I also liked the English for the
vein of pride that made them feel united in the name of the queen or the
homeland, or even more simply of the land where they were born, and even
earlier, in the name of their their ancestors; or the simple and spontaneous transport
with which they stood up to sing the national anthem or a popular song at the last glass of the Cockney Pride, when the
three ringing of bells closed the time of the drinking stir until the next
morning .
Leicester Square was a favorable
attraction and an ideal stage for an innumerable series of improvised artists
but no less skilled and entertaining than many self-styled professionals of the
show: mimes, jugglers, singers, dancers and show-men with different
characteristics .
One of these was "Uncle
Fred", an old man who owed his name to the skill with which he performed
the "tip-tap" dance, from the those times best world skilled tip-tap dancer Fred Astaire.
Uncle Fred's
"performance" was performed in an improvised clearing, just a stone's
throw away from my post. The octogenarian slim man placed on the ground a metal display of
theatrical billboards that, appropriately deprived of the supporting rod,
served as a platform for his skillful and fast dance. And just as skilled and
fast, the same old man, immediately after his dance, passed with his hat for
the offers. And he never failed to withdraw it full of coins.
One day I realized that "Uncle
Fred" had to act with the help of a lookout supporting man, because once I saw him suddenly leave his thick crossroads of
extemporaneous spectators (which invariably formed recalled by the sound rhythm
of his dance steps), and headed out towards me, mimicking with rapid gestures
of the right hand, the request for a drink.
He just raised his eyes from the
glass of orange juice, which I had promptly offered, to the passage of a round
of bobbies that, bewildered and suspicious, watched that group of spectators
waving around that metal sign paved senseless
on the ground.
"Uncle Fred", on that
occasion, told me about how, a provincial dancer, he had tried without luck the
great jump in the capital. Not being ready to lick anyone's ass, he had remained
anonymous. And when he told me his age, I wanted to ask him the secret of his
surprising agility; he confessed that he was in good shape with a breakfast of
tea, ham, buttered toasts and boiled egg, without any alcohol nor smoke.
I did not have time to ask him
anything else because he turned away, after giving me an affectionate and light
nudge of understanding, leaving me with that empty glass in my hand, thinking
about how life jerks us, between alternating fortunes, driven by an unstoppable,
mysterious and distant force.
21. to be continued...
