2021-03-20 - Fiddlers in the Sun

Lake Union Park, Seattle. Bright and green on a spring day. It nestles between marinas and cruise boats, admitting tourists to the Museum of History and Industry -- which is all very nice. What's really a big deal right now is that Gray Harbor is currently covered in pea soup fog so thick that Sherlock Holmes would feel homesick, and Seattle is not. Convincing Itzhak Rosencrantz to offer him a ride to Seattle in that sexy little vintage car of his was not Ravn Abildgaard's greatest achievement; 'let's get out of this fog, just for a few hours' is such a convincing argument.

The meeting at the office of lawyers Wilson, Goldblum & Cruz didn't take long. A few signatures, a brief update on a couple of bank transfers -- all very by the book, all quite dull, and all fortunately concluded in about twenty minutes. Ms Simionescu is a competent paralegal, there aren't any legal complications so far, and amazingly, not a single inquiry made by US authorities. Not that there should be -- everything is quite legal and in order -- but Ravn at least trusts the Veil to eventually try something. Because of course it will; the HOPE community centre is a clear and open challenge to at least the part of the Veil that is ruled by the Dark Men, the dolorphages.

But whatever something will be, it hasn't happened yet, and it's not happening in Seattle. Time to enjoy a couple of hours of real spring sunshine rather than fog, take a walk along the piers, decide to not spend the day at the museum lest poor Rosencrantz pass out and become part of a diorama, and watch the buskers. Maybe more than watch the buskers -- neither man has brought it up as such but they both brought their violins. It could be a thing.

Riding in that slinky Stingray, windows down, music loud, up the 5 to Seattle through landscape bursting with bright green exploding among the cedars--this is what is good in life. Itzhak doesn't spare the horses. Mirrored aviators on, lead foot on the gas, he makes Ravn play DJ and sings along to every song. By the time they're much more sedately taking the offramp into the city and pulling up to the big skyscraper, Itzhak looks like ten years have been carved off him.

He gets an undisguised kick out of loitering around the lawyer office, looking like he's someone in need of some serious lawyering, but probably while he's in handcuffs. Clingy black tank top to show off his ink, tight raw denim jeans just beginning to show fading in the deep indigo-black dye, his usual steeltoe boots, and that close-cropped hair struggling to get long enough to curl, Itzhak looks like....actually, he looks worryingly close to a lot of Seattle hipsters. Almost blends in, in a crowd of knuckle ink and full-arm tattoos and stubble.

Except there's no way to mistake him for one of them, once you get a second look. Hipsters don't walk with that prison-yard swagger. They don't stand like they know they're the most problematic guy in the room.

However Itzhak, it turns out, actually likes museums, at least the ones about space flight and fossils and baller shit like that. Art appreciation, he's got a ways to go ("All them naked girls look the same, what's the point?"). He likes strolling on the pier and he likes judging buskers. He's doing just that while eating a plate piled high with sauerkraut and sausage and stewed apples from the German street food truck.

"Thank Christ I'm out here right now," he says between mouthfuls, hip leaning against the pier railing. Then his mirrored shades track a girl going by, her legs almost entirely bare and her curves jiggling.

Ravn's settled for a Currywurst, Frankfurter style with mashed potatoes and sauerkraut because apparently the German street food truck has actual German cuisine and it's almost nostalgic. Could he lecture on the points of art history? He probably could, one doesn't manage to get a degree in the humanities without having to sit through a number of classes on the subject, but he decides not to. Besides, if push comes to shove, those girls outside are more interesting on a day like this -- in part because they are outside, the sun is shining, and sometimes it is good to be reminded that life is good.

He's not wearing shades and he can't get away with the same direct look that the New Yorker can. But the glimpse of a whole lot of leg he does catch, and the look on Itzhak's face, does prompt a lopsided smile. "I believe that they do in fact go all the way up," he murmurs softly enough for the girl to not hear; this, apparently, is what passes for cat calling in the Ravn Abildgaard universe.

A deep sigh of contentment. "Christ, I needed this too. Good to get away from that fog, be reminded that the day star still exists, let your guard down a little. I feel like I've done nothing for a week than clean and give speeches. I'm probably going to have to get used to giving speeches -- I think I managed to get myself designated official speech giving guy of the HOPE centre. Lucky me." He grins; apparently it is not the end of the world, even if lecturing or giving a sales pitch is not Ravn's idea of happyfuntimes. "It does seem to be working."

A speculative look goes towards a couple of artistically ragged looking fellows with man buns, lumberjack shirts and instruments. "Say, think we could beat those guys at their own game?"

Itzhak's aviator sunglasses don't do a hell of a lot to seem like a direct look isn't happening; the way he turns his head like his huge nose is hooked up to thigh-sensitive radar says quite enough, even without his eyebrows tipping up and the crooked little half-grin. "That's what I hear," he answers Ravn, also quiet but so very appreciative. Quiet because, nah, girls don't need some big rough guy hassling them. But still he looks, because looking's free.

And he's kind of got that gift for it, doesn't he? For getting away with so many things that other men would be dubbed creeps over. Itzhak Rosencrantz, pansexual gift to all genders.

