Fran was bent over his guitar, tuning it. He had short thin hair of the darkest sort, and dark fugitive eyes. His expression was this if a child, and yet there was something very noble about him. The aquiline nose.
Paul was lying on the damask divan across the room. He pushed his guitar aside and said: “you two are very close in age,” so I asked Fran how old he was. He replied with a soft masculine voice, without looking at me, without taking his eyes off the strings of the instrument. “I am 25”. “I am 24,” I said.
I sat on the carpet next to the couch for a moment. I would have liked to stay there with them. Listen to the father and son play guitar together. An intimate musical dialogue.
But I left. I felt like an intruder.
And as I left, I heard a voice rise and carry a soulful tune.
I woke up later that night and went to the kitchen to get some water. There was a dim changing glow in the hallway to the living room, where Fran was staying. He was watching TV. I could hear the indistinct murmur. I filled my glass with water and listened for a while. Should I go with him? I tried to think of a way to engage a genuine conversation, but could this conversation ever be genuine? Colorful fantasies uprose in mind.
When I came out of the kitchen, the living room was pitch dark.
Fran left in the morning. The sound of the gate woke me up. June told me: “Fran doesn’t talk much. He is schizophrenic.” I marked a pause; my thoughts were still clouded with sleep. Then the clouds dispersed and I felt my heart beat. Mysterious, mysterious prince...
“Does he visit here often?” I asked. She shook her long curls. “He makes me uncomfortable, she added, I never know what to tell him.”
Oh..
I feel I would have known.
Oh..
I feel I would have known.
