On the main street of the city, on the doorstep of an empty shop, stands a man in a tuxedo. Tall, thin and gaunt. His hair is almost white and his complexion ruddy. Back arched, heels in and toes out, his sad face gazes into the distance as though he were an awkward beginner in a ballet class. He stands as still and as stiff as a pole. Around his neck is a sign in Polish saying Throw Money and he holds a small brass bell in his hand. He has been in this position for years.
Every now and then, but not often, someone will put a few pence, but not more, into his box. At this he peps up, as though just plugged in, and swivels around on his small platform like a wooden puppet on a string. A series of jerky hand gestures and tinkles accompany him as he comes full circle only to then slump once more into the stillness that has become for him a way of life.
Sometimes in the winter, when it is particularly bitter, he is to be found in a nearby subway. A good set of thermals under his garments must ensure against hypothermia. It is likely that his back gives him trouble by now and he will undoubtedly suffer from arthritis. Unlike the colourfully costumed street acts that ply their trade in busy Covent Garden and other such places, this artist's services are rarely requested.
For a few months he did experiment with a different act. This enactment was centred on a golden picture frame which was held up and through which he peered as though he were a portrait on a wall. When a rare coin hit his box he would turn out a series of animated facial expressions. This diversion from his usual performance did not suit him, and it wasn't long before he reached once more for his trusty bell.
I once noticed a woman, persumably his wife, sitting opposite and watching intently. It was a dark early evening in the bleak mid-winter and the falling snow had settled on him, she was huddled under an umbrella. When I passed by again some hours later, he was packing up, and I watched them walk away through the snow arm in arm.