He made Ravn promise they weren't going to talk about depressing Gray Harbor shit at least while the sun's shining, so he makes a wordless sound of total agreement around a mouthful of sausage and sauerkraut. "Mm," swallow, "Naishka--" this is the nickname he's given Ignacio, "gives the best inspirational talk you ever fuckin' heard, outside of Coach Kelly. I know he'd rather be doin' that but," shrug. He doesn't need to go into Ignacio's litany of health problems. The mirrored glasses dip as Itzhak considers the buskers. They're playing 'Wagon Wheel', a hipster busker classic. "Sure fuckin' could," he says, "the fiddler's faking it. Now that's chutzpah, faking it while the guy on guitar's playing for real. I'm impressed."

"Well, of course he does, he got me hooked on the idea," Ravn returns with a small grin; there's a reason de Santos is the official spokesperson for the HOPE centre, rather than the Dane who'd probably rather volunteer to give the entire building a triple paint job with his own toothbrush than get on a speaker's podium.

His gaze settles on the buskers and he smirks. "At least the guitar player can play? It's a neat scam -- violinist looks hot and draws all the attention. Half the audience can probably hack through Smoke On the Water on a guitar so they'd recognise playback, but odds of any of them knowing how to fiddle?"

Beat.

Speculative look.

"You know, you could show them," Ravn then adds, with perfect innocence, while polishing off his currywurst. "More's the merrier, right?"

Itzhak sniffs, scoops in the last bite of stewed apples. "Whaddaya got in mind?" Is he really the kind of guy to publicly embarrass some dumbass busker trying to earn a few bucks by pretending to play the fiddle?

You bet he is.

A look towards the Stingray. And the violin cases that the men brought, without either of them really putting to words why they brought them. Why does a girl wear a low cut shirt and put on her best lipstick when she goes to 'just have a beer' with that guy she kind of likes but is too shy to approach? Why does a little boy hang around the pet shop to look at the puppies while hoping that maybe the owner will like, need somebody to hold a puppy while he cleans the pen? Be prepared, boy scout.

"I mean, I might skip on the part where I, as the official other half of the ensemble, wander around emptying out pockets," he says with an air of nonchalance. "It'd be a little inconvenient to end up arrested. Go on, man. Show him who's boss. And show those long-legged Seattle girls who's boss too, while you're at it."

Itzhak needs no further convincing. He drops the plate in a trash can and jogs back to Heartbreaker. (Any wonder why he named his car that?) He brings his violin everywhere, really. He takes it back and forth between home and work. If he's out of town, he takes it. Even a day trip to Seattle, he takes it. Sometimes when he's really stressed out he takes it around town with him. Like the way some kids refuse to leave their favorite stuffed animal at home, honestly.

Rimon is in the cherry-red impact case, when he gets her out. Returned to Ravn, Itzhak opens the case, breaking into a smile when he sees his new violin, the stunner Hya built for him. "Hi, baby," he coos to the instrument as he lifts her out of the case as tenderly as if she was a living thing. "You ready to rock'n'roll?" He sets the violin under his chin and begins tuning. Ordinarily this might be the point Ravn plays hype man, while Itzhak makes a pretty picture absorbed in his tuning, but he doesn't ask it of him.

An old Cherokee legend (invented by a Rinso-white self-help book author in the 1980s) says that inside every man, there are two wolves fighting. Ravn's wolves are called Look I Really Am Not a Recluse and I Am Invisible Thank You Very Much, and the one he's feeding -- is both. It's no wonder that neither ever seems to really win the battle, because his urge to step up and stop disassociating from the entire world is young and strong, but his need to stay uninvolved, unseen, and untouchable has thirty years of experience.

It's the look in Itzhak's eyes as he brings Rimon to his chin that makes the decision for him. Because it's not about him. It's about Rimon and her lover. He runs a slender hand through his hair and tugs a bit at his forelock, a gesture which somehow gives him a tussled puppy appearance. Then he straightens up a little and sticks his thumbs in his jeans pockets and -- flicks a mental switch.

The man who walks up to those buskers and their audience is not Ravn Abildgaard. At least it's not the somewhat reclusive and quiet Folklorist Ravn who lives in Gray Harbor and tends to pass under the radar as most people in his capacity of quiet nerdboy who only really gets passionate about story crafting and narratives. It's a subtle change, a way of carrying himself, an aura of confidence that's almost sexually aggressive in nature. Grifter Ravn is a performer, even if he'd never admit to it.

He slides up to the people gathered to watch and manages to position himself just so -- a tall, striking figure in all black, with cheekbones you could grate cheese on and eyes like blue steel. The look he sends the fiddler is appraising at first, and then, making certain that at least the eyes of anyone that appreciates a good art installation -- read: ogling him -- are watching, slide into unimpressed.

This is how the story is supposed to go: The current piece comes to an end. The audience cheers, but the tall stranger scoffs and comments that he's heard better. The guy on the fiddle doesn't want to lose his inertia and his hold on the audience. He challenges Ravn to do better (which is a safe thing to do given that Ravn carries no instrument). Ravn smirks and whistles for his friend who does. Everyone watches, the con artist using playback slinks off in shame while Itzhak Rosencrantz gives people an experience to remember.

This is how the story actually goes: An enterprising young lady aged sixteen or so decides that if somebody is going to stand like that and look like that, and block her damn view, she's going to pinch his ass.

