The coin bounced off the gray cobblestones, landing in a small groove between two that did not quite meet each other properly. It reflected the dim yellow streetlights and lay in its stony abode, shining and solitary. I watched from behind a pillar but made no move to pick it up. What use had I for a meager coin?
The coin had been thrown by a woman who had been aiming for the prominent water fountain that gushed steadily in the center of the town square, one of the few tourist attractions that the little town offered. The fountain was home to so many other coins, scattered and reflecting the moonlight, looking like stars in the cosmos. The woman had evidently heard the coin’s clatter as it hit the ground, rather than the plop of it breaking through the cold water. She huffed and walked away, probably with a silly notion that whatever wish she was making was now doomed. She did not pause to pick it up — it was a dark night and a frigid one, and this wealthy woman had no intention of scrabbling and fumbling around the cold cobblestones with warm fingers. So, she left for her home, and the square was deserted once more.
Now the only noise in the square was the water flowing in the fountain. A few houses lined the street in a half-moon around the fountain, but at a distance. Snow was falling and icicles rapidly formed on the deserted carriage near me. I could have left then, as I had finished the work that I had come to the town for. However, I am curious by nature, and for some reason, the fate of this coin interested me greatly. What impact would this small object have on the lives of others? This coin, which rested not 50 yards away from me, nestled in dark stone, a blessing for a poor family and an afterthought for the rich.
It gave me a kick sometimes, understanding why people did what they did, their hopes, desires, ambitions, their weaknesses, what motivations drove them. I had places to be and work to do, and my job was a demanding one, to be sure. But I had done it for a great many years and allowed myself a break, just this once, until the fate of the coin was decided.
The square grew silent, the lights in the windows of distant houses were turned off, and after a while, even the fidgeting birds stopped ruffling and fluttering their wings and went to sleep or were frozen, as by now, snow was falling steadily. The world was quiet and cold, and the noise of the water in the fountain lulled and soothed me as it turned to a frozen slush. I reclined onto a wall, melting into the darkness and allowing myself time to reflect upon my day.
***
Bubi was told that his grandfather was dead. He did not know what “dead” meant. It sounded like bread, but it wasn’t, and he knew this because he had asked, but the maid had shushed him. He knew that “dead” made his mother cry and his father pace, so he decided that he did not particularly like it and would use all his endeavor as a man (for, at 4 years old, Bubi felt quite grown up) to do battle with “dead” if he were ever to find it. They had gone to Grandfather’s big house in the town square, and he was lying down, looking quite cold in his great bed. Bubi had tried to jump onto the bed to hug him, but was pulled off, which made him cry, but then the kitchen maid gave him some honey, which made him stop. He was shut up in a stuffy bedroom and given a toy car and told to be a good boy, but he had been playing for a while and was bored. All the adults were short-tempered, and his nanny was distracted, and his little sister kept crying. Bubi thought that even the comfort of sucking his thumb was now taken from him.
Bubi was bursting to complain about his awful day to someone, but no one cared, so he sulked as he ate his dinner and was tucked into bed. He slept fitfully, and not deeply as he usually did, and he woke once in the middle of the night all alone, and though he knew that Nanny was in the next bedroom, he felt lonely.
In his house, he used to look out his window whenever he felt lonely and was comforted seeing the carriages zoom past on the road, knowing that there were people driving them and other people sitting inside them. He decided to try that now. He hopped off the big bed and walked on the plush carpet till he reached a wicker chair. He clambered up it and pressed his forehead against the cold windowpane, sorely disappointed. There was not one person in the large town square, just a big waterfall in the center. He was about to climb down the chair when something glinted. He squinted his eyes. Something was shining, something small, near the bowl of the waterfall. He was struck by an urge to go see what it was. He could go wake Nanny but she would only shout at him. He could go alone, of course — although it was cold and dark. “Brave Bubi,” Bubi said to himself firmly, and he made his way to the big front door. There was no one about, and the same house that he once raced through and played in, with its airy sitting rooms full of light and flowers, looked quite eerie now. But how was he to open the door? There was a latch, but it was high up. For a minute Bubi felt defeated and wished Grandfather’s big hound, Major, was there to comfort him. Major had gone to a farm far away last year, his parents had said. He used to bound through the door and lick Bubi’s face. He would … bound through the door. And all at once Bubi got to work, crouching, and clumsily unlatching the large dog door that had been forgotten with no little paws to pass through it. He triumphantly climbed out, a man on a mission in pursuit of the shiny disc. He didn’t hear the “click” of the latch falling back into place from its precarious position.
***
It was around two hours later that I sensed movement. A little boy, maybe 4, crept into the square in a white night shirt. His feet were bare on the cold cobblestones. His night shirt was well-made and clean, almost luminescent in its shining white. With his dark hair curling onto his forehead, a deep dimple on his rounded cheeks and his shirt of white cloth, he looked like a rosy-cheeked cherub one sees painted on the ceilings of great cathedrals. He wore only that thin cotton shirt and was shivering dreadfully. But still he carried on bravely, his chin set and his shoulders squared. He was lost, I supposed, or poor and homeless. Perhaps he was an orphan; perhaps he had wandered away from home. But I will not presume to know the details of his short life, nor will I pretend that they held any importance. He was a young child, alone, cold and shivering as the wind blew strong and the temperature kept dropping like a stone in water.
He stood transfixed by the fountain, as most children are when they see it for the first time. Then his eyes fell on the coin, and he waddled up to it, crouching and picking it up in a chubby hand. He sat down with a soft thump on his bottom and curled up into himself, turning the coin around in plump fingers. I could almost see the cold seep in from the frigid stones into his small frame. He was shivering dreadfully. “Get up,” I urged silently. And so, he did, his little feet red, raw and wet. The ice had made the stones slippery, and he lost his balance more than once. The water in the fountain was making loud sluggish noises as it struggled to move, now saturated with snow. The child toddled, with much difficulty, to a house on the side of the street.
He couldn’t get in.
He fumbled around on the floor, pushing futilely at a dog door. Then he stood, small fists banging the slick wooden door, making no sound, his kitten wails drowned out by the gale.
I didn’t move to him, not yet. Something burned in me. But an hour later I walked gently to his crumpled frame, his eyelashes spiked with frozen tears. And I held his hand and walked with him, his other small fist clenching the coin. There would be a fuss when they found the body. He smiled at me as we walked along. I had picked up an old man today from this house too; perhaps the two may entertain each other.
Statement Columnist Myrra Arya can be reached at myrra@umich.edu