Even without seeing him, I recognized that voice accompanied by a guitar the moment I heard it, as I weaved my way through the Sunday morning crowd of visitors filling the large square. This time, I was a tourist like them, visiting the city that once was my home, after a very long time.
His voice singing the song I loved as much as the painter whom those lyrics talked about made me feel as if I stepped back through a crack in time. It made me feel twenty years younger. It made me remember how I used to love my Sundays when I lived in this city when I was a young girl, too many years ago.
I used to enjoy those days too much to waste them by staying in bed until lunchtime like my friends used to do. I was eighteen then and had no time to waste. There were many things lying ahead of me to see; I did not want to miss any of them.
The world, my life was bursting with starry nights, swirling clouds, blazing flowers, and fields of amber grain, just like Van Gogh's paintings, like my singer's songs.
I would get up early, even earlier than on weekdays, to make those Sundays last longer. Grabbing a take-away coffee in a café by the station, I would take the tube to the city's center. Then I would stroll along the ancient streets before they got crowded, alone, towards my two best-loved places-- this square with its singers, and another nearby square with my favourite gallery.
"Excuse me," I said to a man who did not move out of my way, impatient to finally see my singer again.
What is he still doing here? How does he look now?
I had changed so much during these years of life away from this place, while my naive dreams of starry nights and endless summer days morphed into the reality of snowy lands and winter chills during my marriage, and those shadows from the hills stretched their long grey fingers towards me, caressing my hair, weaving the first silver threads through it.
The words of that song I have not heard in ages made me smile now like I used to smile once, when life was so much happier and less complicated.
"Thank you," I said as the man in front of me moved out of my way, finally, mirroring the smile playing on my lips, believing it was intended for him.
Then I caught a glimpse of the singer.
My lips twitched with a barely suppressed grin as I recalled how I had been infatuated with this man without ever having spoken to him. Pushing my way past several more people I left the older audience, those my age, standing in a semi-circle behind me and sat down on the timeworn cobble stones of the square, among teenage girls, like I used to do once.
He looked different-- good different. His once shoulder-length hair was cut shorter, he wore more serious clothes, and his fingers moved even more effortlessly over the strings of his guitar. And he had made a CD.
I took one from a boy walking through the crowd with a basket full of them. Could it be his son? I handed the little one the money he asked for, sighing. Of course, he would have settled down by now...
While the singer continued to play, I read through the liner notes inserted in the CD's case. His name was Alonso. It suited him. A Brazilian artist. That made me smile again, I would never have guessed that...
I closed my eyes and let his voice wash over me, hit by a wave of nostalgia and remorse. I had made too many mistakes in my life. Leaving this city to marry my high school love back at home was only one of them. I shook my head. That nightmare was over now. It was getting late, I was nearly forty, fine, but I was not... ninety, and I was as free as twenty years ago. I could as well move back here and start all over again...
Who was I kidding? I'd never do something like that, not anymore. The love of careless adventures and the carpe diem way of living without fully considering the consequences of my decisions had lost its appeal greatly at some point, somewhere along the way.
But not entirely. I needed to do this one thing, I decided.
I had not had sufficient courage before. This was one of the few positive things about growing older-- learning how to gather the courage to speak my mind, not caring much about how the others might judge me. The time was not endless, and second chances were too rare to waste. I was not going to let this man become one of the many strangers I've met in my life, another one of those frameless heads on nameless walls of the labyrinth of my memory.
As the applause died after he played the last song and the people huddled behind me started to stroll away, I followed two young, blushing girls towards the singer. He signed the CDs they passed him, his smile making them explode in giggles and blush even more.
He was still as charming as before. Whoever said that men age like wine was right.
I tried to smooth my messy chignon quickly, grateful for my honey-coloured hair concealing my first grey strands sufficiently so far.
Then it was my turn. Our fingers touched as I passed him my CD, and as he looked at me, I saw surprise flicker in his eyes.
"I... just wanted you to know that I quite liked you when I was as old as them." I announced bravely, nodding towards the girls, even as he said, "You used to wear your hair always loose."
I opened my mouth again, closed it, then blushed like the girls before me. He could not remember me...
"I meant to ask you out. But I thought you wouldn't come, and I hesitated too long. And one day you were gone... Would you come with me for a coffee now? Please?" he continued.
"Hmm... I... Your son?" I stammered, looking around in search of the boy I could not see anymore.
"He is not my son." He smiled. "Just a friend. I'm teaching him to play the guitar and he helps me here."
"Right... You know, I only really told you... that... because I was sure you were... married. Unavailable. A father..." I mumbled, feeling the blush spread like wildfire over my cheeks.
As he kept looking at me silently, I giggled, realising how silly I must look. This was the most embarrassing moment in my life.
"Then I'll have to thank him. I can't believe it's been... what, twenty years...? I thought I'd never see you again... Where did you go? Why? What's your name, by the way? Do you even like coffee...?"
He kept talking as he placed his guitar in its case, then slung it over his shoulder, giving me time to recover my wits.
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