Neuropathy is not Ravn's friend, and the yelp he gives is hilarious, let's just be honest about it.

Itzhak isn't so engrossed in tuning that he doesn't look up sharp at that yelp. Not only does he look up, not only does he not laugh, he tucks Rimon under his arm, automatically putting her in the rest position, and calls out. "'ey! My buddy, he's real good lookin', I know, but keep ya hands off him." Well now he's blown the whole performance Ravn had in mind, but, well, it's him. Does he care about the setup when Ravn yelps like that? No he doesn't.

The lumberjack flannel buskers have wrapped up 'Wagon Wheel' and the two of them are now watching him, since he's drawn the attention. The fiddler of the duo is the more unhappy, of course. "You can't busk here without a license," he tries to inform Itzhak.

"Great. I ain't buskin'." Itzhak continues with his tuning.

"Sweetheart, you know what the girls say -- you can look but you gotta pay before you touch." Ravn winks at the girl in a way that very much suggests that if she was, say, about ten years older, he might have been interested. Disappoint her? Eh, she'll live. By extension, flatter the three slightly older women standing next to her? Oh hell yes.

"Sorry, old man," the teenager returns, unabashed, her view restored. Nothing wrong with a bit of cheekiness and getting away with it, particularly not when one is that awkward age where one definitely can appreciate the looks of a grown man but isn't actually quite sure what to do with one. No one more confused than a dog who chases cars and actually manages to catch one.

Ravn flashes the fiddler a brilliant smile and tries to pick up the shards of his shattered act. "You boys up for a wager? Battle of the bands, Seattle style -- and the audience gets to decide the winner."

Itzhak hardly recognizes Ravn at the moment; he keeps needing to tell himself that Abildgaard isn't possessed by some hungry thing from beyond. He keeps shooting him glances while finishing up tuning, as if continuing to reassure himself that this is just that thing Ravn can do that he's never actually showed him. Another mask, another flipped switch.

The other fiddler knows what's going on, demonstrated by the fact that he's turned the color of whey. "That's ILLEGAL. You can't do that, we have very strict regulations here, maybe wherever you're from you can just walk up and mess with hard working artists but we don't do that here!"

But his buddy ain't so bright in the ways of the con, though he's plenty bright enough to realize they can earn some cash off the back of whatever this crazy stranger is proposing. "C'mon, it'll be fun." He strums his steel string guitar. He's quite decent, really. "Just one song?"

Itzhak, smiling a smile that belongs on something reptilian and venomous, turns one hand over in a graceful little flourish. "Just one."

"I'm from Denmark. Home of the free," Ravn grins back at the fiddler, using that very deliberate intonation of just one word that will trigger every American of the 'land of liberty, home of the free, no one tells me what to do' demographic -- because nothing annoys that demographic like those feel-good articles about the happiest countries of the world and how the US is not one of them.

It's not that Ravn particularly agrees with those articles. If you were to ask him about it, he's got as many issues with his native government as any American has with theirs. It's just that there are ways to goad people into making bad choices, and he's certainly enough of a cold reader to have this guy pegged as too proud for his own good. The ones who scream the loudest about laws and regulations are usually the ones who can't stand the idea of not winning (and the first to dismiss laws and regulations they don't like).

He spreads his arms a little, somehow managing to expand his aura to draw more attention. "Come on, folks, let's form a circle and get ready to rumble! It's a beautiful spring day and your grandkids will be telling you about the day New York and Seattle clashed in Lake Union Park. I'd sell you t-shirts to commemorate the day but I've only got the one I'm wearing and I don't want to give anyone a nosebleed."

Stupid Denmarkians with their stupid free health care. Now that guy is desperate to see Ravn get shown up, and unfortunately for him, he is not a good enough musician to understand exactly what Itzhak is. He's got a lot of faith in his faking. It's been working so far, after all.

"We go first," he announces, staring at Ravn with all the challenge in his fiddle-faking, lumberjack-shirt-and-man-bun-wearing, regulations-citing soul. He's definitely the front man here, in control. He's gorgeous, for one thing, and he's the one with the violin he can't play but he sure looks great not playing it.

"Fine by me," Itzhak says. Rimon is tucked neatly under his arm.

The fiddler shoots him a look like didn't ask you, fuckface. Then he turns to confer with the guitarist, while a bigger and bigger crowd begins to form, drawn by the natural magnetism of crowds. Whatever's going on here must be good!

The song the two buskers pick is 'Sweet Home Alabama', a beloved American classic about how racism is cool. Sure got a good sound to it, though! The guitarist purrs, "Turn it up!" and hits those opening chords, earning a little cheer from the audience. The fiddler, jaw clenched, goes into miming the violin track. Itzhak watches him the way his pet lizard Iris watches a wiggly worm. Oh he's so very interested.

Ravn is a hundred and fifteen percent with the narrative here, and this guy is easy to play like -- well, like a fiddle. He leans in a little; he hesitates; he seems to need a moment to decide whether he and Itzhak really can back up their challenge. He lets the crowd grow curious too. He lets parts of the crow sow the seeds for private fantasies about gorgeous blond lumberjacks and handsome copper blond Danes. He lets the blonde keep the illusion that Ravn is somehow the guy in charge of the other team, when Itzhak is clearly the one with the actual instrument.

