The Last Picture Show

In the seventies I lived in Notting Hill. In the tube station there was a little man who played the violin beautifully. He used to play with a lot of emotion and concentration. He was there every day, year after year and I always put few pennies in his hat.

Later I moved to Acton Town. Occasionally I used to visit Notting Hill and the little man was still there, playing in the station but looking much older and more dishevelled. In one of the visits I noticed his violin had only one string, obviously the others had snapped and he couldn't afford to replace them, but he continued playing regardless. That time I gave him a little more money in case it helped. Many months later I saw him without a bow plucking his single stringed violin in pizzicato style. His bow was gone. Someone must have beaten him up, the man had a blackened eye and a cut in his lip, he was a truly sorry sight. For first time in my life I spoke to him, asked him if he was alright, if he needed help. I asked him what had happened to his bow. He didn't answer and looked very afraid. I gave him two ten pounds notes, it was quite a bit of money in those days, and asked if he wanted me to get him a new bow. The man was truly terrified and gave me my money back, I put the notes back in his hands again but he refused them, I insisted and then he only accepted ten pounds, gave me the other note and went away almost running, muttering something incomprehensible.

I never seen him again. Ah, Bartelby..Ah Humanity!

En los años setenta viví en Notting Hill Gate. En la estación de subte habia un hombrecito que tocaba el violín maravillosamente bien. Solía tocar con mucha emoción y concentración. Lo vi alli por años y años y siempre deje algunas monedas en su sombrero. Luego me mude a Acton Town, mas hacia el oeste, pero de tanto en tanto visitaba Notting Hill. Alli seguia el hombrecito en la estación siempre tocando su violin, solo que ahora estaba más viejo y más desarreglado. En una de las visitas noté que su violín tenía sólo una cuerda, obviamente las demás se habían roto y él no podía permitirse sustituirlas, aun asi el tipo seguia tocando con su acostumbrada emocion. Aquella vez le di un poco más de dinero en caso de que eso ayudase.

Meses más tarde lo vi sin el arco, tocando el violín de una sola cuerda en pizzicato. Su arco habia desaparecido. Ademas debian haberle dado una paliza, el hombre tenía un ojo ennegrecido y un corte en el labio. Era una tristisima imagen.

Por primera vez en mi vida le hablé; le pregunte si estaba bien, si necesitara la ayuda. Le pregunté que había pasado con el arco. Él tipo no contestaba y me miraba con miedo. Le di dos billetes de diez libras, que era bastante dinero en aquel tiempo, y pregunte si queria que le consiguiese un nuevo arco. El hombre estaba realmente aterrorizado y me devolvio la plata. Le puse nuevamente los billetes en la mano pero volvio a rechazarlos. Insistí y entonces sólo aceptó diez libras, me dio los otros diez y se fue rapidamente murmurando algo incomprensible.
Nunca lo volvi a ver. Ah, Bartelby.. ¡Ah Humanidad!