I have not been in a particular good mood from past few days. Perhaps, the pavement isn’t suitable for sitting, yes, yes, that has to be it, I have not even had a good sleep either. Everywhere it’s wet, wet lke it has never snowed before. People must think, why I do not die – or maybe they wish – of this cold, even after wearing these rags, surrounding myself around snow; well, citizens, do I have a choice ? These cold days don’t even make for good business; not many people come out – I see the most traffic in morning or evening with almost a lull in between.
I stand, sometimes, the whole day by the lamp post with my guitar around my neck and my hat in my hand, with not a single Roular dropped in it. And, this Guitar, citizens, you would think I must be an artist, but I am not, no sir this was given or should I say dropped on me as if in a garbage container. Though, I am grateful for anything, anyone gives, this is not a particular noble way to act. Now I just hang it around my neck, choosing my post for a definite number of days, now standing, now sitting, so as to make at least enough to buy myself at least a candy – for citizens, the bread has become a commodity for rich among us. At least, now I look like an artist.

In the morning, I am most excited, because business in the morning is expected to be good. People, you see, do not want to see the misery at the start of the day. They are the most kind at this time. I have been paid in Arnots, Arnots, not Roulars, in morning, citizens; Ah! The summer days. I like standing citizens; it’s easy to chase people to some distance if you are standing – they almost give up at times over the peskiness. I do not want to ruin someone’s morning or evening, for that matter, but I have to do my job to keep myself alive.
Nowadays, it looks though, no one has even a single Roular to give away, some just run like a cat who has seen a dog, now here, now there…others – they don’t have any courtesy, abuse me like a worm creeping on their shirt. Though, I sometimes do enjoy my job; the best part of it being observing others. I, at times, find characters who are compelling, weird, charismatic and dark as a Greek warrior, it’s like being in a movie theatre watching them. Now, you must be thinking how a person like me knows about a movie theatre? It’s another perk of our job: Couples, oftentimes, pass by me arguing over things which I find perplexing to be argued about: “You never even warm over the shchi for me, Ivan. You have become so self- engrossed, so self-centric, you make me cry out.” – well, citizens, what difference is it? It is food, It fills stomach. But rich folks, I don’t think see it as this – for them it is a psychological game they play, to entice, to test, to display what they can’t display. I must not digress, or must I? What else do I have to do? It’s a cold afternoon. No one is to be seen, everything’s white between the yellows of lamp. Apologies! Apologies! Citizens! Coming to theatre – so couples like these who quarrel over subjects beyond my comprehension, throw their tickets sometimes at me, sometimes in the container, sometimes on the pavement, benefit of which has accrued to me multiple times. Seeing someone’s misery, you see citizens, makes us forget our own.

***
The thing is citizens, I am here on this post, on Arnkhov street for longer than I am used to stay at a particular place. You might think, I like the beauty of this place, it’s warmth, quite the contrary – though, it is warmer
than other places in recent times, having a cul-de-sac, houses on both sides
– I do not like seeing same set of people everyday, and I am sure neither do
they.
I am, citizens, bewildered by the act of a particular gentleman. This
Gentleman, citizens, I must say, I have not seen anyone like him. He looks
like a normal sort of fellow, if you don’t consider his actions – tall, grey
silvery hair, grey well groomed beard, with a slight black mark on the
forehead. He, every morning, at five sharp emerges out of the last third house
on the right side, walks smoothly with steps of a lion, comes toward my tent
– which I have made with a piece of plastic, tying to the walls of a
citizens’ house – takes out a gold coin, and puts in my hat beside me, during
the whole transaction which, citizens, I pretend to be asleep. The gold coin
itself is rarest of rare sorts – a coin from the era of Elizabeth the first, on it’s
one side an angel is slaying a dragon, on it’s other a ship having a cross as
it’s mast. This ritual – for it is too kind to be an act of generosity – is
performed by this gentleman on regular basis, not a day skipped since I have
arrived here. You will be thinking now, that I am staying here because greed
has swept into my skin, No citizens, no – I have lost the appetite
because of it, it’s like the moment come true, when we used to wish as a
child for raining of money, but it never did. This gentleman has himself
overturned the laws of economics, ‘People respond to incentives,’ what
incentive does he have in doing this? For if he wanted to dispose the coins,
he could have just thrown it down the Vincent river, why give it to me? It’s
really breath-sucking, when our fantasies come true.
***
On the one hand, I am not even able to earn a Roular, on the other, this
gentleman of devil keeps dropping gold coins, which I have not a shred of idea what do with. I cannot just take it to a jeweller, to a police, to anyone, for I risk
my freedom if I do. And, citizens, I love my freedom more than my food. As
Dostoevsky’s Underground man, I will jump out of heaven just to excercise my
will. But I do need food, I have not eaten since last the sun rose. I want to
move out of here, only if I had got energy to do so.
I am afraid people will get suspicious of me, because of these coins. I am
not doing any begging, just sitting, thinking; for which beggar does not beg
all the time? I should stand now, put my guitar up, take the hat.
My feet hurts standing, let it be, better hurts than to have wide eyes turned
on me.
“What are you looking at?”
“Ow..owww…owww..oww”
“I will put your head under snow, you stupid canine.”
“Wuff…wuff…”
Even this dog has whiffed the smell of gold on me. If only can I move from
here, if only can I pack my rags, find a new place, if only I had something
in my stomach.
I will not let this gentleman ruin me, I am not going to let him do that, I
will just stand here, Yes, citizens, I am going to stand here the whole
night, return his coins the next time he shows up. Whatever you are doing – it’s
eating my soul, for my stomach has already eaten itself.

The evening grew in, the wind rushed, everything looked heavy as if portending something, dark black clouds raging across the sky, the snow starting to pour down angrily over every corner of Potmond city. No one knew when it was going to end, but it did after two nights. That morning, Potmond had it’s sun after a month. The birds chirped, the trees breathed, life came to the city. Men, women, children came out on Arnkhov street to rejoice the sun. “Mama, Look! A statue!”
A statue stood by the lamp post – with left hand holding the buttons of his overcoat, on right a hat, bending, giving pose of a conductor of an orchestra, of a showman who has just finished his performance. The lively poem of Pushkin kept diffusing in the background of Arnkhov street:
“Is he alive? And his sweet lady?
And where is now their little nook? Or maybe they had both faded, like the strange flower in the book?”