The faint notes of a violin concerto were still permeating his consciousness when the man woke up, the sun shining on his face that morning. He remembered it as a Max Bruch work, or was it by Mozart? The Bruch piece has been a favourite of his for a long time. Why was he playing it, literally playing the violin part, when he is incapable of performing on any instrument?
The solitary street accordionist, most probably a Kurdish busker, performing in a busy city street at midday, had stuck in his memory. Flashes of his childhood, of street musicians in another time, another era, another place, drops of memory taking over his eyes on that afternoon.
A smile on his lips
