Hunter Street Mall's Music Man

There's a man in a plaid collared shirt, his dirty dark grey hair slicked back behind his ears, a tickle of a moustache on his lip. He stands across from the café I am in, bowing his knees in time with the music that resonates from the accordion in his hands. I'm reminded of the rides from Pigalle to Concorde, of days when the tourists were out and so were the buskers. Metro trains full of talented nobodies with their old paper cups and a fresh hope on their faces. As if the next stop would bring with it a fresh batch of people to appreciate their songs. Their story.

This guy, too, has a story. You can see it in the way he bends and sways as if he is one with the instrument he plays. He is a refreshing character amongst the 9-5ers of the city. He has the air of wilful attachment to a past. Whether his own, or the past of a culture. He is loyal to the instrument and to the song in the way that they are loyal to him. Not just a possession of his, the accordion connects him to whatever it is that gets him up in the morning. He is a beacon of light, a metaphor of every individual's end goal. A hope, a contented happiness. The untroubled existence that we all strive for.