The sun peeked carelessly from behind the clouds onto the gray streets. Just yesterday, it had been a warm morning, but the weather has a way of surprising us. Fortunately, there wasn't much wind. Despite this, my journey dragged on relentlessly. Finding the tenement house proved much more difficult than I had anticipated. In this very quiet neighborhood, each house seemed similar to the next. The old windows, peeling plaster, and painted walls were oppressive. They made the average person feel uneasy in this place. And so it was with me. Finally, I decided to go for it and turned into the narrow gateway.
The windows still dimly reflected the barely reaching rays of sunlight. The tenement yard was shrouded in a single, vast shadow. A chill breeze blew. In the distance, I could occasionally hear the sound of a trash can lid, a cat meowing, or a faint cry. I stood amidst all this "peaceful noise" and pondered the accuracy of my aim. I glanced at the note. On a crumpled piece of paper, I had scribbled the address of my friend I was going to, along with a brief description of his residence. Unfortunately, the note had become stained during my morning coffee. Furthermore, the house number had soaked through, leaving me to rely solely on the description to guide me. A terrifying creaking sound, however, quickly roused me from my momentary lethargy. One of the tenants had opened his window onto the courtyard and thrown a can out, hitting a sign next to the garbage can. He summed up his incompetence with a simple statement, which is beyond quoting. I stood there motionless and watched. A moment later, the room with the open window was filled with music. And not the kind we normally hear at a philharmonic hall, but the kind we hear during performances by young street artists. Regardless of the other tenants, the speakers boomed with full force.
I felt a strange sensation, as if I weren't alone. Before I could even turn around, a short man emerged from behind me and walked past me toward the front door. This man clearly wasn't living the life he wanted. Even though his back was to me, I noticed holes in his pants and a torn trouser leg. Something bottle-shaped was clearly sticking out of his pocket, which he tried to conceal by pressing his holey gloved hand against his old coat. Watching all this, I wanted to hope that what I was seeing was merely a rarity in this neighborhood. But no matter how strongly I believed it, my knowledge gave me ample evidence that this was no exception.
I have no idea how long I stood there, staring at this unsettling sight. After what I saw, I felt overwhelmed. However, one thought successfully pushed through my preoccupation – this wasn't the right building. I was about to turn back toward the street when something else caught my eye. Before the man could enter the staircase, a young woman emerged. Her red sneakers gleamed on her feet. The trousers, quite baggy, split into two legs just above her thighs. The boy was adjusting the jacket he'd so casually put on at home when he spotted the man he'd passed a split second later. His instinctive reaction at the sight of the poor man wasn't a contemptuous glance, but rather a stop and holding the door open for the man who entered. It didn't matter what condition he was in or what he was wearing. Despite his unusual appearance, he recognized his superiority as an adult and helped. This seemingly trivial act took me completely by surprise. The eighteen-year-old, seemingly indifferent to the fate of others, stooped to such an act. A gesture unworthy of a tough guy.
The sun began to peek out from behind the clouds with increasing eagerness. It was getting brighter and warmer. Surprised by what I saw, yet intrigued, I walked deliberately slowly toward the exit of the building. After a few seconds, as I suspected, the young man in baggy trousers passed me and, oblivious to anyone, went on his way. Since I hadn't arranged to meet with my friend for a specific time, I decided to follow him. I was curious what made this young man act so differently from his peers? I wanted to see if I could find an answer.
A few minutes from where we first met, there was a small park. In fact, this conventional name was given to it by the local residents themselves. As I learned from an elderly woman selling fruit at a nearby stand, the city mayor was supposed to designate this area for the construction of a real park, but it ended up being just a vestibule with a few benches and newly planted trees. The rest of the land was purchased by a private company for the construction of a parking lot, so the park idea was shelved for future development. However, this didn't stop regulars from enjoying this patch of lawn and the picturesque flowers that covered it.
