In the clear water lit by the sun and stirred by the waves, grains of sand shine like gold dust.
Once again to day, a yellow butterfly flutters past me while I stand in the sea. Again it is flying parallel with the beach, bound it seem for the rocks on the far side of the little bay.
He could be the subject of a short story. A tall man with a sad, narrow face and slightly bent shoulders, arrives outside the restaurant with a trolley. He unpacks the trolley to reveal a tape recorder, an amplifier, a music stand and a clarinette. He sets up his equipment and quietly adresses diners, although he appears to be talking to the empty tables nearest to him. Nobody can quite hear what he is saying. Following his speech, he switches on the tape recorder. It sounds like a theme from Mozart´s clarinette concerto. He raises his clarinette to his lips and proceeds to join in. To demonstrate that he is playing his part, he moves away from his loudspeaker and his contribution reaches our ears, thin, sad and not quite on cue. One more tune and his repetory is complete. He walks among the diners to collect what change they have to offer him.On successive nights he arrives and repeats the performance with precisely the same musical extracts. "He is a good man," says our waiter with a smile.