HARRY

Saoirse was surprised to see an old Indian man sitting cross-legged under the arcade. He had a sitar across his lap, his straggly grey hair and beard flowed onto his orange, ankle-length kurta and he was writing in a small black notebook. When he looked up, his dark eyes met hers and he beamed radiantly.

‘Good morning madam’.

‘It’s a grand one.’ Said Saoirse mirroring his smile.

‘Indeed.’

Her smile lingered as she hurried to work on this fine Spring morning.

Saoirse Byrne was assistant office manager at a local law firm. However, despite her warmth, intelligence and attractiveness, she remained unattached. Her mother’s death and her older sister’s emigration to America, had left her to care for their brother Sean alone. Sean, now twenty-five, had a mental age of four. So, every weekday morning, she walked him to the day-care centre before heading to work.

It was only later she remembered stuffing a letter into her backpack as she hurried Sean out that morning. It was from the company who managed her building. The gist was the roof was in urgent need of replacement, and as a leaseholder Saoirse had to contribute €12,360 by the 31st of May.

She had barely enough to cover groceries until the end of the month, let alone finding nearly half her annual salary in under three months. Overcome with nausea, she dashed for the rest room.

As she washed her face, Audrey, a young lawyer who had recently joined the firm, entered and asked if Saoirse was okay.

Saoirse, started sobbing inarticulately until Audrey, rubbing her arms comfortingly, asked what the matter was. Saoirse showed her the letter.

‘Won’t the firm give you a loan? It’s chicken feed to them.’

In the mid-afternoon she tapped on Ronan O’Keefe’s door. A senior partner in the firm, he was a conventionally handsome and rather vain man in his mid-forties who had secretly lusted after Saoirse since she was a junior. Her curvaceous figure and seeming innocence contrasted favourably with his willow-thin wife. But having then only recently been made a junior partner, he’d decided not to risk his position. (Saoirse, for her part, having seen his behaviour around women, already had him down as a creep).

Ronan said he would consult with his partners - but secretly wondered how he could use her plight to his advantage.

Discomposed, Saoirse left work early.

Approaching the arcade, her mind was gridlocked with worry. “What if the partners say no? Who else can I ask?” But even as she wrangled with these hypotheticals, a mesh of sound – an interference pattern of notes – disrupted the rigid lines of her fears.

Drawing level with the arcade Saoirse remembered the old man. He was sitting cross legged and barefoot, his right hand plucking the sitar’s strings; his left hand flying nimbly up and down the frets, bending the strings, weaving a magical web of sound. Sinking down onto the bench opposite the arcade she closed her eyes as the music filled with her an ineffable calm.

Later, as Sean watched TV, Saoirse retreated to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine. The first glass made her weep. The second angry. Pouring the third she called her sister in Seattle on FaceChat. As soon as Orla appeared, Saoirse broke down, spilling out her problems, asking for help.

‘Twelve thousand Euros! Darlin’ I don’t have that kind of money, I work in a coffee shop.’

‘Mum left the flat to both of us Orla – and yes I’m living in it – but you left me lookin’ after Sean!’

Orla started to cry.

‘Saoirse, I have a lump in my breast, I don’t have insurance – and I’ve no money to come home!’

The next day, Ronan called Saoirse into his office. She perched on a chair as he slouched on his desk - his leg centimetres from her knee.

‘So, I spoke to the partners and the consensus was that lending money to employees was not a precedent the firm should set.’

She wondered who said that. Two of the partners were on vacation.

‘But all is not lost my dear. I can offer you a personal loan – and I’m sure we’ll find a way for you to repay me… don’t you think?’

She knew what Ronan had in mind, but desperation prevented her from refusing out of hand.

‘Thank you Ronan, that’s…er…kind. But I need to speak to my sister in America first. She may be able to help.’

‘I see… well don’t leave it too long.’

Sitting on the bench listening to the sitar, she considered Ronan’s proposition – she was repelled. But what alternative was there? She let the music wash over her. Until, opening her eyes she saw the old man was writing in his black notebook. He looked up at her and smiled his beautiful smile. She smiled back and walked over to him.

‘Thank you for your beautiful music.’

‘Music fills the infinite between two souls.’

‘That’s lovely! Did you write it?’

‘Not I, Rabindranath Tagore - a much greater poet.’ He indicated his black notebook ‘Thoughts are like butterflies. I try to catch them with my words.’

Saoirse noticed a neatly handwritten card at his feet: “A little can do much. But if you have nothing please take as much as you need.”

Saoirse took out some coins and placed them on his rug. ‘You have a beautiful soul. Goodbye.’

‘You are troubled. Make peace with yourself my dear.’

Saoirse lay awake that night. Could she bear to sleep with that repugnant creep to pay for a roof? And then there was Orla’s lump…

Saturday morning Sean wanted to look in jewellery shop windows; he had a magpie’s eye for sparkle. After visiting three jewellery shops, they found themselves near the arcade. A torrent of notes cascaded from the old man’s sitar. For Saoirse it reminded her of a cool morning before a hot day. Sean’s face was alight with wonder as they stood listening. The old man looked up.

‘Good morning. And who is this handsome young man?’

‘My Brother Sean - Say hello Sean.’

