k magazine F17

Printemps in Portugal
by Makenzie Zatychies
Corinne stepped into the cool sunshine of a new city. She stumbled when her feet met
the cobblestone street. Two old women passed speaking rapid Portuguese. It sounding like
when her grandmother would gossip to friends in French, so she caught one or two words. She
continued on, looking for a place to settle and busk. Neck flushed, she tightened her grip on the
case in hand. The smell of the nearby sea was comforting, though unfamiliar.
It was her first day in Lisbon and determination drove each step. Her black jeans and
stripped wool sweater were simple, but drew questioning looks from under the coats of bundled
locals. For a Canadian in February, the thirteen-degree weather was like a tropic vacation.
She wandered into the mouth of an inclining pedestrian street, lined with endless shopkeepers
preparing for the day. Tucking into the stoop of a closed business, she set down her worn-leather
case. With a grin, she let the crumbling stone’s shadow consume her.
Kneeling, her expert hands worked to remove the instrument. The zipper unclasping the
case echoed in the small space. Her nose wrinkled at the mixture of alley cats and baking bread.
She beamed lifting the lid, and revealing a raven mandolin. Her fingers delicately closed around
the instrument’s cold neck and pulled it from its enclosure. She nestled it in her lap, she assumed
a meditative state. One hand at its base, the other moved to the eight silver pegs and set about
tuning. She was meticulous in plucking each individual string and manipulating their vibrations.
Her fingers picked either E-string, guiding them to harmony.
Face glistening, she emerged from the alcove. By small shoves of her foot, she positioned
the open case before a ceramic tile wall. She tossed a few copper coins and golden Euros in the
bottom of the cast. The last of her money, it needed to be doubled to stay in the hostel another
night. Each task, done with the mandolin in hand, caused people to slow, observing the assurance
in her every movement. Her final step was placing a small white sign in the shiny velour
lining: Crossing the Continent: The Musical Edition. Stop for a listen, leave what you will.
Her body straightened, and she inhaled the salted air before playing the first chord. She
tightened her lips and the first note pierced through the calls of vendors and the hum of chatter.
Each finger moved to position, and her melody followed. The first few words trembled, but poise
settled into her pitch.
Mais dans mon coeur je m’en vais composer
L’hymne au printemps pour celle qui m’a quitté.
10
KALEIDOSCOPE • Issue10