The Accordion

At the corner of a street in Montmartre, near Boulevard Clichy, lived Étienne Morin, a thin, frail worker in his forties, worn down by hard work and deprivation. He always wore a threadbare jacket, much too large for him, its frayed sleeves showing the years of hardship. His face was lined with deep wrinkles that seemed to speak of a hidden sadness, like an invisible weight he always carried. His gray hair, cut short, gave him an older look than his years. His hands were knotted and rough, the hands of a man who had canvassed his whole life, yet a faint smile sometimes softened his face when he thought of his secret passion: the accordion.

Étienne lived in a small apartment under the eaves, just across from the famous Place Pigalle, where every night the laughter and singing from the cabarets echoed until dawn. During the day, street artists and painters would set up their easels to attract tourists, giving the neighborhood a touch of bohemian life. But at night, the area took on a festive air, and the bright lights of the theaters lit up the streets, hinting at a world of luxury Étienne could never afford. In his small room, he owned only an old stove, a narrow bed, and, placed near the window, a drummed accordion—a reminder of happier times.

One winter evening, as the cold bit through to the bone, Étienne returned from the factory where he had worked for the past ten years. His meager wage barely covered rent and food. But that night, an idea struck him: playing the accordion on the street might bring in a little extra money to improve his everyday life. He hesitated for a long time, wondering if he could bear the embarrassment, but necessarily won. In the shadow of the night, he took his place near the metro station, where the last of the evening’s passers-by drifted through, and began to play. His music was simple, nostalgic, like him, but it had a sincerity that touched people.

In the first few days, he earned only a few coins, just enough to buy a bit of extra bread. But gradually, people started to stop, drawn to this humble man whose music stirred memories of a gentler past. Word of his presence spread, and each night, he drew a slightly bigger crowd. An elderly man, who regularly listened to him play, even slipped him a five-franc coin one evening—a small fortune for Étienne.

Just as he began to dream of saving enough to buy a new pair of shoes, his landlord, Monsieur Lecœur, decided to renovate the building and raised the rent. Étienne, desperate, tried to negotiate, but Monsieur Lecœur was unyielding, demanding the full amount and threatening to evict him. So Étienne had no choice but to play more, even longer hours in the biting cold, hoping to scrape together the money.

On one particularly freezing night, he felt a sharp pain in his chest, but he kept playing, as if in a trance. He had no other choice. The passersby noticed nothing, too absorbed in their own lives, and as the last note faded into the air, he collapsed onto the pavement, his accordion clutched tightly in his arms. The next morning, a few neighbors found him there, frozen in the cold.

They buried him quietly, with no ceremony, and few remembered him. Yet each night, in a corner of Montmartre, it seemed that one could still hear, in the whisper of the wind, the melancholy tune of an old accordion—a lost soul, playing so as not to be forgotten.

THE END.