The Angel of the Stories by John…

The Angel of the Stories by John Simmons: Episode 20

1 year ago

Julia had been an observer that day, as she was most days. But, just by being there, she got drawn into the activity. She came across Rosa who had found a long-discarded plate. Rosa ran her fingers over the ceramic surface, not daring to believe its lack of damage. The plate felt like an unexpected prize won.

Then Isabella found Julia. She beamed in relief at seeing her. I can stop worrying now.  Isabella told Julia that the band would play that evening, and the choir would sing. There would be no rehearsal, there would be no time, but it wouldn’t matter. For the first time, Julia felt no nervousness at the prospect of singing in public.

The people moved in waves towards the square, bringing mops, brooms and shovels. Then the tide turned as people moved away again, back to their houses. The current flowed back and forth: they were cleaning, fetching, sweeping, carrying, pushing, retrieving, all doing different things but with a single-minded purpose. As the afternoon passed more and more of the women were inside their houses, preparing food for the fiesta.

Rosa found that her plates had been shaken not broken. She ran trembling fingers over them. Now she believed they were protected from harm so she decided that she would use all her plates that evening. She would tell her husband to carry the plates to the square.

Her husband was one of the many men who were finishing the clear-up in the square and the streets leading to it. The Mayor was supervising, with a particular eye on the furniture that had been washed down from the mound. There were tables, sturdy enough, that could be covered with cloths; there were chairs that he tested by sitting on them. Soon the tables and chairs were arranged around the square, ready to be used.

Julia walked from street to street, helping where help was needed, but finding that people were content to be busy. There was a bustle of activity everywhere but she discovered quiet corners, moments to pause in them. She watched the reflection of the red sun in a puddle as it began to sink in the sky. In the sun’s last rays the wings of a butterfly sighed from a resting place on a leaf. The leaf stirred in the breeze, lifting its pale underside. A crack in the wall plaster mirrored the lightning seen in last night’s sky. She listened to the blackbird beyond the wall, singing to itself.

Julia returned home, remembering that she needed to bring some food to the fiesta. She passed Isabella who called out “half an hour, see you there”, and she saw Rosa’s husband wheeling a cart piled with bread, cheese, ham and plates, so many plates. The plates rattled as the cart was pushed over cobbles at the entrance to the square.

*   *   *   

The square started to fill up as the sun sank lower in the sky. Paths of firelight were leading people to the town’s centre, down streets lined with torches and braziers. The torches were made from wood that had been swept down from the higher ground by the flood waters.

Other objects had been rescued from the flood, and they were set out as furniture around the square and in the streets leading to it. Wooden tables were now covered with colourful cloths. People came out of the houses, carrying baskets, wheeling trolleys, setting out food on the tables. They brought out knives, forks, spoons, cups, glasses, bowls and plates: many plates from Rosa’s house.  There were chairs too so that people could sit at the tables and eat. Soon the square was full and so were the streets around it. In collective relief all the people in the town had come out of their houses to celebrate.

Night fell. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something to happen. They started eating and drinking, encouraged by the mayor who raised his glass in every direction. He wanted to give a speech but knew it would be better not to. He caught the eye of Alfredo who was standing in his band uniform at the corner of the square, and he beckoned him forward.

Alfredo walked into the square, followed by the rest of the band carrying their instruments. There was clapping and cheering, which grew louder when the women of the choir joined the band. They took their places around the memorial in the centre, using it as a stage. The mayor had stood here hours before, looking over a lake. Now the square was dry and heaving with people.

*   *   *

Alfredo raised his baton. All eyes were on him. Then he slowly brought the baton down to point at Federico whose trumpet was already at his lips. The notes emerged long and low and slow until the other brass instruments threaded their way into the unfolding melody. The sound was melancholy but beautiful, rippling through the square and up the rising streets.

Then a pause. The choir stood up and at a wave of Alfredo’s baton they began to sing. Isabella was in the middle of the front row of singers, Julia just behind her. The sound was soft at first, then different voices began to harmonise, and the music swelled.

When I’m no longer here

Keep the rooftops open,

So still my words can fly

Up to the heavens and the stars in the sky.

Julia looked around as she sang. It felt to her as if someone else was singing and she had no need to concentrate on the next notes and next words. The music was inside her; it would stream out when called, coaxed by the surrounding instruments and performers in the band and its choir. And, she felt, by all the ears and eyes in the square.