Sean turned his head away screwing up his eyes,

‘Nice to meet you Sean. My name is Harish – you can call me Harry.’

Sean froze.

‘He’s shy.’

‘Come Sean, help me play.’ Harry patted his rug invitingly.

Sean shook his head emphatically.

Harry caressed the strings gently, making a melodious tinkling. Sean opened one eye.

‘Go on Sean…’ Saoirse leaned forward and stroked the strings.

The sound was not pretty, but it emboldened Sean. He tentatively reached out his hand. Harry lifted the instrument nearer and Sean brushed the strings with his hand, then bringing his fists up under his chin, grimaced with excitement.

‘Shall we play together?’ Harry smiled encouragingly. But Sean lost his nerve and tried to hide behind his sister.

‘No? Another time maybe...’

‘Thank you Harry, I think next time.’

The old man paused for a moment. ‘I don’t know your name’

Saoirse told him.

‘Saoirse my dear, forgive me but you look tired.’

‘Too much thinking last night. Better luck tonight eh?’

‘Every difficulty avoided will be a ghost to disturb your sleep.’

Saoirse nodded. ‘Is that Togar..?’

‘Rabindranath Tagore. He also said depth of friendship does not depend on length of acquaintance. Please think of me if you need a friend’

‘Thank you Harry.’ Saoirse’s voice cracked and tears pricked her eyes. She

had never met a person who exuded such love before.

He pointed a forefinger upwards to the flats over the arcade. ‘Flat three.’

Saoirse’s weekend was overshadowed by Ronan’s proposition. She tried to convince herself that she could go through with it - if she closed her eyes and let it happen - but in the next moment shuddered with disgust.

On Monday dragging her feet towards work, she passed the arcade. Harry was tuning his sitar. He brought his hands together and bowed his head.

‘Good morning Saoirse. How are you?’

Saoirse shook her head mutely.

‘Come, sit.’

She knelt on the rug, suddenly spilling out her worries in a torrent. Harry listened. His deep eyes full of understanding.

‘As our teacher Tagore says - By plucking her petals he does not gather the beauty of the flower.’

‘But I have to keep a home for Sean’

‘Listen to your heart Saoirse, only your heart.’

Looking down at Harry’s veined, sensitive hands she nodded, she knew his wisdom grew from love.

At her desk, searching online she saw a local architects’ firm was looking for a client manager. She knew she could do that.

She tapped on Ronan’s door. He smirked from behind his desk.

‘Ah Soairse! Just as I was thinking we could meet for a drink later…’

‘No thank you Ronan.’

‘Really?’

‘I don’t want your money.’

Back at her desk, she felt empowered as she filled in the application for the architects’ job.

Walking back from work, Saoirse listened out for Harry’s sitar, but there was only silence. It filled her with foreboding.

But the next day he was there as usual. Saoirse told him how worried she’d been.

‘The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough.’

His smile reassured her, but later she found his cryptic reply unsettling.

The following day she got a call from the architects inviting her for an interview. On her way home she told Harry.

‘They will be lucky to get you.’

She was invited for a second interview and was offered the job.

As Summer bloomed, Saoirse’s sense of self-worth grew; Harry had taught her to live in the moment. Her new job was well paid and the people lovely. She only saw Harry at weekends now as she took a bus to work, but she was happier than she could remember. That is until she received a final demand from the property company, for the now overdue payment, in full, within seven days.

Then Harry disappeared.

That Saturday, Saoirse and Sean had approached the arcade expecting to find their friend playing. Instead they were greeted by an amplified guitar and the whining voice of a busker. The cashier at the convenience store opposite said she saw an ambulance outside the flats on Wednesday. Saoirse hurried back across the road and pressed Harry’s intercom. There was no answer. After several tries, she tried flat four.

Deirdre, a woman in her mid-forties, invited them in. Saoirse’s mouth dried when she spotted a sitar behind Dierdre’s sofa.

‘Is that Harry’s sitar?’

‘Er… yes darlin’. Did you say your name was Saoirse?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Would you like to sit down Saoirse.’

‘Has something happened to Harry?’

‘I’m sorry I thought he’d have told you…’

‘What? Told me what?’ Saoirse was panicking.

Sean picking up on her fear, started keening softly.

‘Harry had cancer.’ She paused. ‘The poor love died Thursday morning.’

Saoirse lowered herself into a chair, hardly breathing. Sean buried his head in her shoulder.

They walked home slowly carrying the sitar and a brown envelope. Harry had left the sitar to Sean. The envelope was for Saoirse. It contained Harry’s black notebook.

It was filled with pages of neat Hindu script, until she came to a page marked with a black ribbon – the writing was in English.

“Saoirse my dear - life is given to us, we repay by giving to others. My eternal love, Harish” Quaking with sobs, Soairse almost overlooked the slip of yellow paper that fell to the floor. It was a lottery ticket.

When she checked it later, she was staggered. It was worth sixteen thousand Euros. Later laying in bed, Harry’s words came to her: “…we repay by giving to others.” And she knew what she must do.

On final approach to Dublin Airport, Orla marvelled at Saoirse’s forgiveness. Despite everything, she was sharing the equivalent of twenty thousand dollars to save the family flat and pay for her hospital treatment.

As Saoirse hugged her at the airport, Orla felt blessed.