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(created from stimuli - a black and white photograph of a male accordionist, given to us by our creative writing tutor)

In northern Paris, on the boulevard leading up to Montmartre, Georges Boulet shows up every morning - excluding Sunday - at around 10am with his accordion over his shoulder and a small fold down chair tucked under his arm. Since he lost his wife Margot 5 years ago, this has become his life. They had lived in Provence, in a house with white shutters hidden away behind rows of lavender and their own vineyard. Each morning, both rising early, they would slowly eat a feast of yoghurt and strawberries while the sun rose over Montagne Sainte-Victoire illuminating all that was theirs. Those mornings and that world couldn’t possibly be more different than they are now.

Georges had come across his accordion entirely accidentally while packing some of Margot’s belongings – a hairbrush, a notebook and several pieces of jewellery, into a small box in the attic. It had been gathering dust in a corner beneath a large beam and as he watched the grey sheet fall from it following a brush from his fingers he smiled fondly as his mind began to slowly fill up like a sink with memories of the joy it had brought him as a young man. As soon as he picked it up, it was as if his fingertips had a memory of their own as they delicately traced the keys and let out that sound that enchanted and haunted all in the one note. He closed his eyes and let the old familiar sound float around the room and when his eyes reopened he was drawn to a shabby sticker on the side of his instrument – it was a picture of the Sacré-Cœur and in that moment he knew where he had to go – in a city brimming with so much love, surely his would heal? Surely.
   

Now, in old Paris, Georges finds that from day to day not much changes; it is a rare occurrence that anything unexpected takes place. Often a string of pre-school children come by with their teachers while he is playing and giggle and dance in front of and around him while their teacher waits almost impatiently having heard the same song several times too many. He notices the children, of course, with their clothing flying in their spinning dance, yet he often remains stoic and unfaltering, staring straight through them and towards the adults, wondering how their hearts harden so quickly when the children maintain the same sparkle time and time again. The first few months playing in Paris were particularly therapeutic for him and helped to lift the sadness from him that had settled like the dust on the accordion, however - and he found this to be very sad – his heart had gone back to being surrounding by a grave ache as a result of his mundane and parallel days. Georges does not play for money, no, that was never his intention; he simply plays in an attempt to alleviate the heartache of passers-by the way it had done with him. Unfortunately, the majority of the Parisian population moved everywhere with a sense of such urgency that it appeared they simply had no time to stop and listen, or to stop and feel without life getting in the way. Yet, there was one boy, and he is the reason that Georges has not yet given up with the playing.
    

It was a misty evening in April several years ago when the sun was bobbing down below the skyline of the city leaving a somewhat mauve tint to the sky, and Georges was playing ‘Coeur Vagabond,’ a favourite of Margot’s. Normally, he did not play at night – he much preferred to read with a glass of wine from Nice, however he had heard that the street below his window was ripe with movement and he thought that at night people were more relaxed and open to hear what was always there, so he clambered down his rickety staircase out into the musky air. He knew the song so well, he was almost lazy in his execution, with his eyelids flickering closed and opening again to the glow of the street. He could feel a sigh brewing in the pit of his stomach when he noticed this figure – a boy, emerging from what seemed to be darkness and edging towards him. He could have been no more than fifteen, and was one of those people that upon first glance seemed to be missing something, like a jigsaw without the defining chunk. His walk suggested defeat, and curls fell into his eyes giving him a feminine appearance. Georges recognised the delicacy of the child and was careful not to lure him, yet remained curious as to the effect the song was having. Each time Georges lifted his eyes from the keys, the boy was closer, and closer, until he was almost directly in front of him, silently staring, cocking his head like a dog. Georges’s lips began to form a word – he was simply going to say hello, but the boy moved backwards, almost stumbling and disappeared. Georges let out the sigh that had brewed earlier and was about to stop playing when he noticed the boy, further away in the distance sitting on a bench within hearing distance, and he was staring even more intently than before. He sat there, unfazed for the rest of the night. Georges watched pigeons peck at his shoes and people sit beside him, yet the boy remained utterly transfixed until the moment Georges stopped and began to pack his things away. As he was folding his chair, he heard the click of footsteps on the cobbled path and came to face the boy. He was possibly even younger then Georges had first assumed, and had eyes the colour of a turquoise ocean. He stuttered a quick, high pitched “Thank you” and at Georges’s uncertain expression hastily added “for the music” and then set off at a run back to from wherever he had come. That attention and appreciation coupled with the way in which the boy had looked – like one of the still, poignant statues at Versailles, made George think that yes, it was definitely worth it. Certainly.
   

