The Fiddler and the King

As the old year passes into the wee hours of the new, James is passing over the Atlantic. The second hand of the gold watch he sports, still set to Dublin time, ticks all too fast past the forty-five second mark in a resolute march toward the future. He takes a sip of his vodka cranberry from the plastic cup on his tray and counts in his head - five, four, three, two, one. Midnight. It hits him dully, like a punch to the chest. The rotten year over. A new, rottener one just beginning. 

James leans back to rest his head against the seat. He shifts his legs to ease the soreness of his buttocks. Briefly he considers taking out his computer to do some work, but a rush of fatigue at the thought makes him close his eyes and, out of habit, wonder what Hannah might be up to. In New York the new year remains hours away. Surely she is at home now, decompressing before the whirlwind night of bright-eyed partying and festive fuss, perhaps reading on the couch with her mousey hair tied loosely back and her tongue set between her teeth. Maybe she is reading the collection of Carver he gave her months ago. It was a passage from “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” that James had sent her in their last email exchange - All of this, all of this love we’re talking about, it would just be a memory. Maybe not even a memory. Am I wrong? Am I way off base? - to which she’d replied, “Please don’t contact me again.”

For a time after they were over he’d been truly crazy, he reflects ruefully. He pulls the hood of his old college sweatshirt over his head and tries to sink down into the aggressively uncomfortable seat. Bombarding her inbox with lines of Auden and Neruda, buying up copies of the articles she’d written in bulk, even once showing up at her door unannounced and empty-handed, having decided against flowers, just to plead. He nearly shuddered to think of it. She’d threatened legal action and he thought her case was flimsy but surprised himself with his diligence and non-reluctance in cutting off his contact with her. Instead he’d just disappeared to Ireland. Yeah, that was normal, he thought wryly, that was healthy. At least he was leaving that James in the past. He rubs his aching temples to soothe them and sinks into a fitful sleep. 

He’s awoken by the pilot’s voice over the crackly PA, telling him the plane is making its descent into Boston. Local time, nine-forty - James must rewind his watch. When at last he is off the plane, has collected his baggage, and is outside shivering in the winter air, James hails a taxi and gets in.

“Where to?” asks the driver.

James hesitates before telling the driver his address, dreading the thought of returning to his cold, vacant apartment when the rest of the city is well mid-festivity by now. Instead he offers the name of a twenty-four hour greasy-spoon diner a couple blocks from where he lives. The driver murmurs assent. 

“Nice night for a flight,” the driver says, half-smiling back at James, as they leave the airport behind. 

“Nice night to be on shift,” James bites back.

“Touché,” says the driver. “Where’d you get in from?”

“Dublin.”

“Oh, Ireland. Always wanted to go. You have family there?”

James pauses. “Yes,” he says slowly. It’s technically true, he has a distant cousin who lives somewhere around Cork, but he’s never met her and certainly didn’t spend his past couple of weeks visiting her. Easier to say yes than to justify himself to this stranger for spending his Christmas in another continent, alone. He slips on his headphones, hoping the driver will leave him alone. 

When they pull up to the street in front of the diner, a light misting rain is falling, marring the windshield with little specks. He thanks the driver awkwardly as he opens the door. “Happy New Year,” the driver responds. 

“Um, yeah,” James says, ducking his head as if to swerve the sentiment. He retrieves his luggage from the trunk and walks hurriedly into the restaurant. It’s nearly deserted, just a couple of old men talking in raspy voices over coffee and pie at a corner table and a guy with an unshaven chin and bloodshot pout sitting alone in a booth, gazing at the streaks of moisture on the window. This, James thinks, is almost more depressing than being at home alone. James takes a seat at a two-top and orders a club sandwich. When the sullen waitress drops it off he eats hurriedly and pays in cash, only lingering to survey the scene out the window as he puts on his jacket. The mist is intensifying now into a light rain. He sighs, grabs his suitcase and steps outside. 

Hands in pockets, James trudges down near-empty streets, picturing Hannah at a party, rosy-cheeked with wine and champagne, surrounded by friends, perhaps a new man. He frowns at a passing couple cozying up together under an umbrella. Turning a corner to his apartment, he begins to hear what sounds like the faraway keening of a mournful fiddle. He pauses, glancing around him for the source of the noise like a bloodhound in hot pursuit of a scent trail. 

