It was a hot summer night and the stuffy air of the busy ally was filled with a combination of sweat and sun screen. People were passing by. People were talking. People were moving, buzzing, existing. But there, on the narrow sidewalk, was placed a crooked piece of black fabric that nobody even noticed. It might have once been a hat, but now it looked more like a mischievous dog’s miserably ruffled ball. And hundreds of feet passed by that hat every day, but they noticed neither the hat nor its poor companion behind it. Their occasional, rather accidental glimpse never took in his painted face and the brightness of his eyes. The vivid words coming out of his dry lips never reached their ears and the stories that he told disappeared between the crowds and disintegrated slowly in the hot air.
It was a sad thing, the boy behind the hat thought. With the mask of coulours on his face one could hardly tell if he was young or old, but there was something in the way he looked and smiled and talked would give his youth away. His face was a mystery that nobody cared to explore, and his name was a word lost in a dictionary. He had taken a late train in the moving to fast a pace world, and at twenty-three he was a piece of history. Broke, poor, failed, he would come out on the street every morning at nine with his face hidden behind layers of stolen paint; he would take out his ruffled hat, sit down and look at the strangers passing by. And they passed, and he sat, and if any of them was to give him a look, he would rise and in a loud voice would pronounce: “Freedom!” or “Happiness” or “Beauty”, and start telling the most unbelievable story one could imagine. He would speak loud and slowly, allowing everyone who cared to listen to follow him on his journey of words. He would gesture with hands and wave his arms in all directions and not simply tell a story – he would live it and he would make you live it with him. And when the last word tumbled out of his heart, he would sit back down and quietly wait for the next accidental look to give him a start.
The world changed when he was speaking but too few were there to see. The occasional look would come and go, but its possessor would never truly be there. People, their bodies and minds were too complicated a machine to work together and even though the body passed, saw and heard, the mind never registered, noticed or remembered. And they all together walked away disparagingly.
What a blissful thing it was that the boy’s train was too slow to notice! In his head everyone was part of the story. And everyone rejoiced and marveled at it.
No one really did.
One day a little boy passed with his mother. The boy looked at Nial, for that was the storyteller’s name, and surprised pointed at his painted face. He was such an interesting creature! The mother pulled the boy away.
One single look was all that was needed. Nial arouse and exclaimed: “Magic!” His eyes were seeing different colours and the buildings started changing; people were flying and fairies were racing down a sparkly waterfall of no other substance but of dreams and the sun was yawning and the stars were playing golf in the sky and everything was beautiful and…
“Hey, you!” a waiter from the café across the ally called. “Sit down and shut up! Why can’t ya just beg like the normal people?!”
The fantasy was disturbed. The colours went bleak. The buildings shattered and crumbled down in spectacles of shiny glass. The fairies’ wings were clipped by gray whirlwind and they grinned in the air, sitting on broomsticks. The sun was blazing destructively. The stars weren’t playing fair.
“Hey! Are you deaf or something? Shut up, I tell ya! I’m tired of your useless stories!” the waiter shouted again and advanced threateningly. “I’m sick of ya! Every day you come here dressed like a clown and start telling these… lies! Lies’s what they are! You hear? Lies!”
“They’re not lies. They’re stories,” Nial said.
“Lies! Nobody needs your lies, boy! Go away!”
“The world needs my stories.”
The waiter’s face was taking on a new, brighter colour, filling his cheeks with cherry red and his forehead with orchid pink.
“The world needs no liars! I need no liars like you, boy! Shut up! Why do I need your silly stories? Fairies? Dreams? Witches? How’s that helped anyone? How’s that helping me? Ya know what’s helping me? Salaries. Clients. And you’re scaring away my clients! Go away!”
“Fairies, dreams, witches… and tomorrow dragons, heroes and unicorns.” Said Nial while slowly taking up his hat from the pavement and putting it inside a torn pocket. “The world needs my fairies and my dragons. Indeed, what else can I tell you about? Cheap clothes, cheap food… cheap life? Or the dirt on the street you walk on and in the air you breathe? Cheap street and cheap air! And cheap dirt, of course! The world needs me. People need me. I’m an illusion, but people need illusions because they see too much reality every day. I am the memory of fresh air in this hot haste. I give an escape for those who look for it. It’s forty degrees out here, but don’t you see how cold we are? It’s a cold and cruel and real world, and I’m the escape from it. I’d be fairy and a witch and a dragon, if you wish. I am magic. And after the collapse of religion and the decay of lying I’m the only kind of magic we still have.
