THE CLARINETIST ON THE BRIDGE AT TIRGU LAPUS
A bridge over a wide shallow river marks the end of the town. To
survey the town you walk down the main street, past the abandoned hotels
and half-stocked shops, across the bridge and back, that was obvious. And
having crossed the bridge of course you pause before starting to stroll
back, you lean against the parapet. It was a warm evening, a few people
about as the light started to lessen. A few people, mostly in pairs and
groups, setting out to be outdoors in the town centre for the evening, no
hurry.
There was a strange musical noise on the other side and soon
after-wards a small man in a long dark coat and black hat could be seen
emerging from the area of small bars beside the river and starting to cross
the bridge. He carried a small suitcase, and every time he encountered
someone he opened it and got out a clarinet or something like one, a quite
long instrument of pale wood, and he played a short passage on it. People
evidently ignored him or expressed disdain and he returned the instrument
to its case and walked on. This happened twice. He was obviously neither
begging nor drunk. He crossed the bridge and turned down towards the area
of low quality blocks of flats which all Romanian towns have in legacy from
State Communism. We turned to walk back but the clarinet sounded again. He
was standing in front of an elderly working man who evidently took an
interest. The musician played for a while and stopped. His audience took
the clarinet from him and examined it carefully, then handed it back. He
played again and was listened to, with nodding. A few words were exchanged,
he put the clarinet away, they bowed slightly to each other and continued
on their ways. There was no exchange of cash or cigarettes or anything. My
sense was that the musician viewed his instrument and what he could do with
it as a rare thing which he ought to show to anybody while it was still
possible. It was a woody, breath-laden reed sound, and the melodic line was
something which could only exist somewhere which had once been part of the
Ottoman Empire.
Peter Riley, July 1998
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