It's how show business works, after all. They're not selling music here, they are selling stories -- and maybe that's why the Dane has a natural affinity for reading a room; it's all about how to present to an audience.

The fiddler's clenched jaw tells a story of its own, one that steel grey eyes do not miss. Most of the crowd are not musicians; they likely can't tell the opening chords of Sweet Home Alabama from those of Wayward Son (not counting you, Janet, or you, Sally, you can go back to your Wincest fan fiction now). Winning the audience here is not only a matter of musical skill (a resource of which Itzhak has plenty and the other man evidently has none).

So he raises an arm to lean casually on Itzhak's shoulder as if he was a fence post. Smiling, watching, all in good fun here, kids. And if any of the ladies -- and others with an affinity for aesthetically pleasing males -- find their sympathies swayed slightly by the clear and obvious resonance between the New Yorker and the Dane, -- well, it's all points for Team Out of Town Challengers. The show must go on.

Itzhak blinks when Ravn leans on his shoulder. He turns a slow look on him, mouth turned down funny because he's trying not to laugh. "Normally a guy's this close to me I put my arm around him," he mutters to him under the music.

The guitar player is pretty good, but it's the fiddler who really makes the money. While the guitarist puts in solid work and sings, the fiddler goes all swaying, brow furrowed, lips a little parted. He looks like the picture of passion for a beautiful instrument, making love to his fiddle. He looks like he should be in a movie about a street violinist who rose up against all odds. That's his magic, and in fact, he's well aware of it.

Itzhak is grudgingly impressed. "I don't look like that," he whispers to Ravn.

In Birmingham they love the Governor - boo, boo, boo
Now we all did what we could do
Now Watergate does not bother me
Does your conscience bother you? Tell the truth!

Sweet home Alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet home Alabama
Lord, I'm coming home to you, here I come! Alabama!

The guitar player's a solid singer too. When they wrap up, there's plenty of cheers and people sneaking forward to toss bills into the open violin case.

"I busked with a Czech guy who kissed me once," Ravn murmurs back. He's in character; he probably rolled with it too, because performance is everything, and more importantly, performance is a mask. He watches, appreciating the showmanship. "You do, though," the Dane whispers very quietly. "Look at them -- those three ladies over there in particular. He's selling them on exactly the same thing. The fantasy of what could happen after."

It's a beautiful spring day in a lovely park, with the fresh, crisp air of the ocean and the backdrop of the surf licking the piers. There are two gorgeous young men putting on a great performance of a song that is easily recognised, easily swayed to or hummed along with. Are the lyrics a little problematic? Yes, one might easily make that argument. Does anyone care? No, because this is a crowd that hears a familiar tune, never actually paid attention to the words, drifting along pleasantly, nostalgic for an older, better America that never existed outside of Hollywood fantasies (and which, even inside of those fantasies, was never great for everybody).

He's a good sport. He even tosses a bill of his own into the hat.

Then Ravn straightens and takes a few steps forward, applauding. "Jolly good show," he calls, sounding even more British than usual because an American audience loves a sexy accent, and television has taught Americans that British accents are the embodiment of cultured and sexy in one (go talk to Tom Ellis about it, only he might remind you that actually, he's Welsh).

"Let's hear it for Seattle," he calls out in the easy going manner of someone to whom all of this is just one big game and everyone's invited. "Damned fine performers you raise around here! Come on, East Coast, think you can do better?"

He knows that East Coast can. He also knows that East Coast will have a few comments for him later about masks and projections and probably quite a few ribbings and jokes in times to come -- and it's worth it. This is what he used to do -- and he loved doing it. If there is a price to pay for staying in Gray Harbor as a permanent resident it's that he had to put his masks and personas on a shelf because yes, staying in one place means accountability. There's a certain something to getting to be an irresponsible prat for at least a few hours.

"Don't tempt me." Itzhak quiets, eyes (behind the mirrored shades) going to the young women Ravn indicates. His silence is thoughtful, very much so, lots going on behind those sunglasses.

When the buskers finish up, wrapping with the traditional whoops, he applauds them too, and he (mostly) means it. Showmanship; he damn well knows it when he sees it. But he kept looking at the fiddler, and he got more annoyed every time he watched him fake a run of notes. The guitar player really is good, though, so there's that.

And when Ravn calls him to bat, he pretends to demur, shaking his head ruefully. "I dunno, I dunno, man. They're good. They're real good."

And there he is, that poor copper blond guy, put on the spot by his so-called pal -- trying to bail just when the crowd is primed and the stage is his. Ravn puts on a flustered expression and gestures to the man-bun fiddler while sending his friend a look of exasperation. "Don't let me down like this, man. Everybody here just wants some good, clean fun, am I right?"

Cue murmured nods and agreements from the audience; who doesn't like a good show?

"What do you say, ladies?" Ravn quickly seizes up the three women watching from over there and decides that out of them, at least two would definitely be up for some random ridiculousness on a hot spring day. "Let's up the ante a little, make it exciting for my friend -- he's a little shy but who can resist a bright smile and a pair of sparkling eyes on a day like this? You, miss, will you grant a kiss to the winner of our little show-down? Like a maiden queen from -- " he wants to say Morte d'Arthur but quickly adjusts for his appraisal of his target audience here " -- Game of Thrones, rewarding her flower knight?"

