Madison Esshaki

My feet pound against the cobblestone road as I rise and fall in twirls. My skirt swishes with every movement, and my beaded bracelets jingle against one another as I flail my arms in rhythm. My heart pounds and my stomach growls with the wind, reminding me of its emptiness and the emptiness of the cap at my feet. Reminding me why I must keep dancing.

Why I must keep smiling at the people who pass by me.

The street corner where I perform each day is filled with passerbys now. Many look my way; some even offer me a smile or clap their hands to the beat of my movement. But not one of them places any coins in my cap.

Spin and leap, twist and twirl. Smile. Swirl my skirt and wish for a cent.

Repeat the motions.

I dance until the sun drips down into the clouds, and the people of the town hurry into their homes. When I am alone on the street corner, I finally let my legs rest.

Snow begins to fall, and I welcome the coldness on my swollen ankles and spinning head. My stomach growls furiously, as the smell of freshly baked bread wafts in clouds from the baker’s window. Oh, how long it’s been since I’ve had fresh bread. How lovely it smells.

I crawl on my knees to the baker’s house across the road and curl up against the cold brick, savoring the immaculate scent as I rest my tired body.

Soon your dance will be enough, I assure myself. 

I fall asleep to the smell of bread in my nose, an ache in my heels, and the undying hope of “soon” in my heart.

—

As the sun rises, so do I.

I am there at my street corner before dawn, twirling and swaying with the pink morning clouds, welcoming the light of the new day and the people strolling beneath it.

My breath freezes in the air as I whirl with the wind.

Leap with the breeze.

The snow numbs my bare feet as I land, and I nearly lose my balance when I hit the ground. My focus is growing weaker by the minute with this hunger in my bones and this chill in the air, but the still lingering scent of bread persuades me to keep moving.

Spin.

Swirl.

Smile.

By midday, my cap is still empty. I begin to despair, and my dance begins to slow.

“Penny for the dancer,” I call, desperate. “Just a penny.”

Everyone passes by me. Everyone keeps their coins in their pockets.

I let myself collapse to the ground with a sigh.

It’s no use. My dance is not enough.

Hopelessness settles in my empty stomach as I run my numb finger through the snow around me.

Minutes pass, and I shiver in the cold.

Crowds continue their walking.

No one notices the dancer has stopped her art.

My stomach growls again, and I contemplate making my way to the baker’s house and begging when I hear the music.

A faint, lively tune, nestled among the snowflakes in the rushing winter air. Soft, yet upbeat and inspiring; the work of a musician’s hands.

I decide to follow it.

As I walk the cobblestone roads, I push through the crowds, determined not to lose the sound of the song.

I’ve just passed the baker’s house when I see him.

A boy, no younger than me, playing a small, splintered fiddle.

His cap rests at his feet. Empty.

People pass by him. Some smile, some clap their hands in rhythm. But no one sacrifices a coin.

I close my eyes and listen to his song for a moment. I feel the beat of his notes in sync with my heart.

My legs begin to move.

I spin. 

I leap. 

I land.

My skirt swishes as I twirl and my bracelets jingle on my wrists.

I do not open my eyes to look at the people around me. I ignore the snow at my feet, block out the smell of bread in the air. The only thing carrying my dance is the music of the boy’s fiddle.

My eyes snap open when the music comes to a halt.

The boy is staring at me.

For a moment there is silence; a mutual understanding of each other’s pain. A wordless conversation saying, “I understand. I feel the hunger, too.”

What follows is a hesitation. A cautious look from us both, a realization that as two artists performing on these streets, we have been competing for coins. Competing for a better life.

But the tension between us seems to dissipate when the boy looks to his cap on the ground, then to his fiddle, before bringing his eyes back to mine.

Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out a hand.

A moment is all it takes for me to make my decision.
I take it. The boy’s hand is cold, like mine. Calloused, like mine. His grip is weak as he pulls me to the center of his street corner.

With the smallest of smiles, he begins to play.

Once more his lively tune fills the air. I feel the pounding of his notes from the soles of my cold feet to the hairs on my head.

It drives my dance.

Twirl.

Swish.

Spin.

Listen to the music, feel it in my bones.

Repeat.

“Look,” I hear the boy whisper.

I scan my eyes across the crowd.

Now, people stop to watch. To listen. To see how the boy with the fiddle and girl who dances have come together.

 There is no clapping, no pitying smiles. Just eyes on my movement, and ears on the boy’s song.

I swallow, then leap for our audience.

The boy ends his song in an intricate flourish as I land, and we wait, holding our positions and breath.

Then…

The crowd cheers.

They reach into their pockets.

They throw coins. 

Enough to fill both our caps. Enough to buy countless loaves of fresh bread.

Hope rushes through my body, warming my cold and tired limbs.

I catch the boy’s gaze, and let out a tearful, grateful laugh.

He does the same, taking hold of my hand as we bow together.

By the time the crowd has dispersed, the sun is melting back into the clouds. The boy and I hurry to the baker’s house, where we exchange our coins for two lovely loaves of bread. The baker smiles at us as we devour them, and lick our fingers free of any precious crumbs.

Every day when the sun comes up, the boy with the fiddle and I perform.

Our caps are placed on the road beneath us.

He plays.

I dance.

We bow.

Together, we earn our bread.

Together, we are enough.

---

“The whole is greater than the sum of the parts.” -Aristotle