Balthazar, Impresario

[Jaybird]

For those of you with whom I would probably get on spectacularly, you will already know the title's meaning.
For those of you who do not, Balthazar, Impresario is a beautiful song by a man with apparently boundless talent.
For some reason, while listening to it, this little story popped into my head, it ain't perfect for sure, but just have a look and tell me what you think.

I warn you, it's a little bit sad.

Any Frank Turner fans out there, I know, I definitely have not done the song justice.

Anybody who hasn't heard of him

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Omf8nFt1cCA

Its not his best, but this is Balthazar, Impresario.

-----------------------------------

The streetlamps flickered into life.
Taxis lined up on the street, impatient cars and white vans began pulling in for the night as their evening replacements filed out for the night-shift. They brought a surreal, orange headlamp-light to the street, clear as day and yet changing the streets completely.
The moon rose behind the office buildings and skyscrapers of the big city, though reluctant to rise, she was full, smiling into her reflection in a forgotten corner of the dock.
Tethered to a post, like a patient old dog, the boat sat with her hull rusting, paintwork chipping, her name peeling from her side, Eva Mae. But from the open doors came orange light.
Not harsh orange light, cast from the cold streetlamps and headlights, indifferent to the thriving city it illuminated. This light had an ancient quality to it, it reached through the doors with open arms. 'Come in,' it said, 'out of the cold and the dark, we've been waiting for you.'
Inside the doors, down the hallway, with its spotted peach wallpaper and outdated floral carpet, to the left, in a little room, sat a man.

An old man.

Oh, the age was not on his face, in that respect he was no older than fifty five, but in his grey eyes was a resignation that aged him far more than years could, in the way he combed his thinning, wavy hair, slung his thin black tie over his white shirt, how he looked at the photograph tucked into the frame of the spotted mirror.

Surely this was not the same man. He was young, twenty eight at the very most, and handsome beyond recognition, with a long face, eyes crinkled in the smile that enveloped not his face, but the entire image. A smart, neatly trimmed beard sat on his chin, stark contrast to the greying stubble that crept across his sinking cheeks now. He wore the same outfit, a smart, tailored black suit with a white shirt, but now it was moth-eaten and hung from his frame like a second skin, and the man in the photo carried a guitar.

Perhaps this was the only unchanged part of the man. Leaning against the dressing table was the same instrument. Sure, today it was a little more battered, but it was still beautiful, the dull shine from its head catching in the dim light, its strings, though motionless across its chest, waited, as though the lightest touch would bring back its tuneful heartbeat.
The man hummed to himself, a sad tune, low and deep, as he bustled slowly around the room, straightening this, tucking this into his pocket, until he stopped, standing beside the old guitar. He reached to pick it up, slinging the tattered strap over his shoulder.
It was perfect, it fitted against his body like an embrace from an old friend, it sang beautifully when he touched the strings.

The man lifted his voice to duet with his old partner.
"My name is Balthazar Impresario, you'll find me at the bottom of the page,"

He frowned and stopped, tweaking the pegs an infinitely tiny amount, "I have an artist's hands, though I'm a working man, but my craft has been forgotten by the age."
The man looked up from the instrument, out of the window, over the docks, past the starlit sky to the city, alight in its living glory.

"So tonight will be my last night on the stage."

* * *

In the galley, a young man sat on a scrubbed wooden table, his hands clenched in his lap, brows furrowed, a single, frustrated tear slid unnoticed down his face.
He lifted his hands, entwined his fingers in his thick, mouse-coloured hair. A girl entered the room and silently sat beside him. She was no older than eleven or twelve, but her face carried the weight of many more years. The man placed a hand around her and pulled her close.
"It'll be okay," She smiled at her brother, but the mirth did not reflect in her eyes, which remained anxious, "We won't starve,"
The man said nothing, resting his head on her fair hair, until he felt her stiffen.
"What's that?"
The man looked up, he heard it too, music…

* * *

"This is my family's trade, my father built this place, at the turning of the twentieth century,"

The little girl stopped in the old man's doorway, finally her eyes were bright, intrigued by the man's clever hands working the old instrument.
"I have been working here for some fifteen years, but the young these days are glued to T.V. screens,"

He noticed the little girl standing in the hallway, she was soon joined by her brother, who placed a protective hand on her shoulder as they watched.

"And the old girl is dying on her feet."

The man strummed more powerfully now, watching his tiny audience as they watched him, a hint of the man in the photograph was coming through, his energy, his eyes, even his smile was returning. And his voice lifted even further as he straightened his back to sing.

"Once more to the boards, one more curtain call. Give the crowd everything they're asking for and more.
Always make 'em laugh. Try to make 'em cry. Always take the stage like it's the last night of your life."

The man caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror hanging above his table, and a tear rolled its way down his face. As it fell it caught the neck of the guitar, rolling down the fretline and slicking his fingers as he strummed.
The young man saw, and turned, trying to steer his sister back to the galley, feeling as if he were intruding on something personal, the girl stood firm a moment longer.

"And all the things I've seen, behind these tattered seams, all the upturned faces with the lamplight in their eyes.
And each imperfect turn flickers as it burns, it only lasts a moment but for me they'll never die."

Finally, the little girl let her brother's strong hands turn her away.
The old man allowed himself a few more bars as the man returned to the galley, he set his sister down on the table and picked up the kettle, and soon the little kitchen was filled with the comforting smell of hot chocolate, and the sounds of giggles as the man juggled eggs to entertain her. The large, rotund cook shook his head disdainfully, but could not refuse to grant himself a smile as the young man splattered golden yolk across his own shoes, paralyzing the child with helpless mirth.

"I smooth my thinning hair in a gilded mirror to try to hide the tell-signs of my age." The old man sang unaccompanied, as he slung the guitar over his back and walked out into the centre of the boat, where he could not fail to overhear the sound of electric, fizzing conversation through the carved wooden double-doors.

"My name is Balthazar Impresario, and tonight will be my last night on the stage."