The most energetic of the women -- a generously shaped little strawberry blonde -- takes half a step forward and openly ogles the whole cast of the little show; the man-bun fiddler, the guitarist, Ravn himself, and of course, the mystery violinist who has yet to perform. "Do I get to pick which one I like best?"

And thus, it is settled, much to the amusement of the ever-increasing crowd. Ravn grins at Itzhak. "You better get on with it, my man -- we can't let the ladies leave disappointed."

Itzhak promptly blushes as he's ogled, proving Ravn's statement that he's shy. "Ahh, jeez, embarrass me why don't ya!" He's not even kidding about that. "Awww, cripes. Okay. Okay, to this," and he smiles just a little at the zaftig blonde, lopsided, "how can I say no?"

He takes his sunglasses off, setting them by his violin case; he wants everyone to see his eyes. Unlatching his bow from the case, he tightens it with swift little twists to just the tension he likes. Then comes the rosin, which he applies unhurriedly, rubbing the white hairs with it to make them catch on the strings.

Any thought of the act he's putting on has fallen away, leaving nothing but the music welling up, the song, the Song wanting to come out of his voice and his strings. He knows what he's going to play and how he's going to play it and the feeling rises up in him like lust, like hunger, trembling with need.

Rimon. He takes her up, flipping her to his shoulder and settling his chin on her like he's done a hundred thousand times over the years. With his old lover, though, not this new one, more beautiful than the last but not as beautiful because he hadn't had her so long yet. Not yet. It'll come.

He'd never named his last (his first) violin. She was just his, well known and well loved.

He's keeping the crowd waiting, and he doesn't care. They're his crowd now and he won't let them go until he's damned good and ready. The spring sunlight on his neck, the sigh of the ocean beneath his boots, he breathes in. Breathes out--and brings his bow down across the strings.

Sweet, melodic and moody, he plays. Itzhak scrapes the bowhair up and down the strings in rhythm--sshhk shhk, sshhk shhk--in lieu of a percussionist, just like the old time fiddlers did it, and he lifts his voice to sing. And the first word he sings, shaping it, offering it?

Love
Is a tanglewood tree, in a bower of green
In a forest at dawn
Fair while the mockingbird sings, but she soon lifts her wings
And the music is gone.

He drops the rhythmic scraping and opens up with strings and voice.

Young lovers in the tall grass with their hearts open wide, surging into it,
When the red summer poppies bloom
But love is a trackless domain
And the rumor of rain in the late afternoon... and he's backing down again to a bittersweet hush.

Love
Is an old root that creeps through the meadows of sleep
When the long shadows cast
Thin as a vagrant young vine, it encircles and twines
And it holds the heart fast.

Escalating again, he makes Rimon sing, and he sings with her:

Catches dreamers in the wildwood with the stars in their eyes
And the moon in their tousled hair
But love is a light in the sky, and an unspoken lie
And a half-whispered prayer.

And then he gets to do what he likes best, swinging into a solo. No flash here, no weird harmonics or left-handed pizzicato, no lightning-quick runs. Only Rimon's voice, wild, sweet as summer blackberries growing in a bramble of thorn.

You don't need to be an actual violinist to appreciate the difference here. Oh, Mr Man Bun is a show to watch (and his guitarist is more than that, he is actually good). The entertainment factor of Mr Man Bun is higher at first glance -- the moves, the swagger, the posture. But that's all he has to offer, and he's neither the first nor the last busker to cut a striking figure next to his hat on the ground. Admire his backside as he sways? Trust half the audience to be doing it. Tapping their feet to the music? Absolutely. Walking on and forgetting about it? Ayup.

And then there's the other guy. The one who doesn't pose. The one who lets skill speak for him.

The emotional punch, the groin kick of skill to a play-back amateur performance, is perceived even by the most tone deaf of audience members. Even that little kid there, clutching his frankfurter in a greasy little mitt, can tell. Performance gets you far -- but there is so much more to what 'East Coast' is doing than simply putting on a show. There is a passion in his music that no recording could ever match; a treble, a pitch, a feel for the crowd, the wind, and the mood. Here and now. This is what live means -- not merely being able to recite or perform a learned piece, but to make it happen to people.

The guitarist might have stood a chance. Mr Play Back Man Bun? Forget it.

Man Bun puts on an act. Ravn puts on an act.

Itzhak doesn't put on an act. He's not playing to the audience, not now. All he's doing now is unzipping his own chest with his bowstrokes and lifting out his living heart. Because he knows he doesn't need to play to them. He knows what he's doing cannot be looked away from, or denied, or mocked. Some people might do any or all of those things (people like Mr. Man Bun), but doing them only shows how small such things are, and how powerless those who do them.

I'm walkin' down a bone-dry river but the cool mirage runs true
I'm bankin' on the fables of the far, far better things we do
I'm livin' for the day of reck'nin counting down the hours
I yearn away, I burn away, I turn away the fairest flower of love, 'cause darlin'...

Itzhak's voice thickens on the 'darling'. He swings around to revisit the solo, giving himself time. He can't sing if he's about to cry. Don't cry, not now, not in the middle of this, focus instead on the string crossings and the pressure of your bow, just like that, just so, make it perfect. It works--Itzhak has practice not crying in the middle of songs. It's too easy for him sometimes, for the music and the raw emotion to close his throat and yank tears from his eyes.