Georges never saw the young man again, yet he fishes the surface of his mind for the memory of him whenever he is in doubt about the purpose of his playing. For the three weeks that follow, the schools are on holiday, so even the dancing children do not notice him, and this makes the front of his skull throb as if the thoughts contained within his brain are bashing against in in protest, as if to shout “where is everyone?!.” His mind seems to sag, completely soaking in all thoughts to dart through it, and with this accumulation of pressure he felt the memory of the boy slipping, deteriorating as if his current thoughts of worthlessness were acidic, a poison to any that existed before them. On the Sunday that ended the last and the most awful of the three weeks, the priest, Father Babineaux did not show up for mass, which Georges had been looking forward to with every fibre within him – giving himself over to the presence of the Lord generally lifted his spirit entirely, yet without the priest to lead him, he felt lost, unable to connect – floating within the cathedral. He left the cathedral and climbed to the summit of Montmartre – a challenge within his sixty year old frame and he pushed through the rows of drunks in the nightclub district and decided that tomorrow he would not show up to play. Georges had always liked Mondays for their promise of a new beginning, but despite this he decided to hand his accordion back over to the dust.
   
On Monday morning around 10am, Eloise Rousseau began her daily routine. Her first stop was the small boulangerie at which she would sit for half an hour each morning with various forms of pastries and a weather appropriate drink to listen to the accordionist – he had been her favourite thing about Paris for the past few years following her husband’s death – she needed some way to fill her mornings and he had become it. The bakery was situated directly around the corner from where he played, which for her was ideal because even as a fifty nine year old woman she was hopelessly awkward and thought it sensible that she simply enjoy his music rather than bother him with any conversation she could attempt to make. She enjoyed leaning into the sun and letting the notes turn the corner and gently glide around and over her – each day, despite having heard much of the material countless times, she would watch her skin tighten and form tiny mountains as goose bumps took over her body which then prompted the heat to rise beneath the collar of her shirt as she prayed no one noticed. People often asked her if she was waiting for something, or for someone, yet she simply smiled. She wasn’t sure – perhaps she was. This particular Monday, there was a light frost on the ground that glittered in the sunlight like a carpet of tiny jewels, and although she could see her breath in a trail in front of her, she thought it to be a fine morning. Due to the cold, she decided it was best to take a seat inside the bakery instead of her usual spot outside of the shop, and as she removed her gloves and ordered her café crème she strained her ears to hear what she had come for, yet no sound tickled her lobes. She wondered if it was because she was inside, and edged closer to the door, yet, nothing. She found the lack of music both startling and incredibly odd – excluding Sunday’s, she had never found her accordionist not to be there. She felt a panic stir within her as several scenarios took place in her mind – had he moved location? Was he perhaps with a woman? Had something happened to him - Oh God what was his address - was he ok? Eloise paid for her food and left at a brisk walk, first around the corner, half expecting to see that little fold down chair glittering in the light, yet instead her fears were confirmed and he indeed was not there. She began to ask a few passers-by the same question “Excuse me? Yes, I’m sorry to bother you but do you happen to know the whereabouts of the accordionist who plays here every day? Or even perhaps his name, or where he lives?” Each time, she was answered with a similar response: “I’m sorry, who?” or “Pardon, an accordionist?” She felt like the floor of her heart was about to give way and as she leaned against the wall where the accordionist was usually propped, she looked around and began to see Paris in a very different light: the cobbled streets were dirty and the air was not fresh in your nostrils and she wondered how it could be the city of love if no one seemed to have time to listen.

- 2010