The Busker
Gianoula Burns
I often walked past the Hilton, the grandiose hotel of the time in the middle of Sydney. The escalator led up into the great foyer which was one of the city’s main attractions. Celebrities, eminent businessmen, politicians and a motley crew of crooks gathered there to see some while avoiding others, depending on circumstances.
One morning a young man strummed a three-string guitar, playing music that drew me in. He fitted in somehow, a busker for the up-market hotel, there was a formal playfulness in the way he was dressed, small red scarf around his slender neck, short blonde hair windswept not combed, a cap with a small feather in it, a clean pair of jeans and a tweed blazer worn over a short sleeve top. There was something of the wild creative about him which attracted me, an adventure beckoning. I lingered to listen and to watch him. He looked up and with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, smiled. “Shall we go for coffee?” Of course I agreed. He packed up his guitar and bag, gathering the coins he earned and I followed him up the escalators to the coffee shop. I feel out of place but neither of us cares and he had a confidence and worldliness about him that makes me comfortable in his company. “What’s your name?” “Joanna, and yours?” “Christian. I’ve come here from Sweden.” He told me he’s hitchhiked from Europe across the world to Australia. I believe him. “I met a young woman in Italy, and we travelled together for a bit, but she didn’t want to leave Europe,” he said a little hesitantly. He took out a coin and played with it in his hands making it disappear and appear. I laughed. “How old are you?” “Nineteen,” I replied. He flicked the coin in the air and as he caught it looked at me warmly. There seemed no-one else in that coffee shop, for me the others were just a backdrop.
We met every day for a couple of weeks at the same time and place, he always with his three-stringed guitar, strumming mostly, sometimes singing. His voice would carry and echo down the narrow street and I was relieved when I heard him, I knew he would not stay long. I looked forward to our time together. I learnt how in Sweden a child at fourteen can disown their parents and be supported by the state. That intrigued me and I yearned for that right. He was surprised by my lack of freedom and could see what I couldn’t, that I was on the precipice of making a decision. He told me he lived in Kings Cross and gave me his address. One morning I arrived as he was finishing his song, “Do you know where you are going to, do you like the things that life is showing you, do you know…?” I waited till he finished, helped him pack his earnings and we retreated to the coffee shop. As we finished our coffee he leant close to me, his neatly shaven beard brushing my cheek, and my heart stopped. I waited for what I hoped for, a kiss. But he withdrew, “You are too innocent, I don’t want to hurt you.” I blushed.
I came again the next day, to his busking spot, but he was not there. I went up the escalator hoping to find him in the coffee shop and on the way bumped into an American soap opera star. The tall dark handsome young man who played one of the leading roles in Dallas, a very popular television series at the time. He looked at me and smiled “Hi, going somewhere?” I should have been flattered, but instead I brushed him aside. I was a little flustered and anxious that I should make it in time to meet Christian. I wandered through the coffee shop and hotel foyer but he wasn’t there.
I returned to his busking spot every day hoping he would return but he didn’t so I caught the bus one morning to Kings Cross, walking the streets trying to find his house, trying to find him. The address was wrong or I was lost. The sun-filled streets led into alleyways, with corrugated iron fences tall enough to hide whatever there was to be hidden. The windows of houses I could see remained shuttered to the day. There was hardly anyone around, a council worker sweeping the road, a stray cat lazily prowling, it was too early for movement in Kings Cross…the sun shone too brightly for those whose lives began at dusk. I was not brave enough to stay, something menacing skirted the streets I walked, so I left, taking the next bus back to the city centre. I had hoped for more.
A year later, I walked through the long tunnel beneath the city centre to Central railway station and was enchanted by a tune which caressed the heart. The sound softened the echo of commuting human traffic and transported the soul, it wafted around us, stroking , soothing, it filled the tunnel and I wondered at its source. As I walked towards the music I saw a young man playing a flute. He sat upon his coat, shoulder-length blonde hair tussled, playing as if he was in a concert hall, totally absorbed, oblivious to everything and everyone around him. This time I did not stop but walked slowly past till the music faded and I regretfully left it behind to catch the train home.
