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Chapters (32)
  1. Cover
  2. PART ONE
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. PART TWO
  18. 1
  19. 2
  20. 3
  21. 4
  22. 5
  23. 6
  24. 7
  25. 8
  26. 9
  27. 10
  28. AFTERWORD
  29. 1
  30. 2
  31. 3
  32. 4

The desire for perfection gave birth to an unconventional strategy. Secret orders were issued: start to recruit from the ranks of the jobless, from graduates of the music academies and art schools, and persuade them down to the district. Some had to be seduced; others could be asked outright. As their numbers climbed, officials devised a set of covert tests to filter for the finest ones and assign them plots at the choicest squares and intersections, where they could display their craft and skill to best advantage for the benefit of tourists, shoppers, and residents. For the privilege, they had to purchase a day pass like those distributed to car guards or anyone else who worked in the district’s streets.

It wasn’t just their gifts that impressed pedestrians. These beggars had good manners, too. They had breeding. Most were graduates, albeit from distant rural districts, since locals couldn’t risk the indignity of running into friends or acquaintances and the spread of gossip. One day, a particularly talented violinist stepped forward to buy his pass. The official behind the counter glanced at the violinist’s permit then demanded to see his official ID. He glanced at the ID, then peered at the ID, then looked hard at the violinist’s face and said, “Whose picture is this?”

At which the musician, surrounded by his fellow beggars with their instruments and sketchpads and costumes, said, “Mine.”

Again, the official peered at the ID, then held it up to show the two men who were standing in line behind the violinist. The first lowered the saxophone in his hand, took a close look, and shrugged. The second slipped his juggling balls back in his bag, leaned forward, and examined first the photograph, then the violinist’s face.

“To be honest, it looks nothing like you.”

Rage supplanted surprise in the violinist’s soul. He looked around but no one there knew him. The fact was, he’d always been slightly embarrassed at having to keep company with these so-called colleagues and had showed little inclination to make friends. An attitude whose price he paid, because now they all forsook him.

The official handed his card back: “Get a new ID, and don’t come back till it’s got a picture that looks like you.”

13

Image

BEWARE FLOWERS

Alya’s miracles didn’t stop at the universe of sounds in her throat.