It was one of those late days when you wait for rain that never comes. Mark was standing on a street corner. He was writing some lines inspired by the setting sun and the shadows. His right foot was bent against the wall. His story began in this small town in the United States where he was a stranger.
"Are you a writer?"
An old black man had spoken to her in impeccable French. He even lifted his hat elegantly and naturally.
"Oh uh, I'm not really a writer..."
"Can I read?"
Mark handed him his notebook:
"How did you know I was French?"
"I looked at what you were writing quickly, you were so absorbed... That's not bad for someone who is not really a writer."
"Thank you."
"This is one of the most beautiful street corners in the city and probably the entire state. In the old days..."
The old man looked quickly at his hand before putting it in his pocket.
"In the past?"
"Nothing. Would you like to take a tour of the neighborhood?"
"With pleasure!"
"How much things have changed, you know. The world changes very quickly and one day you realize that you don't belong here anymore."
"But the shadows remain the same."
He exclaimed and took off his hat to get some air.
"You see my hair is white, isn't that funny?"
They walked the streets until the hour when the luminous signs light up one after the other, to the rhythm of the stars in the sky.
"I'm Mark."
"Nice to meet you young man. Here they call me Jeffrey"
"We could stop here, I could use a drink after all that walking."
Mark saw that he hesitated. He knew this place, that was obvious. He was even surprised to find himself here. He had in his eyes a mixture of nostalgia, fear and desire. There are places that make you feel that way. And often these places are also populated by ghosts and memories. Mark pushed open the door and Jeffrey followed him. He had taken off his hat and was looking at the empty chairs. The bartender was wiping a glass very slowly, probably for ages. A woman, slightly turned, was drinking some kind of cocktail. She seemed lost in thought, lost in another time.
The clock was stopped and the almanac next to it was from the sixties. "Oh, there's a piano," Mark said quietly, as if he didn't want to violate the silence.
Jeffrey trailed behind him and sat with his back to the instrument. There were pictures on the wall. "They are beautiful, these black and white pictures".
"In photos, black and white often go well together"
"On this one it's amazing the resemblance... There's a first name underneath"
"No need to read, it's me. Well, it was me"
Jeffrey was staring into space. He wasn't smiling anymore. He swallowed and put his hand on the table.
"If it wasn't for that damn accident"
"I'm sorry. Can we leave maybe?"
"No, there's no point in running away"
He sighed.
"I've been avoiding this street for years, avoiding thinking about it for years"
"You were a pianist?"
"Oh not really..."
"Well, that reminds me of someone who's not really a writer"
Jeffrey turned slowly towards the piano. Its cold black mass, intimidating like an iceberg.
"It may not be tuned"
Mark stood up:
"Who says there's no point in running away again?"
Jeffrey stood up slowly. He knew it was too late. He was magnetized. He was spinning in orbit. He didn't dare touch it. He walked around it and finally sat down.
"Black and white..." he whispered
Mark had unintentionally triggered something. Jeffrey's presence was so powerful. You could hear him playing already. Behind his counter, the bartender looked up. The elegant woman put down her glass. Jeffrey closed his eyes and raised his hands. Mark heard a murmur, as if the room was full. But that was impossible, surely a figment of his imagination.
Jeffrey played like he did that night. There was no more pain, no more fear. When he stopped, only the sobs of an old man reconciled with his past could be heard. He hid his face in his hands. Then Mark, with wet eyes, put his hand on his shoulder:
- Not bad...