Straightening up and walking down the street, he comes upon the source of a noise, a busker tucked away in the shadows of an awning, eyes closed, persuading grief out of her instrument. It’s a short woman in a yellow raincoat and leggings, with stringy, colored red hair cut bluntly at her shoulders, adding a new, tragic quality to the familiar strains of “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve.” Next to her, protected from the rain, lies the open fiddle case, scattered with the occasional coin. James lingers to watch. 

When she finishes her song she lets her arms fall to her sides, fiddle and bow hanging limply in each hand, and she catches eye and smiles demurely. The wetness of her hair, sticking limply to her forehead, along with the redness of her deft fingers suggests she’s been out here playing for a while now. With the horrid weather and nearly deserted holiday streets meaning her fiddle case is close to empty of money, she had to be out here playing for love of the game, fair and simple. You had to admire that. 

James tosses a crumpled dollar into the case. The busker smiles a closed-lipped smile. “Thank you,” she says. “Happy New Year.”

“You too.”

“It’s nearly midnight,” she says. “You look like you’ve got somewhere better to be.”

He shakes his head. “I’m alone this year,” he says. The lump forming in his throat at the words surprises him. “It’s my first time being alone for the holidays,” he admits. 

The busker steps closer to James and reaches up to pat his shoulder gently. Her head barely reaches his armpit. “I’ve spent too many holidays alone to count,” she says. “You do get used to it.”

“I don’t want to get used to it,” James says, feeling childish. 

The woman, gaze still fixed on James, asks, “Family troubles? Is that why you’re on your own?”

“No,” he says. A familiar burning of shame sears through him. “Last year I spent my New Year’s with a woman who loved me very much. And now everything is just… very different.” He swallows. “There’s an adjustment period, you know?”

“Sure,” says the busker. He can tell she’s indulging him. “What happened to her?”

“I ruined everything.”

She cocks her head, waiting for him to continue. “Oh?”

James closes his eyes and focuses on the slight sting of the occasional raindrop, glancing off the awning they stand beneath and hitting him. Last year he kissed Hannah at midnight and she had said, right after, “I have a good feeling about this year because you’ll be in it.” Opening his eyes and looking down at the busker, her appearance struck him as quite forlorn, bedraggled and sad. “I was not faithful,” he said. “I couldn’t appreciate her in the way she deserved.”

The woman sighs. “Look, you already know I’ve spent many a holiday by myself. Doesn’t mean I don’t have love in my life. I’ve learned you always find love where you look for it. That’s why I like to spend my New Year’s out here, playing. There’s always folks who could use a little spirit, a little joy in their life. Folks like yourself, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“That’s very nice,” says James. She smiles and pulls him down into a loose hug. He does not know whether he should thank her or tell her off. She absolves him of any decision-making, however, stepping out of the hug and smiling gently as she raises the fiddle to her chin and poises the bow above it for another number. The raucous sound of New Year’s celebrations are just audible above the rain. He fancies he hears the beginnings of a midnight countdown. 

“I hope when you find love this year you know what to do with it,” the busker says. James nods. 

“Happy New Year,” he says. He turns and trudges back towards the apartment. Her song, faster-paced than the previous one, begins, a faint rejoicing that fades as he turns the corner. James pauses. A thrumming of white-hot anger surges within him. What does this woman know about love? What does Hannah know about love? If she thinks James didn’t love her, well, no one ever could love her the right way. That was love, wasn’t it, always reaching out, never stopping. It was because she didn’t understand that James was here, alone in the cold and the rain, stuck in limbo between this year and the last one, on New Year’s. It was her fault.

He turns and runs back toward the busker. Her playing falters when she sees him coming. With a swift, sharp kick he sends her fiddle case flying into the air, coins arcing like glittering droplets, scattering on the pavement in an indecipherable mosaic. In the time it takes the busker to lower the fiddle from her chin and shout, “Hey!” he’s already taken off running, his shallow breaths keeping time with the percussion of his footfalls. Rain obscures his view as he runs back in the direction of his apartment. He wonders if she will chase after him or stop and kneel on the wet pavement to collect her meagre earnings. Perhaps this year won’t be so rotten after all.