I was sitting on a bench, in a city square, watching a crowd. There was an exhibition of some kind spread out in various shapes on the York stone paving. In a small, open fronted marquee two violinists were just beginning their performance. The one was introduced—famous apparently, the other was not mentioned, though he smiled in a pleasant and unconcerned way. I was not interested in their music, it was boring to me and lacked the sort of flare I needed to appreciate it. I felt more like Zydeco, or something Cajun—something exciting, fast, twirling. I imagined the two musicians could easily turn their skills to this sort of thing, and felt disappointed that they didn’t. Across from me a small stall was being laid out—‘Do you want to see some magic?’ the sign that hung from its front enquired. I thought I might go up and ask to be shown the most amazing trick that the magician knew, something perhaps he could even teach me, and with which I could amaze those I met. It would be marvellous to have something like a conjuring trick that confused others into thinking there was something truly magic in the world—even if just for a few minutes. Again, I stayed where I was, watching, not committed to engaging with anyone—feeling recalcitrant, a little anxious about what would happen if I approached someone. I was unhappy with my reserve. I felt isolated. I wondered if philosophers acted like magicians, confusing those they met with verbal and logistic tricks, or tricks based on ideas that were so unfamiliar to others that others would always be impressed, or confused, or thrown into the belief that the philosopher was some sort of magician—something supernatural.
A young woman walked across the square. She was tall and slim. Her blonde hair was tousled and curly. She was fair skinned and attractive. She wore light khaki shorts and a light green anorak. She looked as if she had dressed in some special way to come out. Her slim delicate legs were white—untainted by exposure to the sun. Yes, she had certainly dressed in unfamiliar clothes—perhaps to meet someone, or try and impress someone. She looked anxious though more from natural nervousness than from any single preoccupation or concern. She sat at the bench next to me, squashed to the side nearest me by a woman and her wayward child. She cocked her head to the side and looked towards the musicians. She smiled at one of them. Her delicate face was filled with apprehension —her wide inviting blue eyes focussed and intense. She lifted her hand—only chest high—and inclined herself forward on the edge of the bench in the hope of attracting the attention of the musicians. She pulled back almost immediately, not giving either of them an opportunity to respond. Even if they did see her it would only have been for a moment. I felt her disappointment. She dropped her hand to her side. She tried again, lifting her hand no higher than before, looking towards the musicians beseechingly. It was a timid wave, so hesitant. I thought for a moment she felt she had been seen. But again, she gave them no time, no opportunity to see her before she sat back on the bench. Her unconquerable anxiety dripped from her. I felt as if I was drowning in it. She stood up and walked away. She was still smiling, but her smile was filled with disappointment. It was the sort of smile that tries to disguise embarrassment or discomfort. I started to stand. I wanted to stop her, to take her hand and lead her to the musicians. It would be no problem, they could stop playing for a moment, she could introduce herself; I would help her. I reached out, but already she was on the other side of the square, her pale legs incongruous in the bright sunlight. And she ever looked back—too afraid, I thought. And I did not follow her, also too afraid—of her frailty and loss; too afraid of exposing her any more, already ashamed of making her even more aware of her ineffectiveness. And I wondered which one of the musicians she knew, or wanted to greet—the famous one, I thought. And I wondered how this moment would her affect the rest of her life. And I felt heavy with guilt for not having helped her, and I remained on the bench, and she was gone. The music became a dirge to me, and I walked away as soon as I was sure I would not see the girl again.
ⓒ Holly Farrer