Dewdrops were still dripping from the leaves, and the light traffic nearby allowed me to enjoy nature before the throngs of cars rushing by. I continued following my target, stepping along the densely paved walking path. At one point, the boy stopped for a moment. He looked around and chose a bench. He strode toward it with purposeful steps and a moment later was sitting comfortably. There was something interesting about his movements, something that encouraged me to wait a moment longer and see what he would do. So I slowed down and, observing him closely, began to stroll lightly around the square. The young man reached into his pants and pulled out a disc player and a nicely packaged CD from his spacious pockets. He opened the box and, accompanied by the birdsong, inserted the disc into the player. Then he reached for his headphones and placed them in his ears. I couldn't resist my curiosity. After all, if he was listening to his subculture's music now, why was he leaving the house, where it was probably blaring at the top of his lungs? I walked toward him and, pretending I wasn't interested, sat down on the same bench as him. His
dark eyes looked at me without much emotion, but after a moment, a smile appeared on his face. So I smiled back and looked up at the sky, as did my companion. The clouds, with their characteristic monotony, slowly drifted away, leaving the sky clearer and clearer. The sun was gaining strength and warming up ever more pleasantly. It promised to be a beautiful day, perfect for relaxing. I lowered my head and, out of the corner of my eye, caught sight of the CD case. Although everything these days is copied to MP3s and transferred to computers, his CD was genuine. And more importantly, it confirmed my suspicions. It wasn't hip-hop, it wasn't even techno. Antonio Vivaldi was ringing in his ears!
Despite the growing din, I tried to listen to the sparse sounds coming from his headphones, which, incidentally, were intended only for his ears at that moment. The young man, eyes closed, listened intently to the melody, slightly moving his head, his face reflecting each powerfully recorded note. His lips slowly separated, only to melt together again a moment later. His eyes once again looked skyward. I would never have expected such emotional capture of classical music from a man seemingly arrogant and brash. The only thing I managed to hear were the moving final violin fragments of the "Allegro non molto" from the F minor concerto, part of the "Winter" act. I remember how I used to love listening to this piece, so I couldn't have failed to recognize it even from such a meager dose of sound. I smiled to myself and felt in my heart how unfairly we sometimes judge people. I realized that it's enough to learn even a fragment of a person's day to change my opinion of them, based on their appearance and the first impression they make on us. I looked at the boy again and noticed a small tear. It rolled slowly and heavily down his cheek, probably saturated with sadness and emotion. This youngster's sensitivity made a profound, positive impression on me.
At that moment, I felt a nudge on my knee. I suddenly looked up, having been staring at the ground for seconds, and looked. It turned out the nudge was caused by a small Dalmatian running freely through the park, dragging its leash behind it. Its eyes, filled with canine kindness, looked at me as if inviting me to play. The animal, tail wagging happily, barked and leaned down, sniffing my hand. However, it moved a step away and sat down, then stood and approached again. Its uncertainty was palpable, but it was hardly surprising. His owner, I noticed, was a good dozen meters away, nervously calling him to his heel. The dog lacked confidence and calm at that moment. However, animals can sense good people. The Dalmatian licked my hand, but when I extended it to him, he immediately jumped away. This time, he headed toward my companion.
The boy was no longer listening to the music. The bark likely caused him to emerge from the pervading sound, and he managed to put his music away. He rose from the bench, adjusted his pants, but instead of moving toward him, he crouched down and extended his hand to the dog. Surprisingly, the Dalmatian approached the young man, sniffed his hand, and allowed him to place it on his back. For the next few moments, I watched the boy pet the dog, and the dog sniffed his clothes and face. Without a doubt, the animal recognized him as someone special, someone he could trust. Humans don't have that instinct. Finally, a nervous owner approached his pet, grabbed the leash on the ground, and pulled the Dalmatian to his side. "You should accept the animal's desire for freedom," the man in baggy trousers spoke for the first time. The older man narrowed his eyes, the sun peering into them inquisitively, and said, as if with contempt, "What would you know about that?" before moving on. The dog, however, remained where it was, which ended as in every such case. The owner jerked violently on the leash and demanded obedience to his commands. The young man looked after the animal and, in a barely audible voice, replied, "You don't even know how much," then, stepping on small pebbles, set off in the direction from which he had come. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and stared at the ground, but I didn't let him get far.
"Wait!" I called after him, loud enough for him to hear me and react. "What do you want from me?" "You're not like the others..." I replied, hoping for some kind of reaction. "Who cares?" he asked. "Why don't you just be yourself?" I inquired, intrigued by what I had experienced in his strangeness. "Because without the acceptance of those around me, I wouldn't have survived even a week here..." he replied in a calmer voice, a hint of sadness evident in his voice.
In the sunlight, the young man glanced at me one last time and turned away. He stood there for a second longer, then moved toward the building he'd come from. Only his footprints remained on the slightly warped stone floor. I stood there for a moment longer, pondering his words and the message he wanted to convey. Suddenly, a blow shook me violently. Two similarly dressed young men walked past me, one of whom deliberately hit me with his shoulder. Looking up at him, I was met only with a sinister gaze, filled with terror. "People are as different as snowflakes," I thought, watching these two blockers entering the same building as my recent interlocutor.
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