2021-11-05 - The Prince and the Pauper, 21st Century Edition, Pt 2

Itzhak wouldn't hear of actually dumping the suits in the river. And it turns out to be harder to start a random trash fire in Manhattan than most movies would lead you to believe, and actually impossible in Central Park without attracting the attention of "da woist gang in the city, the NYPD". So that question is yet unanswered, but as for changing? Hell yes, Itzhak isn't minded to make Ravn suffer wearing the thing a minute longer than he has to.

Himself, he really does look stunning in his. His knuckle tattoos, his face that's been around the block a time or three, and the way his tall lanky form is perfectly built for wearing high-end suits all work in his favor. Not to mention the absurd amount of swag the man accidentally commands. But does he care? Maybe not so much. Not when it comes at such a cost.

So now he's back in jeans that are beaten soft and clingy, Overwatch hoodie, and workboots. He has his violin, and when he and Ravn get off the subway, Central Park is glorious with autumn, blazing red trees swaying against a woolly gray sky. Thousands of leaves swirl along the ground, picked up and tossed by early November gusts.

"Not bad, right?" Itzhak says, looking up at where the trees cut silhouettes of less literal fire against the sky.

"Hell no," Ravn agrees. "This is New York. The real New York."

He's been here before, after all. Didn't stay long, but long enough to decide that New York is a city of extreme contrasts; and if made to choose between the glitzy, glamorous life of the upper crust, and the down to earth life of the working class man of Hell's Kitchen, he leans strongly towards the latter. He'll never convince anyone he's a native, but the city is a jungle, and jungles are good for the thing Ravn does best: Disappear. He'll never match Itzhak's looks in a fine suit; he's got the body for one but not the presence. Even dressed to the nines, social invisibility is his curse and his blessing. No wonder that Hyacinth Addington still declares Vyvyan Vydal her arm candy for all things formal and high end back home; he enjoys it. Ravn would hate every moment (and really, he owes Vyv for standing in, thank God for people who enjoy these things).

Black jeans, black turtleneck, and the Italian leather jacket; he could be any young man with a bit of a Johnny Cash gene, violin under one arm, more than content to let Itzhak draw the eye by his sheer force of personality. They're just a guy and some other guy, a couple of buskers, dime-a-dozen New Yorkers doing whatever New Yorkers do.

It's the kind of city a man can disappear in. It's the best kind of city, and Ravn did consider staying when he came through, almost two years ago. If he didn't know himself well enough that his unfortunate aptitude for grifting would eventually lead him to take on people better left alone, he'd have stayed. He's thinking the same now; taking on the Veil is one thing but the New York underworld might be a bit much for one man to handle.

"Let's find somewhere with a view of the lake and play until our fingers bleed," he suggests. "Something raunchy and gritty and altogether not ballroom."

Presence and force of personality and Itzhak seems to have no real idea what he's got. To himself he's an autistic ex-con who loves violin and fast cars and big reptiles. Nobody special.

"Hell yeah, brother, let's do some Pogues! Some Flogging Molly, some Dropkick Murphys, it'll be Irish punk day in Central Park." He swaggers on down the path, head up, eyes bright, ready to take on the world and make the world say thank you when he's done. A pair of young women watch him go by, then look at Ravn, then look at each other like they may live in New York City but they can still once in a while be impressed.

Black and white. Yin and yang. European aristocrat and Lower East Side. That's what the two men are -- contrasts. It doesn't hurt that they're both good looking fellows but the electrical feeling between and around them is about contrasts and similarities, AC and DC.

Passion, too. Ravn may be a polite, somewhat cold fish a lot of the time; often told by others that he talks too much and that he wouldn't know a pick-up line or a flirtatious look if either snuck up and grabbed his ass. He's the quintessential nice guy -- not the Nice Guy who befriends women because he expects to get laid in turn, but the actually nice guy who thinks we're all just friends here. We're all batting for Team Humanity, right? And somewhere beneath that, another contrast: A street thief who knows very well how ugly people can be, and a violinist who plays with all the passion he never found any other way to express.

Why does Ravn not want anyone but Itzhak to know that he's more than a dabbler, that he's actually a damned good violinist? Because music is passion and emotion, and expressing either of those is something Ravn has never learned to do in any other way. He's not aware how blatantly obvious it is once he's among strangers who will never know his name or remember his face tomorrow: Now he plays the way he usually admires in Itzhak -- passionately, wildly, to tug at heart strings. No classical perfection, no control.

