I used to see the old man, as I thought of him, though maybe he wasn't so old, often on the aimless wanders around town that were one of my principle occupations at that time. His most distinguishing feature was his mouth, which was shaped like the letter u, but I don’t mean by that that he was constantly smiling. In fact, his face wore a pensive, worried expression, as if (I thought) he had just come down from the mountain and was wondering whether he should cast his stone into the tide of general indifference.
He wore always a sand-coloured suit, which was either pressed, or, more likely, was of the kind of material that does not show creases. I would consider engaging him in conversation, whilst regarding him at distance. I felt he had something of interest or even of importance to reveal, but I would think about the practical difficulties or awkwardness (for me) of beginning the necessary preliminary conversation, and would abandon the idea, or defer it until a more suitable time presented itself.
One day, during the festival, I arrived at the square, which was crowded with a noisy multitude, presumably come to hear a band that was playing a fast-paced waltz from a makeshift stage, in time to see him being lifted by two paramedics into a waiting ambulance. There was no siren but its lights were flashing, in a way that seemed oddly congruous with the music that was still being played, and which continued even afterward.
