The Vagabond’s Song

“Been talked out out loud, for millennia...” “Babe I’ll be, blinded by enemies...” The mysterious traveler sings quietly to herself “it’s the underground...” She rounds a corner onto an antiquated canal bridge, polka dot umbrella swinging in one hand, little black book tucked under the other.

She stops to jot down the words that she’s mumbling. “Yea... mmhm. Every new me’s got a new pair of shoes.” “Been traversing the world... just to let go of you...” Her lyrics lilt and jostle up and down the rain soaked cobble stone causeway.

A stray rock ricochets off the tip of her platform patent leather black boots, causing a splash in the placid canal down below. “I’m a Vagabond, I gotta keep moving on.”

The street corner is so quiet she can hear her own heart beat as she stops again to furiously scribble down these new words from her imagination into that little black book. Some moments later, our mysterious traveler continues down the canal route, lost in translating songs from whispers to whistles to words. “Yea, every new generation’s got a new way to feel blue...” “Been working three or four jobs and we can’t afford to pay for food...” She half sings, half whispers. “I’m a Vagabond, I gotta keep moving on.”

Stumbling through a four way crossing, head in the clouds, our traveler looks up at the setting sun. Setting down her umbrella and her little black book she stoops to tie up her boots. “Lace my boots up high, yea you know its time to fly, I’m a Vagabond I...” Distracted by the clicking of a dogs toe nails on the stone street the mysterious traveler looks up and sees the sunset.

As if awakening from a dream, a blue-lavender hue sets low over the city. Rain drops start falling gently, coating everything in a slick sheen. Twinkling lights shine bright over bridges on canal systems, guiding latent ships home from afternoons fishing.

Bicycles click on by, an old Scotty dog’s paws click clacking on the cobblestones, the pup’s pace quickens after it’s owner’s stiff stride. The foot falls and the bike tires linger and mix with soft rain. The city soundscape a delicacy for a music producer in training. Our vagabond traveler continues to sing. “I’m a Vagabond, I gotta keep moving on.”

Lights click on almost audibly in the cafe across the street, a beacon for a warm place to eat. Somewhere nearby in Amsterdam an ancient church bell tolls the hour. It’s midsummer, yet the chill of rain draws our mysterious traveler into that nearest cafe. A dimly lit meal and a window seat from which to watch the locals return home from work are just the inspiration she didn’t know she needed.

Inside of the heavy old wooden door painted a mossy green, our traveler sets her umbrella and journal down onto a glossy window-side bar. She saunters up to counter to order. Meandering back to her table some minutes later with a cup of hot milk and cocoa on a stick, she settles down onto the window seat. Absent minded, she pulls her little black book over to her, opening the center fold.

Expecting to re-read her own lyrics, our mysterious traveler stares blankly at the little book in astonishment. Somehow, someway, her little black book has been replaced with another. The new book is identical on the outside, yet it is chalk full of masterful pen and ink drawings of figures and of landscapes. She is impressed if not flabbergasted. She has seen their likeness only in the Baroque masters’ works inside of museums.

Surveying the cafe to find a culprit for the exchange, our mysterious traveler recognizes nobody of note. Only the bartender buffing champagne flutes and two older men in the corner, booth absorbed in a game of bat-gammon inhabit the place, otherwise it’s empty.

Intent on finding an answer, the mysterious traveler beings to pour through page after page of the replacement sketch book. She examines each page, each drawing with scrutiny and yet she finds nothing, not even a name.

Finally, the traveler reaches the end of the little black book and notices something hidden in the inside the pocket of the back cover. She reaches one ring studded finger inside that pocket, and discovers a letter, written in English, presumably to her.

‘Rembrandt House Museum, 9am sharp. 3rd Floor, West Wing.’ There is no signature, no name, no telephone number.

The following morning, dawning her starched black petticoat, black jeans and high top lace up black patent leather boots, the mysterious traveler dashes out of her room. A nearby clock tower tolls nine. She quickens her pace. No time to stop for a pastry along the way, she’s already late.

Inside the famed Rembrandt House Museum, all is a muffled quiet. Ancient exposed wood-beam ceilings lend to the atmosphere of a private residence. Clearing the ticket booth to enter the first floor exhibit, she notices several mature couples strolling together, arm in arm. For an instant, our mysterious traveler contemplates how nice it would be to spend her Tuesday mornings appreciating Fine Art with a life-partner.