Passion comes pouring out of Ravn's strings and Itzhak hardly knows what to do with himself. He shoots him a wide eyed look and then the two of them go thundering off like a pair of horses racing for pure delight. After all the months of playing together, they know each other's skills and style and taste. Itzhak is used to Ravn's greater technical skill and silky perfect playing, but not this version where Ravn lets that go in favor of flinging himself into musical expression.

He kinda likes it. He kinda likes it a lot.

A crowd inevitably forms. Buskers in Central Park are nothing new, not even skillful ones, but these guys are something special. This isn't a big rowdy tourist crowd like that day in Seattle. This one forms at a little distance, awed by the unexpected power happening on a blustery fall day.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of playing The Devil Went Down to Georgia. While it's certainly not a beginner's piece, it's not the pinnacle of classical expression either, but Ravn loves it -- particularly when he plays the part of Johnny and Itzhak gets to give it everything he's got as the Devil. Sure, the Devil loses that deal and has to surrender his golden fiddle. Until the 'I'm the best as ever been' part, though, the Devil has one hell of a good time.

There's magic in the air between Johnny and the Devil, and there's magic in the air between Ravn and the Devil. A very special kind of magic. Some of that audience forming is thinking it, no doubt -- that these two are lovers, or about to be. That the sparks between them are of a sexual nature, and in a moment they're going to disappear to a hotel nearby (or in between the bushes). They're wrong.

What's there is that strange almost kinetic energy between the two men that sparked one morning a year and some months ago when they played Brahm's together in the surf at Gray Harbor's rocky beach. Love of music, certainly. But also that AC/DC pull of similarities and opposites. It's not just that one man is wealthy and the other isn't. Or that one is European and the other American. One extrovert and expressive, the other introvert and reclusive. It's all of it.

And it's Ravn knowing that not a single face in the small audience in Central Park knows who he is, or gives a fuck who he is, or will remember him tomorrow as anything more than 'and the other guy'. No responsibility. No obligation.

Freedom.

Itzhak makes unholy things happen on his gorgeous fiddle when he rocks the role of the Devil. And a band of demons joined in and it sounded something like this: sex on wheels and Hell on high heels is what it sounds like. Itzhak's left hand knows things no mortal man should know. The way he grins when he pulls out subharmonics and makes his bow shriek and hiss across the strings says he's damn well aware of it.

He's also hilarious when he sings a very Southern song in his very Yankee accent and he's aware of that too. The Devil is a New Yorker.

Ravn chose the part of Johnny for himself and the Devil for Itzhak. It's not that Johnny turns out to be the best fiddle player (though technically, if the two were to go before a board of judges, Ravn's classical training would give him an edge but really, what he's got in technique he lacks in showmanship). He will win the contest because that's how the story goes -- but the audience's sympathy lies with the Devil.

The Devil with his brilliant smile and good looks, and his body language whispering sweet seductive words into the eyeballs of anyone passing by. The Devil with his New York drawl that speaks to the heart of other children of his city. The Devil who can make that beautiful fiddle sing like an angel or hiss like a demon -- and while Rimon is not made from gold, she certainly is something to look at even if you have no ear for music at all.

The only part of this story that isn't spot on is of course that Ravn will not be taking Rimon home. But it's okay, he can hold her for a moment at the end -- don't lay her at his feet, that'd be an insult to her fine varnish.

And of course, Johnny from Georgia drawls with a funny accent but who cares.

Nobody cares, not when the two of them switch from duelling to playing in raucous joyful harmony. Johnny and the Devil rocket around the main theme like cats who have lost their marbles at 4 AM. Itzhak has broken a sweat by the time they feel like wrapping up. He can't help it, he whoops in glee, whipping his bow into the air with a flourish, then just laughs like a maniac while the crowd applauds and laughs along with him.

"That's my violin buddy!" he calls to them, that brilliant smile on his well worn face. "Nah, this ain't for that," as an older man tries to tip him. "This is a gift, yeah?"

He doesn't say who it's a gift for. Or from whom. They both know.

Ravn has no trouble sporting the shit-eating, ear-to-ear grin of Johnny who's the best as ever's been. Quite uncharacteristically for the self proclaimed 'cold fish' Dane, his face is flush, his smile is radiant, and he's -- well, to be honest, he has to turn around for an extra puff on his asthma inhaler, but on the whole, he looks far more carefree and free of constraints than he ever did anywhere anyone might remember his name the day after. Here, no one has even asked what his name is, and thus, he is free as a bird, free as last year's leaves to be blown about on the wind and end up anywhere, anywhere on God's green Earth.

