Jazz is dead. Jazzmen are now roaming through this town the way ghosts do because nobody wants to hear jazz anymore.
This Italian guy with a small child and a violin. What's his name? Giuseppe? Giuseppe something? I think I know him, I recognise his face from an old poster that was featured on every wall of this town. Giuseppe used to play in a swing band that was once part of an Oscar Peterson ensemble. That was seventeen years ago.
Giuseppe's eyes look tragic, and so does the long face of his violin. It's lying stretched on the coffee table and the child has put his banana milkshake on top of the brown case. I think I know how this will end. It will end the way it always does: Giuseppe will drink his double espresso, put on his coat and leave.
However, this time I'm willing to walk up to Giuseppe and ask him to play. Because I like jazz and I can still remember those balmy, moonlit performances which he gave years ago.
'Giuseppe?' I ask as I approach him.
To which he nods, spilling his double espresso all over his pants, and I take the violin out of the case and start playing "My Heart Stood Still" to the half-empty cafe. And to my son, whose face is smeared with banana milkshake and who is looking at me in quiet disbelief.
