On the corner of Frank's Grocery and Otto's Bakery, a young man's hand glides up and down strings as the other rocks back and forth. His tousled, cotton-like hair sways to his own rhythm. Eyes closed, face still like a statue, the man continues to his song.
Passerby ignore him. His intentions not noticeable to them. The cellist conitunes to play, fingers weaving intricate patterns over the strings, new notes singing through the icy air. Birds swoop over him, their wings a blur of strawberry and beige. Their songs intertwining in his. Pass by still pass by without a glance.
A little girl across the street tugs on her mother's coat, pointing at the cellist. The mother glances down at the girl, then looks to where she is pointing. She does something with her hands and the girl's excited look turned to a grimace. She shook her head, fights clenched to her sides. She moves her hands in furious gestures, and the mother waves her away, focused on a dress the color of an overipe plum. The little girl stomps her foot. She turns back to the cellist, and a smile lights up her face. One last look at her mother and she was off. Weaving through the groups of people, right to the cellist, sitting on a park bench.
The cellist stops. His colbalt eyes stare straight at the girl. Then a smile, teeth as white as snow, fills his face. The little girl smiles back. He gestures towards the cello, asking if she likes it. She nods her head. He readjusts his posture and begins to play once more. The little girl stands, silent as he plays. Then her face fills with frustration. She stomps her fitted, packing the powdered snow into the grass below. People turn, the cellist stops. He lifts his head in confusion. Then the little girl points at her ears.
She couldn't hear. The cellist nods his head, he understood. He played a few more notes, his eyes closed in serenity. Then he stopped and opened his eyes. He pointed to her, then to his ears. She nodded. He then pointed to himself, then his ears. Her chocolate eyes wiedneed, and a toothy smile appeared. The cellist smiled back and laughed, a deep, unworldly sound came from him. The girl saw the laugh and giggled.
The cellist held out his bow to the girl and motioned towards the cello. His eyebrows raised in question. The girl excitedly nodded yes. She quickly grabbed the bow and sat next to the cellist. He took her small, porcelain white hand in his sandpaper rough hands, and set her's onto the cello. She grabbed the neck and began to play. She giggled at the vibrations from the sound under her fingertips. She tried to mimick how the cellist would play, her eyes closed and swayed back and forth to the unheard noise. Her hands flew up and down the neck, and her bow flowed gracefully on the body.
The cellist smiled as a small crowd appeared. He grabbed a small box from under the bench and set it out in front of the girl. Small, golden coins filled the box to the brim. The cellist smiled, one last time. He looked exhausted, but happy. He then got up and slowly began to walk away. Leaving the girl with closed eyes and the cello. He walked past all the people and past he shops, the sound of the cello floating all around him, but he couldn't hear. He reached the graveyard at the end of the town and sat down next to a grave header. On it, it read,
Charlie Schultz
A deaf cellist.
Born: January 5th,1942
Died: Febuary 7th, 1960