A day of freedom, even a few hours' worth of freedom, is truly a gift. And more so after the afternoon's stark reminder of the gilt cage he's supposed to be occupying. No wonder, then, that he flourishes with as much aplomb as the Devil. And no wonder that at least a few people walk on from Central Park that day thinking that modern instruments are all good and fun but there is a certain something to unplugged, oldschool, back to basics stringed instruments too.

Something Ravn observed that evening at Sitka: Itzhak, when he isn't thinking particularly hard about it, has a way with crowds. Not Ravn's own way, playing social interactions like fiddles, selling the fantasy of what-might-be if the dashing handsome figure noticed you. His way is instinctive, a reaching out from his heart as natural as a sunflower unfolding to the morning.

And so he's able to tell people who are rapidly growing eager for more, who are just about to insist on paying him and Ravn, his tone casual and cheerful as he loosens his bow, "We can't, the sun's going down and it's Friday," and everybody knows what he means. And a few moments later (and a few Shabbat Shalom), he and Ravn are alone again.

Ravn -- who doesn't need ticket fare -- has no objections, and when some of those Jewish greetings are tossed his way he returns them readily enough; an atheist himself, he's not particularly worried to be assigned to the wrong faith for a day. He does notice the difference. He mentally takes notes -- because as a purveyor of fantasies, anything Itzhak does and does so well needs to be added to his own array for future reference. And of course he's acutely aware that that too is one of the differences between them -- to Itzhak, this is who he is, to Ravn it is another act.

He does think wistfully for a moment that it must be -- a fantastic feeling, to be spontaneous like that. But whatever it is like, any such ability was trained, whipped, and conditioned out of him early in life, all for the sakes of a stiff upper lip and keeping up appearances. On the win side, he can keep up appearances through pretty much anything.

"I really should learn a few bits of Yiddish," he tells Itzhak as the crowd thins, steel grey eyes glittering with amusement. "Or maybe I should just speak German at you and pray that no one can tell the difference."

"It's all in the rhythm." Itzhak's amusement is more obvious, crinkling his crow's-feet when he glances at Ravn. His amusement and his pleasure and his eagerness to see his family on Shabbos; he flips the latches of Rimon's case shut after carefully wiping her down with a soft cloth. Far better than gold, and more precious, her tonewood. "Ya ready? We oughta be right on time. Ah, shit, I almost forgot, I got something for you, you're gonna need it."

It's a simple black velvet yarmulke, still in a clear plastic sleeve, that he offers over. "Goes with ya outfit," Itzhak says, teasing.

Ravn can't help laugh as he unpacks the unaccustomed headwear and attempts to get it to stick to the top of his head like the sixpence it absolutely isn't. "Like this? I trust you'll tell me anything I need to know. I've never -- look, what I actually know about Judaism boils down to, you don't eat pigs or blood, and circumcision. I'm okay with one of those conditions and not really up for the other."

He packs his violin away with equal care; she may not be named and to the untrained eye she's nothing special to look at, but she's kept Ravn company all the way from Copenhagen to Valletta, and from New York to Seattle; until very recently he'd joke that if there's one woman in his life, the violin is her. (There are two women now, it seems, because while he's fond of Hyacinth, she'll have to share the throne).

"Vorher! Folge ich nachher wie das dünne Bier." What use is a threat if you don't make good on it?

"You don't gotta know anything, you just gotta cover your head, it's respectful and shit. Here, you do it like this." Itzhak is fixing his own yarmulke to his black curls with rather more ease, showing Ravn that it's got a little comb clip inside. His is gray velvet, worn at the edges, stamped with a single silver chai, and probably roughly as old as he is. "Ain't worn it in years," he mutters, mostly to himself, "Ma is gonna plotz."

Then he snorts in surprised laughter, giving Ravn a look. "Christ, you sound like my grandfather. Come on, Gramps, we gotta catch the train."

"Your grandfather's German?" Ravn laughs as he's dragged along (and quite happy to find out about the hair clip, really, that's smart). "You're certain your family's all right with me showing up? You haven't had much chance to spend time with them -- I don't mind keeping myself busy for a bit while you catch up."

Because of course he doesn't. Ravn, ever an excuse to not be in anyone's way. He probably has booked some quiet two-star hotel (bed, shower, no breakfast buffet) room in the vicinity just in case.