He swallows, breaths in, and sings.

Love is a garden of thorns, and a crow in the corn
And the brake growing wild
Cold when the summer is spent in the jade heart's lament
For the faith of a child

My body has a number and my face has a name
And each day looks the same to me
But love is a voice on the wind, and the wages of sin...

His voice wavers again. No. No, dammit, he's going to lose it. Well, hell with it, it's the end of the song. Itzhak closes his eyes, lets the saltwater welling in them spill over, spike his lashes, track down his unshaven cheeks. Tenderly, he lets the last phrase go, releases it from his throat into the world to stay there forever.

And a tanglewood tree.

A competent performer might try to rouse more interest; lead the audience on, try to keep their focus on the performance. A good performer, however, knows when to shut up and let the act do its own talking. This is such a moment. Ravn watches, as enraptured as the rest of the audience. The proverbial spotlight is off him for a moment and he allows himself to let his focus drift ever so slightly -- from how do I play this crowd to holy shit, that man can play.

This is the difference between recital and performance. Could Ravn play that piece? Yes. Could he play it to perfection? Probably. He'd have to ask somebody else to sing, granted, because unlike Itzhak, the Dane has no singing voice. The one thing he knows he cannot do, however, is

lay yourself bare

open up like that. Tear off his performer's mask and let an audience experience the raw emotion, the pain and the hurt and the beauty inside. He has dedicated his entire life to keep people at a distance, to disassociating and distancing. Followed a philosophy that if no one gets too close, then no one can matter enough to hurt. Forever alone, no matter how crowded the room.

It was always the safe choice. Everything was always about the safe choice.

Ravn does not cry. He has not cried since he was still in diapers. He does not remember how. He just stands there, listening and watching, and thinking about how the last six months of his life have been so dramatically different from the preceding thirty years. How he is learning that emotion does not have to be the enemy. Watching emotion unfold in front of his eyes, watching Itzhak allowing strangers to see him, all of him, and yet be able to walk away, a better man for the experience.

I still have a lot to learn.

Itzhak lets the last note hang in the bright spring air. His chest is aching; always does when he gets so into a piece of music he can't help crying over it. He opens his eyes, blinking away the tears, and looks at the crowd gathered around him. Not at his 'rivals', who let's be honest, were never anything of the kind, but at the people who came with him on the journey he offered them. It started as a game but like always when he opens all the throttles, it turned into something else. Will the zaftig blonde girl even remember she's going to kiss someone? Does it matter?

He tucks his violin to his heart and bows the soloist's bow.

That poor blond girl. You think you're going to help a couple of cute boys crack a fun joke, get a selfie opportunity with a few hot buskers, and -- find yourself stared at by a crowd of somewhat floored audience still trying to catch its breath. Like ordering a hot dog and getting a twelve course French dinner. Like turning up the heat a notch and realising that the house is on fire.

It's too much for her. She mumbles something about the time and runs, her two friends in tow.

And just like that, the mood breaks. The audience disassembles into laughter and applause, and the occasional good-natured jibe to Man Bun and his guitarist. Good job, boys, but this? This is like pitting your fourth-grader with a tennis racket against Serena Williams. A number of people toss coins and bills in the hat -- not realising that it is in fact the other buskers' hat. Maybe it doesn't matter -- it was never Ravn and Itzhak's intention to elbow in on their gig, and they do miss that performing permit anyhow.

Ravn fist bumps Itzhak's shoulder lightly. "Blowing me away, again, man. That was -- really something."

Itzhak laughs loud, tossing his head back, joy bursting from him like the light he can craft with the Song. He sighs and makes a big 'you win some, you lose some' flourish with upturned hands and a shrug, but he's grinning. He sets Rimon in her case and then he's being required to shake hands with a lot of people, which he does with good humor. Even another girl demands a kiss and he grants it, thumb gently under the ridge of her chin to tip her face up to him. The whoops and laughter that gets!

The last person who steps up to shake his hand is the other fiddler. There's humiliated fury in his eyes, but he is too proud to be a sore loser. Also he's just made a lot of money off Itzhak's work.

"Best man wins," he says, offering Itzhak his hand.

Itzhak clasps his hand, looking him steadily in the eye--which he can do right now, he's running high, he can handle it for a moment. He leans over to him, to murmur in his ear. Intimate, taking a liberty with a man who might now be his sworn enemy, and the guy leans back, not sure what to make of it, not sure if he's going to get kissed by this pansexual lighthouse or what, but Itzhak leans in.

"Learn to play," he whispers to him, soft as a lover. "It'll do ya good."

The other man stiffens. Itzhak claps his shoulder and takes his leave, packing up Rimon and settling his sunglasses back on and jerking his head to Ravn, let's get outta heah. Always leave 'em wanting more.

The smile he grants Ravn, though, is brilliant. "Hey. Thanks. You're really something yourself, you know, with that stuff. I never seen you do that before."

Ravn falls into stride. Now is a good time to do that fade, exit stage right while the crowd is still excited -- and maybe find a cup of coffee at one of those stalls before the ride back home to Gray Harbor. He looks highly amused at the exchange -- between Itzhak and that girl who takes home a memory and a fragment of a romantic fantasy, and between Itzhak and the Seattle busker with the man bun. Will he remember this day as the one where his pride was ground to the dust by some stranger with a New York accent? Or was this the day he decided to take the step from fraud to discovering the pleasure that is creating music? We may never know.