Snapping to attention she dashes up the stairs to the second floor which is quieter still. She sees just a few people wandering about from portrait to landscape, admiring the art. One little boy in a navy blue jumpsuit sits kicking his booted legs lazily as his mother is engrossed in a particular portrait of an old man.

Ascending to the third floor, a little out of breath, our traveler takes a moment to discover which direction is west. The antiquated wood paneled floors quake under her thick platforms. She is painstakingly aware of disrupting the impenetrable quiet. Come to think of it, her life has been one long series of penetrating quiet places, of disrupting the status-quo. There is not another soul on this floor, so far as she can tell.

A sign over an arched doorway confirms her direction. ‘West Wing, Pen and Ink’ is written in both Dutch and English. To the mysterious traveler’s muted surprise, the drawings on the wall are nearly identical to the ones in the little black book which she is clutching under her arm. “It’s Rembrandt!” She gasps.

The West Wing of the third floor of the Rembrandt House Museum is completely empty when she arrives. Our mysterious traveler takes a spin around the room, admiring the identical drawings to those that she carries. After a moment or two she begins to get a little impatient, assuming that nobody is coming for the exchange of the little black books. She turns on her heal to leave the room when out of nowhere she hears a woman’s deep baritone. “You’re late.”

Turning to face this aberration of a woman, our traveler comes face to sternum with an impossibly tall figure. The ageless, Baroque painting of a woman holds out one hand in a commanding fashion. Our traveler stumbles over herself, fumbling with the little black book that she carries, she can’t seem to return it fast enough to appease this woman’s menacing gaze.

In exchange, the very tall, ageless woman slips the original little black book out from a deep pocket in her skirts. With a glance, she is gone. Disappearing as if into thin air. The surrounding room creaks and settles after her departure, adjusting to the weight of just one traveler.

Left standing in the now empty West Wing, our traveler notices the ominous way in which all of the Baroque figures seem to be staring at her. With a shiver, she looks to leave. As our traveler exists, she can’t help but notice, the last pen and ink drawing on the right wall looks suspiciously familiar. The drawing depicts an impossibly tall, ageless woman with thick skirts and a commanding presence.

Within a few short moments, our mysterious traveler is downstairs again, pushing open the exit door to the Rembrandt House Museum. Looking back at the aging building, she notices that the door is the same heavy, mossy green color as the door to the cafe the night before. She shivers once more, feeling the weight of coincidence or of a higher force.

Quickening down the cobble stone street outside the museum, our traveler looks around for a quiet place to sit, to recuperate from her outlandish experience. Catching her breath, she spies a sunlit stone bench facing a bright, pansy lined canal. She settles down onto that bench and pulls out her own little black book. She’s searching for some kind of marking, for proof of the exchange, for proof that she’s not in fact, going crazy.

The book is hers alright, she sighs deeply, relieved that all of her lyrics are intact. Our traveler then notices a new addition, a large bulge in the back cover. She places a ring studded finger inside of the back pocket only to discover a weighty Manila envelope. As she opens the clasps she gasps, seeing stacks of Euro notes inside the envelope. Without counting the cash she can tell that it’s enough to record that album she’s been yearning to unleash. The very same album that is contained within the pages of the little black book that’s balancing on her knees.

Beaming with disbelief, she decides then and there not to tell a soul about this experience. They wouldn’t believe her anyway. Silently she looks skyward and thanks the Universe. As if there there were ever proof of a miracle, this would be that proof. She’s shook. It’s simply too good to be true, and yet it is, the truth.

Above the sunlit stone bench, facing the pansy lined canal, grows an ancient Wisteria vine. Purple flowers drip off the blood red bricks. Bicycle tires click in unison with bird songs and intermingle with lilting conversation. A Scotty dog’s claws quicken their click clacking, catching up with the long stride of a tall Dutchman.

Our mysterious traveler, beaming from ear to ear, whistles her Vagabond song to anyone that may overhear. “Lace my boots up high ... yea you know it’s time to fly ... I’m a vagabond ... I gotta keep moving on.”