bout de papier, Vol. 9, No. 4 (1992) — Fall 1992 // Automne 1992, p. 9
In the heart of the stinking slum there is a small oasis of hope. Behind the mottled stucco and ragged geraniums, on a small crowded veranda, a group of society’s rejects sit happily in the tropical winter. The sunshine filters through the dust patterns on the glass window making its own abstract design on the stained tiles. But it is warm just the same and bent shoulders wiggle in appreciation. An old woman shifts slightly so that her twisted fingers can share the comforting heat. Backlit, her fine hair creates a halo effect and the shadows on her face conceal the pain lines and the gaps in her teeth.
A tiny woman in a blue-flowered dress and red slippers hunches in a wheelchair and wonders why her son abandoned her in the hospital. He took her there when she was sick, but left a false name and address to avoid having to take her back. A quiet gray man in a chair by the window has outlived his family and is trapped in a failing body that has robbed him of dignity and independence. Now strangers handle him like a baby; but they are kind and the sun feels good.
In the next chair, a man bares his remaining teeth in a smile of welcome. His face is contorted and his eyes wander in search of faces he cannot see, and he responds happily to the sound of the visitor’s voice. In his lap lies a battered guitar. Hearing a stranger’s voice, he strums a few chords to attract attention. The stranger speaks to him, but alcohol and beatings have stolen the musician’s mind and destroyed his body. His answers are mumbled and the words are garbled. He is a street singer; past his prime, but still reacting to the presence of a potential audience. He wants to sing a song — so the stranger agrees, wondering what to expect and expecting the worst.
The fingers are gnarled and clumsy, but their movement is sure and the chords are clear. He starts to sing. From the body of a gargoyle, the voice of an angel — articulate, musical and coherent. His song tells of the creation of his new home and the people in it. Another song tells the story of his life on the street; another is a romantic ballad. While he cannot hold a conversation and be understood, he can communicate in music and song. If he were not here, he would return to the street and would end up being beaten for his few remaining coins. One day it would be fatal.
Several of the old people shuffle their slippered feet and stop murmuring to themselves in anticipation of more songs. They like to hear familiar tunes. For a moment, their memories clear and they remember that they had once been young. Having been young is not the same as having been happy, but the hopefulness of youth is a joyous thing because one does not yet know the road ahead. It is good to remember those days when life was an eagerly awaited adventure.
Now it is adventure enough to await a hot dinner and a clean bed. These things were not always a certainty and they are relieved to find such surety at the end of a precarious life. That they should find it here, in the heart of a neighbourhood where no one has security, is a little miracle. This small haven was created by members of the neighbourhood association who would not abandon these old people to the alleys and gutters. Although they had little themselves, they took what they had and shared it.
The stranger looks out through the iron security railings. Across the street, stolen televisions are being fenced from the trunk of a dented blue car; on the corner, little boys ignore the garbage and play soccer with a plastic Coca Cola bottle; two dirty young women in micro-skirts and red nail polish rest on a doorstep; and next door, a child picks up her baby sister and comes to the grate to listen to the singing. For these few minutes, the song unites everyone and the harsh reality of life on the streets is forgotten.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 9, No. 4 (1992) — Fall 1992 // Automne 1992, p. 9. Read the rest of this issue →
