Sofisticated Terrorism

This story took place a few days ago. It was the last day of my holiday, and I thought I’d have a last stroll through the city before I had to return back home. I talked to my brother in the morning and arranged to meet for lunch. He works at one of the major architecture offices, and as I hadn’t been there before I was quite thrilled to see what he’d been up to the last couple of months. So we decided to meet there. It was a ten minute walk there from the train, and just a few yards from station I walked by a man playing the accordion. Not very inspired, but it was nice somehow, because he was standing in a gallery which is always pretty effective with its good acoustics. I walked through the mall, and right outside I encountered another accordionplayer. He was a lot younger and equally livlier, but still, they sounded alike. I even think they played the same song. For some reason I noted the name of the bridge he was standing on, and realized I didn’t know it before, even though I’ve crossed it many, many times. I left the Peace Bridge behind me and turned another corner.

To my astonishment there was yet another man playing the same instrument as before, and now I really started to worry. I had this this unsettling feeling that they were all part of some evil masterplan, synchronized to play the same repertoire, and I made up my mind that if I heard a fourth player I had to alarm someone. I did. Not ring any bells or anything, but I did hear another accordion. Suitably right outside the cathedral. By now I was utterly convinced that this was the terrorists latest scheme. How sofisticated! Simply ship busloads of them into the country (none of the musicians were native), scatter them around the cities armed with their lethal instruments and well rehearsed muzac, and then let them play for all they’re worth! Had I stayed just a little longer I think I had had to kill myself, and I’d probably had taken a few of my poor fellow citizens with me, just to spare them the agony.

I rushed up to my brothers work and told him that the end was near. “Silly sister”, he said and took me to lunch, “the one by the cathedral is actually quite good, you should hear him jamming with that old Galois-smoking, trumpet-playing Frenchman.”

It was evident that all this was purely a result of my sometimes too vivid imagination playing tricks on me, not to mention a desire for interesting plots. These poor musicians were probably just refugees trying to make a living in an unfamiliar country.

And in fact, I do love the accordion, just listen.