Awful Busker

It was 1:31 pm when Jamison arrived there, at the Piazza Romanazza in the Pietro district of Italy. He was looking for someone, checking their faces. In each face, he saw only a trace of his quarry. Some fit in certain ways, it seemed. He almost settled on a few. But she’s with another man, that can’t be her, he’d say to himself.

Suddenly, he looked across the Piazza Romanazza. Did he see her? The object of his fancy? The distance was far, over fifty meters. There was a busker playing in the street, satisfying his wares. Creating a flight of fancy in his audience. Jamison looked at him as if he saw something in his posture, or his demeanor.

Was this somehow related to the woman he was searching for? Hadn’t she expressed an affinity for a local busker, expounded upon the many occasions in which, without hesitation, she would drop a krona or lira into his little triphisphal bucket? This is simply conjecture. Nobody knew exactly who he was searching for or why. Or what this busker had to do with her.

Jamison approached, steadily increasing his walking speed until, having arrived in the presence of his ancillary quarry, he took a moment to look around. As he did, he gave his back a big stretch. Such searching was hard on the body. He continued looking. Was she here, or there, or maybe there. He looked at the seating area, where the couples were enjoying their bugged cappuccinos. It was an experience.

He looked so out of place. As he stood there, he noticed a solid presence behind him. Being prepared for anything, Jamison turned around to see the busker standing there, right where he’d stood before, looking at him. His fiddle was on a sling over his shoulder, and he was standing with one foot jutted out, all his weight on the other, his arms folded in front. It was almost as if the busker was some authoritarian schoolteacher, here to teach Jamison a lesson.

“You seem out of place, Mont Camidad,” said the busker, in his deep, abiding voice.

“Me?” said Jamison. “How? How do I seem out of place? Have I done something wrong?”

The other people in the square, tightly holding their lovers’ hands, were weary of Jamison. Many gathered to se what was about. Or maybe they were just curious.

“You see, Mont Camidad, most men who come to the Piazza Romanazza are here to be with their loved ones. Not to search for them.”

“And this applies to me, how?”

“You’re an obvious liar, not that I’m surprised. She’s told me everything about you.”

“She?”

To this, the busker nodded silently. The serious look on his face was one of admonishment with a dash of reproach. Jamison was taken aback. The people looked on.

“You think me an evil man, awful busker.”

“What I think is not the king in his castle. What I think is but a lonely servant major, making the rounds, searching for a sip of wine, perhaps? Or a genuine article. She loves you, you know.”

“What does that have to do with this now, where I am today.”

“Here in Rome, love is everything. The blood of the forefathers of Roam was spilled over a cherry heart, blossoming and blooming through the everglades. We are not alone here, are we?”

Just then, the busker gave a slight bow. Jamison was happy that he’d come this far, but he looked nonplussed. Something was wrong, he could tell.

“Don’t tell me you…?”

“I don’t think that is the question.”

“Where is she?”

“New Jersey.”

Jamison was incredulous. He begged the busker to take him to where this woman was. He would give anything. Just name the terms, he said. The busker said that he would do it for free, under the condition that Jamison told no one of this trip.

Suddenly, they were both whisked away on a jet. Not just any jet. The Marius Topales, the largest jumbo private jet in operation in the world to that date. It used to belong to an Arab oil baron, but that guy was incredibly bad at poker, so now here they were. Jamison and the busker.

Jamison had changed his clothing in one of the jet’s private bedrooms. This jet was so gigantic that it had two full-sized couches in the middle, on each of which one of them sat. The busker had one arm stretched out on the back of the seat, the other holding a glass of Moet.

Jamison had both of his arms resting on the back of the opposite couch, sitting as if he’d suddenly fallen back into a pool.

“What do you want to talk about?” said Jamison. “Don’t buskers speak?”

“A busker speaks but of the wind in autumn when the trees sway and the birds delay.”

“I don’t know what that means, but you’ve got me. Is she okay?”

“How will I be allowed into the states without my passport.”

“Don’t worry. You’re my guest. I’ve got connections in high places. But only not in…low places.”

“This I see. She will be glad to see you, no?”

It took only nine hours for them to reach the airport in Jersey City. Sitting in the lap of luxury over the unforgiving ocean wreaked terror on the spines of both men as they twisted their way out, trying not to get caught up in the moment. They chose not to speak at the airport. Too much noise. They waited for the concierge to send a chauffeured car and headed out. The car had a separator between the driver and passengers, with gold-colored upholstery.

“When do we eat? I’m starving,” said Jamison.

“This is your car,” said the busker. “You tell me.”

After about an hour of driving through the crowded streets, the busker led him to a strange apartment complex in the slums of the city. There was a feeling that anything could happen. But Jamison seemed unsure of himself. What was his motive?

Jamison and the busker went to the door, marked A1. It was completely exposed to the elements. Some kind of cross between an SRO and a motel. Jamison knocked first. Nothing.

Then the busker followed suit.

“Let us in, Carmilanda,” said the busker. “We are your friends.”

The door unlocked and slowly creaked open. When they walked in, they saw a woman in a white tank top and purplish pink sweatpants. Her shoes were stylish, and she had a few bracelets on.

“What is the feeling you were after?” said Carmilanda.