Illustration by Lee Kuruganti
The Accordion Player
by Roger Bonner © 2007
The door of the inn opened and a man stepped in. He was squat, with a bullet head. Around his neck there dangled an accordion. He moved quickly about the tables, sizing up the people, then he placed his stubby fingers on the buttons and keys of the instrument and crashed into a melody. No one looked up.
On the walls of the inn hung paintings of angels and saints. One was of a martyr lying on a grill. Two cooks were tormenting him with forks. Another depicted cherubs riding goats down a street. Tendrils of ivy wove their way around the frames of the paintings, converging on a niche with a single table.
Grinning at the people, the man played a popular tune. A waitress came through the swinging doors of the kitchen and gave him an annoyed look, but he continued playing.
“I told you not to come back,” she said under her breath.
The man laughed, exposing stained teeth, and said, “I don't give a damn.”
When he had finished playing, he bowed, took a tin cup from his coat pocket and banged it down on the nearest table.
“Pay,” he said.
An old woman put a coin into the cup and shoved it aside.
The accordion player took the cup, went to the next table and played another tune, bouncing the instrument on his belly. The people stared straight ahead, but he persisted, coming closer while lapsing into a tremolo, his eyes darting from face to face. Still everyone ignored him and when he banged the cup on the table and demanded, “Pay”, they shook their heads. He backed against the wall, brooding for a moment, when he caught sight of the niche with the single table. A young couple sat there. He hitched up the straps of the accordion and strode over to them. They looked up and smiled. The man began to play a love song. The couple laughed. Encouraged by their attention, he became more sentimental, letting the melody quaver as he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. He finished with a flourish and bowed.
The couple clapped.
“Pay,” the man said, banging the tin cup down in front of them.
The young man dropped a coin into the cup and turned towards the woman.
“Wait,” the man said, “I have something for you.”
He fumbled in his coat pocket and produced a pair of plastic horns that he slipped on his head. He pushed a small button on the side of the clips – the horns flashed phosphorescent green.
“Buy,” he said.
“Why should I buy these horns?” the young man asked with an awkward smile.
“They give you power.”
“I think it would be fun,” the young woman said.
“All right, but I want another color. A devil wears red horns.”
“You're not ready,” the accordion player said. “Buy these.”
“How much are they?”
“How much do you want to pay?”
The young man took a crumpled bill from his wallet and shoved it in the cup.
“Watch this,” the man said as he turned towards the people and started to play a jig. At first no one paid any attention, then, one after the other, the people stopped eating and drinking. The man rhythmically stomped his right foot. A fat man stood up and reeled. The accordion player increased the pace, pumping his instrument like a pair of bellows.
“Dance!” he shouted.
Two more people stood up and joined the fat man who kicked up his heels.
“Dance…dance…”
A businessman got up, loosened his tie, and swung a woman out onto the floor.
“Move to and fro,” the accordion player commanded. “Now you play.” He handed the instrument to the young man.
“I can't.”
“Play,” he said and slipped the horns on the young man's head.
“How?”
“Place your fingers here and…play!”
As soon as the young man pressed the keys and buttons, the accordion bleated a melody.
The kitchen doors swung open and the waitress came out, balancing a tray of glasses. When she saw the people swaying back and forth, she halted.
“Dance…” the young man said to her.
Her legs wobbled.
“Dance…dance!” He raised his voice as he played a strident waltz.
She swirled faster and faster till one after the other the glasses flew off the tray and smashed against the wall, spilling wine and beer over the people. The accordion player grabbed the waitress and waltzed her about the room.
“I've had enough,” the young woman said. “Let's leave.” She yanked the horns off her friend's head.
He dropped the accordion and took her by the hand. They pushed their way through the dancing crowd till they reached the door and stumbled into the night. The cobblestones in the sidewalk gleamed in the moonlight. They passed an ancient cathedral where two gargoyles crouched in the spires. Before turning the corner, they looked back at the inn where shadows bobbed and twisted in the light of the window.
The door of the inn shot open and the accordion player stepped out. He stared at the couple for a moment, removed his instrument and sat down on the curb. He reached in his coat pocket, pulled out a pair of horns and slipped them on his head - they flashed red.
“Buy,” he called, “buy red horns!”
As the couple hurried down the street, one of the gargoyles dislodged itself from the spire and leapt into the air like a cat. It flew across the moon and landed ever so gracefully at the accordion player's feet.
