2. Musicians in the Cold

Its a verified fact that Don Cosquillas once rode to India and back on a bicycle, a voyage that took ten years, give or take a decade. So many parts of his machine needed replacing on the way its highly unlikely the contraption that returned was the same as the one that left. But nobody cares about that. Our returning hero found Madrid much changed in his absence, though he couldnt say exactly why, and this feeling of vague impermanence made him strangely sad. He lightened his mood by eating honey, vast amounts of the stuff, and rarely went out without two large jars stuffed in his frock coat pockets. Then he discovered it was simpler just to fill the pockets and leave the empty jars at home.

Winter came and the honey hardened and went cloudy and a cold wind blew from a region lacking all barometric pity and anyone who claims that Spain is sunny all year round shouldnt be trusted to do anything, not even to unslice bread. Well, maybe its relatively warm in the south, on the coast, but certainly not in Madrid. Anyway it was the season when Don Cosquillas always intended to carry a ready supply of loose change with him but never did, and this time he had an excellently true excuse: there was no more room in his pockets. Loose change was the surest defence against the tragic or accusatory expressions of shunned street musicians.

The street musicians of Madrid are numerous indeed, perhaps because there are so many streets in that city, and they stand on corners and play so many songs between them in the space of a typical night that the semiquavers get worn out and drop from their staves like overripe grapes from a vine. They stand on bridges too and outside restaurants and the juice of those fallen notes runs over the cobbles and dampens their bare feet, because their shoes are riddled with holes and they cant afford socks. Thats how poor they are, O yes!

Don Cosquillas had mixed feelings about these fellows and freely admitted to himself that envy was one of the main ingredients in his emotional brew. Not that he desired to be the same and strum and croon in return for small coins, but he certainly regarded them as powerful rivals for the position of most romantic hero in the capital and perhaps feared they were more authentic than he in this regard. Yet another part of him treated them as brothers, with an awkward but sincere affection, and this lack of a definite attitudinal strategy caused him no end of moral anguish. Combined with his strange sadness, his confusion turned into a grumpy pomposity.

One evening a cold musician accosted him near the Chocolatera San Gins with these words: A small donation in return for the melody Ive just played, my friend, if you please? For my bones are like the most peculiar icicles in the world, icicles shaped precisely like bones, and a cup of hot chocolate from that famous shop will surely thaw this unbearable coincidence away.

The reply he received ran as follows:

Im not really your friend. Im Arturo Risas, the self styled Duque de Costillas y Cosquillas, but you may refer to me simply as Don Cosquillas. Clearly you believe yourself a romantic figure, with your guitar and glistening eyes and chronic poverty, but I have lately travelled far and learned many more romantic things than you will ever conceive. Unfortunately Ive forgotten all of them except one. No matter: Im not giving you any money!

Which shows that honey is a poor antidote for deepset grumps...

Don Cosquillas forgot about the incident and stayed at home for almost a week, tinkering with a bicycle and attempting to modify it for a new adventure in a different story, but when he emerged he wasnt slow to notice an air of urgency in the city, a feeling that something odd was about to happen. His body vibrated in tune with this sensation.

The musicians no longer stood on street corners or bridges or outside restaurants. They were in motion, heading towards an unspecified point in the heart of Madrid, and each was consumed with a look of determination more haunting than any previous aspect of picturesque hunger. From every barrio they converged, ignoring those other pedestrians who actually tried to give them money. Don Cosquillas was overwhelmed with curiosity but couldnt get answers from any of them until he chanced to grab the arm of the same fellow he had earlier berated.

Whats going on? he pleaded.

Going on? We are tired of being cold and sick of being treated with contempt. For too long we have tolerated the neglect of the masses. All I wanted was a cup of hot chocolate to warm my freezing innards but that was too much for you. Something inside me broke. I called a general meeting of our fraternity and made an impulsive proposal, and it was accepted, for my comrades realised they felt the same way, and tonight we plan to burn all our instruments in the Plaza Mayor simultaneously!

Don Cosquillas was aghast. I was responsible for this! But what will happen to Madrid when its musicians can play only air with their fingers?

It will become a more quiet city, was the answer, and we must find normal jobs or starve utterly, but I don't care about the future, I care only that tonight Ill be warm for the first time in many nights. If I burn my guitar alone I wont derive much benefit: a few minutes of heat and then cooling ashes. But this inferno will be vast!

There was no time for more conversation. They had reached the Plaza Mayor. Piled in the centre of that great square was a pyramid of melody-making machines, chiefly guitars but also accordions, violins, cellos, flutes, harps, zithers, clarinets, xylophones and things more exotic: ocarinas, mbiras, dulcimers, sitars, rubabs, kotos, berimbaus. More examples were added with each passing minute. And the chapped owners stood around this harmonic hill with tight-lipped smiles of grim glee, rubbing hands in anticipation of the first auto da f on that spot for more than a century. The square was packed and after the last arrivals squeezed a place for themselves, a match was struck.

Even Don Cosquillas had to admit that this bonfire was magnificent. But as the blaze gained in ferocity a totally unexpected thing happened... The burning instruments began to play. The strings twanged, the fire storm sucked air into the holes of the woodwind contributions, metal keys expanded and operated randomly. And by a coincidence so implausible it could only ever occur in a work of fiction even more extreme than this, the music that resulted was breathtakingly beautiful. In fact it was perfect, alluring beyond all self-restraint, hypnotic and magical and ultimately fatal, as only Don Cosquillas realised. He shouted as loud as he could and for the purposes of a neat ending actually made himself heard.

Its a faithful reproduction of the Song of the Siren! Youll be lured into the flames and perish if you don't plug your ears with the solidified honey in my pockets! Like the adventure of Odysseus all over again, sort of! Yes, thats right, form an ordely queue and take enough honey for both ears. Quickly, before the first chorus is reached!

There was just enough honey for the musicians but none left for Don Cosquillas. So how did he survive to have that other adventure with the modified bicycle? The answer lies in the one romantic thing he learned in India that he still remembered. Fire walking.

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