"All I did was get people hyped up a little. Get them ready for you," the Dane murmurs with a small smile as he walks, hands in jacket pockets; the flamboyant grifter gone. "I mean -- it's what I used to do. Work a crowd, get them excited. It's not that difficult, they want to buy into the excitement."

Itzhak's practically glowing, the bastard. Walking along like he's ten feet tall and has a dick just as big, owning the shit out of everything. He's completely unaware of the trailing glances women give him as he goes along. Men, too. "Yeah, foreplay, right?" he says, teasing. "Get 'er wound up. Man! That was amazing. You didn't get a chance to play though! We gotta fix that."

"I'm not as good as that guy back there," Ravn says quite honestly. "He gives a better show faking it to playback than I would, actually playing. Might say I'm all about the foreplay and none of the putting out."

He walks like he's 6'3 -- which he is. Ravn Abildgaard does not own the world he walks in. He breezes through, transient and soon forgotten. He leaves no marks. When that blond girl tells her friends about today a week from now she will be talking about the guy with the man bun and about the New Yorker who trashed him; she will not remember the guy who suggested she play queen of flowers to them both.

Just the way Ravn wants. Man of masks, socially invisible.

Or maybe the way Ravn wanted. Everything is changing so fast. "I can play a reel or two if you like. But I am really not very good at it."

"Yannow what?" Itzhak whips around, walking backwards so he can point at Ravn with two fingers. This dismays and startles nearby pedestrians who need to weave around him. "Shut the fuck up. I don't wanna hear that drek. You're a good violinist and that's a fact, Jack. You got more hours than I do, you got way more classical training, okay so you never want nobody's eyes on you and I ain't gonna make you, but for fuck's sake," he claps the back of one hand into the palm of the other, a gesture that couldn't be more New York if it stepped onto 42nd Street to hail a cab, "stop it with the you're not good!"

"I'm not good at performing," Ravn murmurs, taking a few steps backwards before he manages to think about it -- and then taking them right forwards again because Itzhak is his friend and he is not going to be intimidated by his goddamn friend who isn't trying to goddamn intimidate him in the first place. "I can play. I suck at performing."

Says the man who just worked a crowd into a shark feeding frenzy about two other buskers, shoving them at each other battle royale style; a feat which required him to very much have everybody's eyes on him.

Ravn takes a deep breath. "Look -- when I put on my grifter face and I go bullshit people, they don't look at me. They see a fantasy -- just like when you're giving a show at Sitka, and the people at the front tables are quietly nursing their little day dreams about what if he looked straight at me and our eyes met like ships in the night and maybe later he gave me his number. They wouldn't even be able to describe me ten minutes from now, just some guy in black who talked a lot. Blond, maybe -- or ginger, something something. Funny accent."

He looks at the other man. "I can put down a hat and play a couple of reels, do Bad Moon on the Rise and a couple of other, easily recognisable bluegrass bits, might do the bars of Vivaldi that everybody recognises. And it'd be all right -- you'd have heard worse, definitely. People walking past might stop and listen for a bit, tap their foot, toss a couple of bucks in the hat. I'd have bus fare for tomorrow, no harm done. But it would still not be me. Just some guy who was playing at the bus stop."

Why must this be so difficult to explain? "The reason you take an audience by storm every time, Itzhak, is that they see you. You give them a part of yourself, you let them see what's inside.You invite people to a twelve course gourmet dinner of a sensory experience. I throw a hot dog in their general direction. I've been told so many times that it won't matter how many hours I put in, how good my technique is, if I can't express myself, if I can't convince anyone that I feel it. When you and I play -- I feel safe, I feel like I can let my guard down. With people I'll never see again? I don't care if they're impressed."

"You just performed!" Itzhak's now pointing back at the pier. He seems totally outraged. His sunglasses mirror Ravn back in double. He keeps walking backwards, the better to gesticulate aggravatedly and yell. Okay, he's not yelling, exactly, he's just talking very loud at speed--which is about normal for him, but so easy to misinterpret.

He has a reputation for a temper (which is justified) and for being too eager to use his fists (also justified) and with the way he can barge his big presence into someone's face... well, it can be easy to misinterpret, that's all. He's drawing a few glances to him now, doing this, just being himself at Ravn. People in Gray Harbor are used to him, where he fits in with all the other wild personalities. Here on a touristy boardwalk in Seattle, not so much.

He also makes a face. "It ain't the greatest thing for my self-esteem to hear people come to Sitka to fantasize about me, pal." But he turns back around, falling into stride facing the right way again, the violin case bumping at his hip. He fishes for his cigarettes and lights one up while Ravn talks. Itzhak listens, with that musician's depth of listening. Offers Ravn a cigarette, too.

Then he scowls when Ravn talks about being told that thing about if he can't express himself. "In a way that's kinda true, I guess. New York, violin prodigies are just about a dime a dozen. I sure as hell couldn't compete with high level playing like that. It's a big difference when you listen to, like, Perlman. Old as he is, his technical playing ain't at its peak, but who cares? When you listen to him..." he actually goes a little drifty, eyes softening. "You hear him say, hey, I'm a crippled old Jew and I seen a lot of life and I'm gonna tell you about it. God, his playing is gorgeous. What was I talking about? Right."

