Begging For Nothing

     The man sat in the same position as he had the day before, and the day before that.  There was no change to posture and the sombre look he wore on his face reflected the same thoughtful pose.  There was also no begging cup which struck me as vaguely interesting.

     The next day my curiosity got the better of me so I left the fruit market as quickly as I could and made my way to the side street where I knew he would be.

     He sat as he had the day before, and like the day before, he stared at the same spot on the dusty, chipped wall of the small coffee shop.

     There were three small holes that were not part of the natural wear and tear of the building and it was these that his stare seemed to be permanently fixated on.

     I lit a cigarette and watched him.  He remained silent and still blinking only when his eyes desperately needed to.

     The day was hot and sticky and it showed through his grubby clothes.  Even from the natural shade of where he sat, damp patches still appeared like mould on a rotting wall.

     I crossed the street and stood by his side.

     ‘Cigarillo?’

     He said nothing.

     ‘Naranja?’ I asked as I opened up my bag of oranges in front of him.

     There was no reply.

     ‘Tienen sed?’

     Beads of sweat were forming where his grimy hat met his furrowed brow.

     Still there was only silence.

     I crossed back across the street and entered the coffee shop.  You could tell that it used to be a bright and cheerful place, but years of what looked like unsteady custom and of course whatever troubles the area had seen had reduced it to a dull and lifeless shell.

     ‘Dos botellas de agua por favour.’

     The waiter looked up and it took a moment for him to recognise that he was being called into action.

     ‘Sí, por supuesto, señor,’ he replied as he clumsily placed the two bottles of water on the counter, ‘habrá algo más?’

     I asked who the man was sitting across the street.  Instantly there was a wave of sadness that clouded over the waiters face.  It was a look that said this story had not been told for some time and to tell it would require a great deal of effort and composure.

     I knew he did not have it in him and appreciated him switching to broken English to appease me.

     ‘He was owner…he was neighbour…he was friend.  His woman…his…his wife killed…he sit now…all day…I look after here…he is broken…he is…’

     His train of thought was interrupted as a customer brushed gently through the beads that covered the door.  There was nothing more to learn anyway.

     I stood outside and once again felt the searing heat bear down on my skin.  Knowing that I couldn’t stand to be outside for much longer, I went down on one knee and positioned my camera in a way that wasn’t intrusive.

     When I stood up I knew that I had taken one of the saddest photos of my career.

     As I walked past, I left a bottle of water by his side.  There was still nothing of note to see; just a pock marked wall and a faded pink streak.

Tomas Bird - A Meadow Like Path 2018