I.
Following the Corniche as it snaked around the rocks, an arched limestone bridge appeared. Needing a moment to rest after kilometers of walking, the boy sat down on the limestone railing that accompanied the bridge as it strattled the small inlet.
A full moon reflected off the calm sea, mirroring its white light onto the boy' face and clothing.
Sensing the moment of respite, the boy withdrew an anonymous book with black binding from his satchel.
Black binding and covers were preferred by the boy for his sketchbooks. As if the anonymity of the cover could simultaneously liberate and protect the ideas within - a picket to contain the pomp. Any ideas, no matter the absurdity, we safe within the realms of black cardboard.
As the boy began to download his observations from the day into the book - a man appeared from the opposite bend in the road.
It is rare to find someone walking the Corniche in this part of town. Traffic is dominated by the whir of motor vehicles, the pedestrian preferring to remain in the city center where walking was more accommodated.
Upon seeing the man, the boy was struck not with fear but calm. From the man's attire it was clear that the passing on this bridge would be friendly.
He wore a striped shirt, capris, and loafers. A walking stick was embellished with a red bandana and a few pots clambered from his small backpack. Looking more displaced Venetian than Gypsy, the man punctured the silence as his foot broke the threshold separating bridge-road from land-road.
"Greetings on this beautiful evening," said the man in a surprisingly Northern accent.
The boy had been distracted from his sketch by the arrival of the fellow wanderer, and felt obliged to answer.
"Hello," he answered. "Can I offer you directions, or are you just out for a walk?"
"Just walking," answered the man, "Do you often stop and draw in the moonlight?"
The boy considered the question prior to answering. It was unusual to draw at night. Without proper contrast of light, pencil strokes mangle into a knot, making anything more than a Rodin-esque gesture impossible on the page.
"Not often," answered the boy. "Only a night like this one, where the moonlight cuts the drapes of night sky and presents the proper staging."
"I was once a man of the stage. In fact, it was that impulse that motivated me to walk this night."
The man was warmed at the thought of his past.
A passing car interrupted his recollection, and the man changed subject.
"May I see your drawings?"
"They are not much, all quite simple"
"No matter, I just enjoy looking at creations."
"If you have no objection to inexperience, I do not object to sharing."
And the boy handed his small, precious book to the stranger.
A stranger opening that black binding was like offering the gates of Troy to a horse. There is always a moment of insecurity when the artist is positive that a conquering hoards of criticisms and judgements will pour forth - taking advantage of that moment when the guard has been lowered.
The boy tried to contain anxiety and not peer over the edge to see what image from his consciousness the man was putting under review. With each page turn, no army emerged, and the boy slowly relaxed.
"What music were you listening to with this image?"
This question caught the boy unexpectedly. No, it was not the criticism of his line, nor the ambush of his ideas, but instead a genuine question.
"Mozart. It was a quartet at Wigmore Hall in London. I believe the piece was 'String Quintet 615 Eb'," answered the boy.
"I knew that you were in a hall from the movement of the line. It bubbles with the song - different from other drawings."
"Remarkable, that you were able to discern that."
"It is not so difficult. Music has a wonderful ability to move."
"This is not something that I considered when making the drawing. I only wanted to capture the moment as much as possible," answered the boy.
"I think you have nothing to worry about. Thank you for sharing these drawings. I always enjoy seeing what other travelers have experienced."
The man closed the book and handed it back to the boy.
"If you will excuse me, I have to keep moving. Best of luck on the drawing."
And in that moment, the exchange closed and the man strode off the bridge and around the rock corner as unexpectedly as he had arrived.
Another car zipped around the corner and over the bridge. As the roar of pistons faded, only silence emerged, the tap of the traveler's stick and clamber of his pots was gone.
The boy looked down at the book again. The page containing the musicians was still open, staring back. He glanced back and forth, between the white moon and the dancing black lines, intimated by memories that flooded his cortex.
He could hear the instruments tuning, the strings warming their tension. No longer did he need to see the picture to hear the music, now it rushed over him, as the rock below were immersed by each waved that passed under his limestone bridge.
Violins were now singing, the movement in full swing.
No longer could the boy remain stationary. Like his pencil weeks before, the music was compelling his body to move.
He glanced one more at the face of the moon. It smiled back the assurances of an enraptured audience.
The boy walked slowly off the bridge, following his original path. No longer were his steps weary from treading the graveled edges of the Corniche, now he floated along, path lit by the generous moon and spirit guided by the flittering bows of violins and reverberations of cello singing from inside.
