girl ran out of a house, and holding out her skirt began to dance with the natural grace so many children possess. Upstairs her grandfather pushed up the window and sat watching, a smile on his tired old face.

By now the street was becoming crowded, visitors, school-children, mothers with prams, and shoppers, all drawn by fascinating rhythm, stood eagerly around, listening.

The swarthy player, seeing them, and yet oblivious, played on, a smile of satisfaction slowly spreading over his face, as his nut-brown fingers sped expertly over the keys and buttons. It was a happy crowd, appreciating what they heard, and it was only after listening himself, for several minutes, that the police constable decided he had to move them on.

“Come on, now, please, move on, can’t block the road like this, you know!” The music stopped. “Si, si, I go now.” Snapping the clips shut, the player swung the accordion on to his shoulder and slowly sauntered off.

The little dancing-girl slyly gathered up the few coins that had been thrown to him, and ran upstairs to show them to her grandfather.

Twenty minutes later the player turned into a quiet lane, and took a key from his pocket, and opening the door of an expensive looking car, climbed in and placed the instrument on the seat beside him; then looking into the mirror he smiled. “You did well, Antonion, my friend, they like you very much, si, si!”

The taking the handkerchief from around his neck he wiped off the tan make-up from his face and hands, and carefully pulled off the thick black moustache, and throwing the old hat into the back of the car, took out a comb and tidied his hair. “Now all I hope is that they will like me as well in the theatre in London tonight!”

It was exactly one year previously that an announcement in the paper read: “The admirers of Michael Hart; the well known accordionist, will be sorry to hear that, owing to illness, his doctors say, by overwork, he has had to cancel all his future engagements. I am sure all our readers will wish this talented artist a speedy recovery.”

Helen Holmes