MADRIGAL

The customers who came in just before closing time were not of the usual sort. The man was slim like a pocketknife, with hair that came to a point. The woman, teakettle-stout, had a large macramé bag slung crossbody. Porter thought for a moment that they meant to rob him. He slid down the counter to the spot with the silent alarm on the underside, and when the woman reached into her bag he got his finger on the button. What came out was not a gun but a small metal disk with letters around the edge. She pressed it to her lips and blew for a tone, and then the pair of them began to sing. The sound was lovely, their voices twining around each other, the melancholy at first and then heavenly, the song conveying a movement of the heart, the melody rising, falling, sailing up, swinging down, though Porter didn’t understand a word of it. When they paused, he asked what language it was. “A type of Italian,” said the woman. “Though not completely,” the man said. “It’s mixed and matched. Oltremontani, you know.” Porter did not know. “Can we sing you another?” said the woman. “This one is at first just a solo.” She began to sing, and he saw that she had the finer voice of the pair. She sung in English of a city high on a hill that was to be conquered by love. Porter smiled to himself. His store was on a hill, and like the hill in the song, it had a trio of trees at the base that served as sentinels. He marveled at the coincidence to the point where he did not notice the thin man coming around behind him with a rope and a hot metal stick. “That’s what they do,” said the policeman, six hours later. “Come in, sing, make a dreamy evening of it, then tie ‘em up and brand ‘em.” The losses from the robbery were estimated at eight thousand dollars.

©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas