Jupiters Travels: Four Years Around the World on a Triumph

by Ted Simon

At one fall, some boys see me pick myself up from the dust, and they rush away, only to reappear with a kettle full of cold mountain water for me to drink. Another time, two boys in rags with gourds tied around their waists leave their cattle and come to watch. One carries a flute and hands it to me, but my brain is too addled by heat and effort to know what he wants. I hand it back and he plays the musical equivalent of a mountain torrent. His dexterity is astounding. He pours out notes with the speed and confidence of an absolute virtuoso, creating not a single stream of melody but a cascade of sound, which seems to be in several keys and registers simultaneously. He bathes me in his music and I know, as I listen, that I will never hear anything like this again. When he finishes I try to show my gratitude. We have not one word in common, and foolishly I feel it is impossible to repay such a gift with money. Afterwards I am ashamed to have made him the victim of my idealism. A dollar would have suited him better than my lofty sentiment, no doubt.