She saw Rosa and her husband sitting at a table with food on their plates. Rosa’s eyes were intent on the choir, on Julia in particular, and they exchanged a glimpse of a smile while the choir sang the last words of the chorus in unison. Then Julia began to sing solo, accompanied only by an encouraging foundation of trumpet and flute.

Keep the rooftops open

For I can hear the linnet singing to me in the tree.

Julia felt her voice soaring without effort. It now seemed the most natural thing: to sing and to have the eyes and ears of the crowd turned towards her. Under one of the orange trees, Julia spotted Marta and José with their still-young baby.

Keep the rooftops open

For I can see the boy who’s eating cherries in the shade.

The tables were still piled with food; people had all brought enough for themselves and for sharing with others. Kouros and Elena were there, with dozens of pastries freshly baked and yet to be eaten if not by their friends then by the birds who would feed on scraps later. Julia noticed birds here and there, on the rooftops around the town, blackbirds, starlings, even two white crows who stared down with beady eyes from the branches of a tree.

Keep the rooftops open

For I can smell the juice of oranges in the leaves.

Julia saw that this evening was as good as any for the doctor and the lawyer to be playing chess. Even so, the musical distraction meant that the doctor held the white rook in his fingers, poised above the board, while the lawyer gazed towards the choir. Next to them, quietly sipping red wine and memories, sat an old man with a cane and a trilby hat. Hands folded around the knob of the cane, he stared ahead, lost in his own thoughts but listening and seeing, she believed, the stories in the music.

Keep the rooftops open

For I can taste the olives floating on the breeze.

Julia felt the surge of sound behind her as the choir supported her solo singing. She looked around the square again. There were boys and girls revelling in the freedom of being out after dark, but silenced now by the attentive hush of the crowd. Then she noticed, sitting at separate but adjoining tables, the old man and the woman who used to walk down opposite sides of the street. Between them the Norwegian stood at his easel painting the unprecedented scene.

Keep the rooftops open

For I can feel the zephyr breathing on my face.

This was the final verse. Julia sang it unaccompanied. As she did so she spotted – how could she not? – the Mayor standing by the war memorial in the corner of the square. In that same corner the town’s firemen had gathered, in full uniform in case of further emergencies. On each of their lapels hung a tiny replica of the town’s bell, commemorating the time when the church bells had rung without ceasing – but now silent as everyone listened to the finale.

When I’m no longer here

Keep the rooftops open,

So still my words can fly

Up to the heavens and the stars in the sky.

All the voices and all the instruments came together as Alfredo’s baton swept upwards. A brief moment of silence hung in the air. Then with one mind the townspeople roared and stamped and cheered. In the background, the town bells struck the hour, then struck again a minute later from a different church. The cheering continued. The appreciation of the people demanded and received a second performance of the finale.

It was done. The band and the choir stepped down from their platform around the New World monument. Perhaps you could spot them later by the brightness of their faces once they had dispersed to their families in various parts of the crowd. Julia stepped down too, not quite knowing in which direction to head but welcomed everywhere by warm words and raised glasses of wine.

The Mayor was circulating with a greater sense of purpose. He sought out Alfredo, now considered a successful protégé, and embraced him. There was an embarrassed look on Alfredo’s face, and a clanking of metal as the Mayor’s chain struck the brass buttons on the band leader’s uniform. There was nothing for it but to listen smilingly to the Mayor’s euphoria.

“Alfredo, your music has brought us together. You’ve shown us through a poet’s words and an angel’s voice that we are all one.”

Then he saw Julia, bowed graciously and kissed her hand. For once he could think of nothing more to say.

*   *   *

The next day they met again, Julia and the Mayor. Julia gave him the collection of stories that she had written about the town and its people. The Mayor promised that he would read them quickly then pass the collection to Sophia, the librarian, for safe keeping in the town’s archives. But he hoped that Julia would do more with them, and he gave her a name and an address in the city.

Julia returned home where she read the stories one last time. Then she put them into an envelope and wrote on it the name and address that the Mayor had given her. She stuck a stamp on the envelope, a stamp that was a picture of an angel. She held the envelope to her ear and seemed to hear someone speaking her words. Then she put it reluctantly into the post box as if even then wanting to take it back. Now it was gone, and she wondered what would be next.

Next week we'll let you know how you can read more about the book and take advantage of a pre-publication offer!