Saturday Nights

It’s not the same now. Nothing ever is, you know. The Village I knew so many years ago is gone, the people dispersed or dust now. But it was really quite a place then, the Village I knew. Streets filled with young people overstuffed with hope and ambition, armored in invincibility, suspended in time for so very few years between the generations of Kerouac and Leary. Coffeehouses in abundance, a few to a block. Intense conversations at every table, as often centered on existentialism as not. We were something way back then, I'll tell you.

Saturday nights – no, make that summer Saturday nights – were special. Washington Square was the great evening gathering place. From dusk on into the far corners of the night the Square was brimming with people and talk and song.

Let’s set the scene. It’s about 8:30 in the evening. The last dim glow of the day can still be seen in the west down the street between the buildings. In one corner of the park a man sitting on a bench takes an accordion from its case and begins playing while singing softly in Italian. The song’s Core ‘ngrato. From all over the Square singles, couples, trios and more begin to move toward him, drawn by the music. As they slowly coalesce and form a circle around him they start to sing along in Italian. The music slowly swells along with the group. Song after song, each louder, richer, perfumes the evening with under-notes of rich oregano, espresso, sambuca.Two policemen were assigned in those days to keep order. Their instructions were simple: keep groups from becoming crowds. [Crowds become mobs.] They stay together and stand, waiting, near the fountain. They talk police talk quietly to each other. Like scientists working with fissionable uranium, they have winkled out the exact size of a critical mass. They wait, talk, and watch.

At some point the growing group of singers triggers a response from the policemen. They walk slowly, without swagger, sure of their timing and the people’s response. When they reach the perimeter of the impromptu chorus they request politely for the singers to move on. There’s no argument. The singers know well the rules of the game. The crowd begins to disassemble; a living Lego destined for transformation.

In another corner of the park another musician, on cue, begins playing a guitar and singing; this time in Spanish. The people, strung out now in moving knots along the pathways, coalesce to form a new chorus. Again the singing, this time in Spanish, slowly grows louder. Cumin and sea-dark tannic tempranillo.The policemen, back at the fountain, wait and talk as before.

For hours the scene repeats itself. Each time the group, quicksilver-like, breaks up at the touch of the law and reassembles, the language of its songs magically changed. French, and the scents are tarragon and inky Bordeaux. Then Russian caviar and a samovar of Caravan tea. Next, Scandinavian aquavit and cardamom. The people join in, somehow knowing the words and spirit of the songs. The policemen talk in low tones and wait. And watch.

As the scene fades from memory, my eyes fill with an old man’s tears.