Chapter One
Ah, Covent Garden – this little village within the hustle and bustle of metropolitan London, the square of cobbles, surrounded by expensive shops and bars, the café down in the basement in the apple market and the Opera House sitting with it's bulk casting shadow on the piazza.
I love this little part of the city, from the stupid amounts of money that are hourly dragged out of unsuspecting tourists and locals alike, caught up in the charm of what used to be the centre of the fruit and vegetable trade in London to the people spewed out from the underground station on the corner, unaware that it is quicker to walk down Long Acre, to the dozens of street performers that scattered the area.
It was a warm summer's evening and I sat on the balcony of the Punch and Judy pub, looking down on part of the piazza that sat behind the disused St Paul Church. As usual there was a gathered crowd surrounding a street entertainer, carrying on the tradition of performing to the passing masses. It was a great way to get some free entertainment whilst having an after work drink. Most of the time it was simply a background track to the noise and gossip as my friends and I dissected our love lives, wardrobes and men; occasionally it would be good enough to break our conversation and have us leaning over the stone railing to watch.
Tonight was definitely an off-day. A human statue, not that interesting to watch; a rather bad juggler and a singer who fancied himself the next James Blunt, but missed by at least a couple of flat notes. So we just sat there, downing more then our recommended daily allowance of white wine and talking about anything and everything that was important or more usually; totally banal.
I was sitting on the outside for once, my new diet (for this month) allowed me only a small glass of wine every other day and I had been nursing my sauvignon for over an hour; so that it was now unpleasantly warm and volatile in flavour. It was easier to let the nasal whine of Rachel's monologue float over me, occasionally pulling a sympathetic face when her tone told me she was complaining about someone or something. Past experience had taught me that this was usually her boyfriend or her manager at work – they seemed to take it in turns to be her most unpopular person.
Therefore the delicate notes of a violin piercing the chatter of the crowd drew my attention and I turned to see what was going on down below. Whoever or whatever it was it seemed to have drawn quite a crowd for they were standing up to four deep around the square, unintentionally creating a stage.
The angle from where I was standing gave me a foreshortened view of the busker who stood in the middle, not seeking the protective shade of the pillars. Even in the warm heat of the day I saw that he was garishly mocked up in some costume. "Oh god, not another bloody human statue, mime artist," I muttered to myself, moving to turn away again, I could not be bothered to give the scene my attention.
However as I did he chose to look up at the balcony, away from the people down below and for a second it felt as if our eyes locked, even if I was not the only one looking down. The gaze he held me in caused me to frown for I noticed that part of his costume was a skull like domino, covering the top half of his face. He had ringed his eyes in black kohl and paint, causing the holes in the mask to appear endless and deep, his eyes like two glittering jewels set in the inky black.
He held the bow to his violin loosely in a black leather gloved hand, the other casually resting the instrument against his hip. He spoke no words to me, but his mouth turned up in a smirk as I looked at him, causing me to toss my hair back in annoyance and pull a sarcastic smile back.
Our brief wordless exchange over, he returned his attention to the hordes of tourist surrounding his patch. "Do you wish to hear death play?" The words came out coldly, hovering over everyone and dropping down like mist. With no further encouragement he lifted the violin and tucked it under his chin, drawing the bow down and started to play Saints-Saens 'Danse Macarbe'.
There was something in his manner, the easy way he moved back at forth, grabbing the eye of one person, then the other, bending down low and moving around the square as he played that kept my interest. That and the outlandish garb he was wearing. Tight red velvet trousers and a red velvet jacket with black knee length boots. Dramatic and over the top, no doubt hot on a warm summers evening like this. Yet he still managed to carry both the costume and the music off with a lazy insolence. It was all too easy to stand there and play music as so many did within the Apple Market, but this man managed to combine performance with his playing.
The applause was enthusiastic when he finished and with a brief flick of his hair out of his eyes he broke into another energetic performance. For forty minutes he played without stop, the music getting livelier and faster with each passing tune until at the end, he swept the instrument away and tore the mask off his face, bowing to the crowds.
There was a wave of cheering that momentarily had me peering out again and this time I was shocked, for even though the busker had removed his mask, he still seemed to wear one, tighter, flesh coloured, but it was still a covering over his face and the black ringed eyes staring out were still mocking.
He moved around the square with a bowl, collecting the odd coppers and silver that the audience gave him in payment for his piece. And then, unusually he came and stood beneath the balcony, like Oliver with his begging bowl. I couldn't help but notice that I was the only one left standing looking out, my fellow colleagues resuming interest in their drinks, now that payment was being demanded for the entertainment.
With an indulgent smile that gave hint to my generosity I tossed down a couple of large two pound coins, a generous amount for a tip, but I felt he had deserved it. He caught it in the bowl with ease, gave me a bow that contained more then a hint of contempt and flashed a smile that was filled with an indolent ease.
And that strange, wordless incident was the start of the most amazing relationship in my life.