If there is one quality that I value in the magpie the most (there is not just one) it is the unreserved love that he shows towards everyone – every human and creature – that has nothing. The penniless, the weak, the young, the hopeless – they find him & he attracts them by the same natural law which draws all like things together. What does he give them? Only the great treasure of his childish love. He does not sacrifice himself for his people; he is among them, one of them. His goodness and purity of heart, his humility and love reminds me of the celebrated, absolute goodness of certain characters in the novels of Dickens. In that case, his gift is not his wisdom but his naivety – which is in itself a kind of wisdom. I remember him once drawing from a deck of Tarot cards, what was the first card he drew? The child playing in the garden. It was his card, he said.
There is of course a tragic aspect to this child, as there always is with children. Yet he would never do a knowing wrong. The magpie must always remain free and exactly as he is: a Bacchus of the streets, a pure heart in a company of thieves, a child playing in the garden of life and the only musician I have ever met in my life who really believes that there is more glory in playing on the streets than on a stage. He can save others – but can he save himself?
One day I thought he looked like Rembrandt – who also loved the poor, wandered frequently among them and drew them – another day he more closely resembled a viscount of the French court with a wicked twinkle in his eye; the next with his golden hair untied tumbling down his hunched shoulders – Mozart. Can I leave you with an image? An image of words?
The magpie always likes to play in one particular spot that he calls ‘the little bank’. It is a misnomer. I realised a few months later that what he always meant to say was ‘the little bench’ – but as there was a river was nearby, somehow it always fitted for me. The little bench is in a small green square dotted with a few trees called the Appelsburg, beside a deluxe carpet shop where the Turkish owner still weaves his tapestries by hand. It is on a narrow, cobblestoned street, not far from the castle – in the medieval part of the city. It was on his ‘little bench’ that I first saw the magpie play on the street, the day after our ‘manifestation’ together in Brussels.
When I saw him on the bench I immediately skipped off my bicycle, parked it against the tree and sat next to him. Funnily enough, he did not recognise me at all and thought it was strange that I was behaving so familiarly with him. At that point I meant no more to him than a fly on a wall. Eventually, I jolted his memory and his face broke out in a smile: Ohhh its you, he said. Do you want to hear my set? Yes, of course, I replied. Then he began, from the beginning.
It is hard to describe music that is so heartbreakingly beautiful that its impact is similar to a wave washing over a beach – complete and dilute at the same time. Each melody felt familiar, yet strange. There was an archetypal quality to the sequence of notes and melodies he plucked and pulled from his nylon guitar strings: though I could no more locate their origins than their names. They were mainly in waltz timing, but could have been Mexican, Spanish or Russian folk songs – perhaps all three. In any case they were beautiful chansons, songs that stirred feelings of longing, regret, love… and all stored away in the secret music-box of his mind.
Busking on the street allows you to feel like the still point at the centre of a moving universe. While everything else is in motion, you are at rest; with no journey and no planned destination. With these haunting melodies drifting about my ears, the people filing past and swinging their shopping bags, suddenly appeared like paper figures or cut-outs on a magic lantern. I found it amazing that some of them appeared to be so immune to the beauty and spell-like mystery of his music. Some were immune but most were not. Sometimes little crowds would form in the eddying tides of tourists, locals and passers-by. An odd word – ‘Beautiful’ – in a French accent or from the lips of an old lady – would come tumbling into his guitar case. Such words touched his heart more than a thousand coins could ever do. He told me once that there was almost nothing that he loved than playing on the street. And that those words of real appreciation, that many could not help but give, were reason enough for him to go out and play.
I am under no illusions about how difficult busking can be – especially in winter, when you can barely move your fingers for the cold or you are forced to recapitulate the songs you love for almost no financial reward. But that particular afternoon, I felt strangely protected from the elements, thrust into the middle of a still, safe world, tapestried with sound. Eventually, I was so hypnotised that it seemed to me that the pedestrians and tourists passing by were like dancers in our chorus, participants in our play. We had enacted a bizarre role reversal in which the mapie and myself, his apprentice and fan, were no longer playing for the public, they were playing for us. Their solemnity or levity, the dance-like pitter-patter of their steps, had exposed the basic condition of life as pageantry. Thus, at that moment they were part of the feeling that existed between us and also spectators to our show, the show of our friendship and our conspiracy. What was our conspiracy? To exist outside of any rules that could touch us or rob us of our freedom.
833 words a day 