Too bad, Ravn, if you were hoping he'd veer off on rhapsodizing about violinists. "Point is, it's kinda true in a way but it ain't really true at all. Someone worked as long as you have, making a living off playing, spending your life with a violin? Anybody tells me you ain't a real artist I'm gonna pop 'em one."

"But that's it exactly," Ravn says softly and accepts the offered cigarette. He's not entirely comfortable with the amount of attention that Itzhak's being, well, Itzhak attracts -- but there's not a whole lot he can do about it, either. "You want to hear what a crippled old Jew has to say, because he's seen a lot of life. He has a story to tell. So do you. Me? Uh. Yeah. Grew up sheltered, got bored, wandered off. You can't play to people's hearts if your own heart is not in it."

He glances up at one thing Itzhak says, though, when it does catch up with him. "Wait, what? People fantasising about you is bad for your self esteem? You better be sarcastic there, friend, because there have been times in my life I stole cars and broke into houses just to get anyone to even notice I existed. You leave an impression."

Itzhak whooshes out a plume of smoke in a big sigh. "Look, I know I'm hot." (This gets an amused snort out of someone passing the opposite way.) "I know because I get laid like tile and de la freakin' Vega gave up pussy for me. And don't get me wrong, I ain't complaining! Best thing in my life came my way because I'm hot. But shit, Abildgaard, anybody can be hot. I didn't do nothing to get it. It just happened. Violin, I work at. It means something. So, yeah, this thing about selling the fantasy of the rough trade violinist?" He shrugs, flipping his hand over, which makes a curlicue of smoke. "Nobody goes to see Perlman because he's hot."

And just like that, Ravn bursts into quiet laughter.

After a moment or three he nods enthusiastically. "That, at least, I get. That's exactly how I feel about having a title. I didn't do nothing to get it. It just happened, same has my getting born with cheekbones that people obsess about for some reason. What I do with my hands, I work at. It means something."

He nods slightly. "And you're right -- no one goes to Perlman to fantasize. But the soccer mums and accountants we just played for? They don't go to see Perlman at all. That's the crowd we're selling fantasies to -- the people who come for the fantasy, not the music. The people who come for the music don't care what you look like at all, they're happy to attend the concert with their eyes closed as long as you bloody well play."

Beat. "But I'd probably be terrified of playing for them too, in spite of knowing that. Look, at some point -- back home, some day, I don't know when, but some day. Some day I'm going to find the guts to play. Let's be realistic: Some day you're going to drag me by the collar if I don't. And I do want to. It's just -- very hard for me to overcome that fear. I'm not afraid of those people back there, they don't give a shit about me and I don't give a shit about them. I'm afraid of people I'll have to talk to tomorrow, people who remember me."

Itzhak looks over, startled, when Ravn starts to laugh. Dem eyebrows are elevated above his sunglasses. "Th-that's not--it's different!" But it's not. It's not different, and he goes red, because he knows it. "...it ain't different. I GUESS. Asshole." Which he growls with all the affection in his big-block heart. Stupid Ravn, suddenly making him understand! Then he's laughing, too. "Yeah. Having to talk to people the next day is why I hadda quit sleeping around when I moved out here. Oy vey."

But Ravn saying Itzhak will dragoon him into playing in public makes him fall quiet for a few moments. Then he sighs smoke again. "Uh. Well. Yannow, the reading I got. She told me not to run people the fuck over because I think I know what's best for 'em."

"And mine said to make choices and stop hiding in my personal mire." Ravn nods. "Maybe in this case it's not so much running somebody over as it's prodding them repeatedly until they get in the car after having stood on the curb for thirty years trying to make up their mind. These things are vague as hell."

He reaches over and gently fistbumps Itzhak's shoulder. "Another thing she told me was to come to terms with who I am. To stop hiding and making up personalities. I am trying very hard to do that. Because while Baba Yaga is probably just the Veil's idea of a way to screw with us, the advice is solid. Her function is to make you question what you always took for granted, and that is always a very healthy thing to do."

The gentle bump to his shoulder (wreathed in pomegranates and olive branches) makes Itzhak smile. He's getting a lot of contact today from Ravn. Lifting his face to the sunshine, he rolls along on that swaggering stride, basking in the day and the warmth and the moment.

"How about this. You really don't want to? I'll never mention it again. Because you are a real violinist even if you don't never play in front of anybody your whole life. You are. I won't hear different.

"But if you want to?" He glances over, mirrored shades catching the light in a flash. "If you want to, I'll help you."

Ravn hesitates for just long enough that it is a reminder of how how much he struggles with the whole idea of emerging from that very safe and comfortable coping mechanism he had perfected until Gray Harbor happened to him. Then he nods. "I do want that. I have to. I will probably never stop fighting myself on it until I some day manage. Every time I have -- reached out a little, after I fell into town, every time -- nothing bad happened. No one really cared enough -- and I mean that in the good kind of way. I haven't had people tell me they can't deal with somebody like me, or treat me much different just because a few things fell out of the closet. Baba Yaga may just be some kind of otherworldly hallucination but she's right on this: It's time for me to grow up."