The boy picked up his hat and slowly waking away said, “See you tomorrow, my friend.”
It was a sad thing, the boy behind the hat thought. With the mask of coulours on his face one could hardly tell if he was young or old, but there was something in the way he looked and smiled and talked would give his youth away. His face was a mystery that nobody cared to explore, and his name was a word lost in a dictionary. He had taken a late train in the moving to fast a pace world, and at twenty-three he was a piece of history. Broke, poor, failed, he would come out on the street every morning at nine with his face hidden behind layers of stolen paint; he would take out his ruffled hat, sit down and look at the strangers passing by. And they passed, and he sat, and if any of them was to give him a look, he would rise and in a loud voice would pronounce: “Freedom!” or “Happiness” or “Beauty”, and start telling the most unbelievable story one could imagine. He would speak loud and slowly, allowing everyone who cared to listen to follow him on his journey of words. He would gesture with hands and wave his arms in all directions and not simply tell a story – he would live it and he would make you live it with him. And when the last word tumbled out of his heart, he would sit back down and quietly wait for the next accidental look to give him a start.
The world changed when he was speaking but too few were there to see. The occasional look would come and go, but its possessor would never truly be there. People, their bodies and minds were too complicated a machine to work together and even though the body passed, saw and heard, the mind never registered, noticed or remembered. And they all together walked away disparagingly.
What a blissful thing it was that the boy’s train was too slow to notice! In his head everyone was part of the story. And everyone rejoiced and marveled at it.
No one really did.
One day a little boy passed with his mother. The boy looked at Nial, for that was the storyteller’s name, and surprised pointed at his painted face. He was such an interesting creature! The mother pulled the boy away.
One single look was all that was needed. Nial arouse and exclaimed: “Magic!” His eyes were seeing different colours and the buildings started changing; people were flying and fairies were racing down a sparkly waterfall of no other substance but of dreams and the sun was yawning and the stars were playing golf in the sky and everything was beautiful and…
“Hey, you!” a waiter from the café across the ally called. “Sit down and shut up! Why can’t ya just beg like the normal people?!”
The fantasy was disturbed. The colours went bleak. The buildings shattered and crumbled down in spectacles of shiny glass. The fairies’ wings were clipped by gray whirlwind and they grinned in the air, sitting on broomsticks. The sun was blazing destructively. The stars weren’t playing fair.
“Hey! Are you deaf or something? Shut up, I tell ya! I’m tired of your useless stories!” the waiter shouted again and advanced threateningly. “I’m sick of ya! Every day you come here dressed like a clown and start telling these… lies! Lies’s what they are! You hear? Lies!”
“They’re not lies. They’re stories,” Nial said.
“Lies! Nobody needs your lies, boy! Go away!”
“The world needs my stories.”
The waiter’s face was taking on a new, brighter colour, filling his cheeks with cherry red and his forehead with orchid pink.
“The world needs no liars! I need no liars like you, boy! Shut up! Why do I need your silly stories? Fairies? Dreams? Witches? How’s that helped anyone? How’s that helping me? Ya know what’s helping me? Salaries. Clients. And you’re scaring away my clients! Go away!”
“Fairies, dreams, witches… and tomorrow dragons, heroes and unicorns.” Said Nial while slowly taking up his hat from the pavement and putting it inside a torn pocket. “The world needs my fairies and my dragons. Indeed, what else can I tell you about? Cheap clothes, cheap food… cheap life? Or the dirt on the street you walk on and in the air you breathe? Cheap street and cheap air! And cheap dirt, of course! The world needs me. People need me. I’m an illusion, but people need illusions because they see too much reality every day. I am the memory of fresh air in this hot haste. I give an escape for those who look for it. It’s forty degrees out here, but don’t you see how cold we are? It’s a cold and cruel and real world, and I’m the escape from it. I’d be fairy and a witch and a dragon, if you wish. I am magic. And after the collapse of religion and the decay of lying I’m the only kind of magic we still have.
The boy picked up his hat and slowly waking away said, “See you tomorrow, my friend.”