A story from Spain, Marko

There was complete silence when Marko awoke. It was even too early for the birds.
 He looked across at his wife's sleeping form on the sofa. He gently moved near enough to be able to breathe in her scent and feel the warmth of her breath on his arm.
 His heart felt heavy as he remembered the  row they had had the night before. It was about money. They had never disagreed about money before. They had the same values, considering it as a means to survive but never something to live for.

Yesterday afternoon his lovely Sofia had returned to the camp bearing an attractive bag from one of the fancy shops in the nearby small Spanish town.
 She had proudly pulled out a small garment, soft and pink and held it to her cheek. It was for their baby Jazmin, named after the lovely flowers that bloomed in pots around their home. The panic on his face had alarmed and then offended her.

'I bought it. I wanted Jazmin to look like the other babies at the clinic. I wanted her to be like them.' A tear had formed and he had brushed it away with a tender gesture.

They both knew what an effort it would have been for her to go into a shop.
  Sofia quietly described how she had counted out the money, all small coins and the other customers had recoiled from her. She had ignored their hostile stares and carried on counting, thinking only of how beautiful Sofia would look in the exquisite outfit. The young girl that had served her had looked at her kindly and wrapped her purchase in pretty paper with a ribbon.

Then later in the evening when Jazmin was asleep for the night Marko had told her she had been putting herself in danger and not to do something like that again.  Sofia had flared up at him in a most uncharacteristic way and told him that the money was hers to do what she liked with. Marko hadn't meant that and not used to arguing had shouted at her. Jazmin had woken up and cried and  Sofia had picked her up and turned her back on her husband.

Marko crept to the door and knocked over a photograph.  It was of his grandfather, taken a month before he passed away last year.
  Sofia had told him once of a people that were afraid that a photograph could steal your soul. Looking into his grandfather's eyes he thought it could be so as he gazed into their depth and felt the old man's love for him warm his heart.

  Marko  stood outside and breathed in the sweet, early morning air scented with blossom and the promise of Spring.
 His grandfather Alfonso would have been horrified to think of Marko arguing about money. He had told Marko that he was the luckiest man alive to have Sofia.
 Alfonso had been a great storyteller and many of his stories warned of the dangers of money. Marko and his brothers, sisters and cousins  would sit round the camp fire watching the flames rise up and the sparks join  the stars in the vast sky.

Their grandfather's voice held the wisdom of centuries. One of his favourite stories had been about a king who was granted a wish that everything he touched would turn to gold.  Eagerly the king had rushed round touching the trees, the flowers, the grass. But then he touched the bread on his plate and that turned to gold, and the water in his cup.  Grandfather Alfonso's voice would trail off at this point as he watched for the reaction of his listeners.  Marko's elder brother Javier had stared at his hands once during this story and then at his grandfather.
 They all knew then, Javier had healing hands, he had the power that appeared over time to certain people and this was Javier's turn. 
Many people from all walks of life, from footballers with turned ankles and knees to politicians with severe back pain came to be healed by Javier.

Marko went to fetch his accordion. He needed to play his music, to put the harmony back within him. He played both the violin and the accordion, his father had taught him. He knew he had won Sofia's heart with his music. He was at one with his music. He touched his accordion and his violin as he would a woman, bringing ecstasy and joy.

Marko decided to go to the small square on the east side of the town. There were many restaurants and cafes there and the owners were kind to him, offering him coffee and pastries at the end of their shifts. The money he made there seemed special to him, it was given in appreciation of his music and the feelings it had brought to the listeners.
Maybe when he came back the row would have been forgotten and Sofia would be smiling at him again.

As he walked through the town. still sleepy and quiet he thought again about money. One of the last stories that his grandfather had told was about two old men that had recently died.  All their lives they had competed with each other, united by a fierce rivalry over who could make the most money. they hoarded it in mattresses, behind cupboards, under floor boards, behind wall paper, inside cases. When their relatives went to search for all this treasure they found useless pieces of paper. That's all it was after all those years, pesetas, drachmas, lire, all worthless pieces of paper. His grandfather had sighed, his voice weak, as he reminded them that it's what you do with money that matters.

Marko's eyes filled with tears and his heart swelled with love as he thought of his Sofia buying the baby garment for Jazmin. That was an act of love. Jazmin would go to the clinic to be weighed and checked as fine as any other baby. Then she could wear it to the festival they were going to.  He couldn't wait now to ask  forgiveness for not having understood.

Marko walked around the square  going past the expensive restaurant ‘El Espejo’. The people dining there never had coins for him ,they only had plastic money, they pretended not to notice him or looked at him as though he was an annoying fly.

He went towards his favourite café ‘La Chata’ which was already humming with life. The waiter Alejandro smiled at him and nodded giving him permission to play his accordion.

There was a family at a table in the front and he bowed low towards the little baby clapping her little hands at him.

 Marko stood tall caressing his accordion with the same tenderness he gave to little Jazmin.  He played a few notes and was rewarded by the appreciative glances cast his way.

He was aware of people stopping in their walk across the square and clapping with the beat. His music flowed on reaching a crescendo and then fading away.

He closed his eyes and in his imagination he saw an audience giving him a standing ovation. His heart swelled with emotion at having given so much pleasure with his music. Flowers were thrown at his feet and the stage was covered with petals.

He looked up and took the money from  the smiling young blonde woman holding the baby.  She looked him in the eyes and said  ‘Gracias.’

These were the moments  that made him feel alive, that he mattered. He had made a difference to their lives by bringing joy with his music.

He carried on round the edge of  ‘La Chata’  admiring the gnarled trunks of the majestic plane trees.

His music always changed him as it flowed through him. He felt at one with his accordion. His fingers became part of his instrument. Just like his father and his grandfather before him. Music flowed through them, linking them together like a chain.

Tonight they would all be leaving for St. Marie de la Mer in the Camargue. He loved that festival. Every year they went.

Sofia was preparing to dance with her sisters and daughters. For them the dancing was like the music was to him. As the women danced they travelled from India to Persia to Egypt to Turkey following movements that their ancestors had brought with them on their journey west, as though they had danced their way here. Music, money, dancing, love, these themes played around in his head.

The swish of the colourful skirts of Sofia and her sisters,  as they moved in time to his music, always took him back to his childhood, his mother smiling at his father as he played her favourite  melodies.

 His first memory of their annual visit to St Sara was of heat and a little fear.  As he descended to the vault where St Sara was displayed he was overcome by the heat from the hundreds of candles. He didn't like going underground, he needed to feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his face.

Each year though he had enjoyed going there more and more, and now looked forward to it. The tourists would clap and cheer as the gypsy women broke into impromptu dance routines and the men let their music follow them, moving together. Then they would all go and sit at the little cafés and order plates of pommes frites and moules. They would form big, happy groups and the children would sit and join in with the banter.

There in St Marie de le Mer, he felt they must all look just like the clients of ‘La Chata’.

 He put the young woman's generous tip in his pocket. He would buy Sofia  a new bracelet to wear at the Festa.