Horns

By a quarter to seven in the evening, the humidity has become so heavy that the sky itself seems to sag with weariness, exerting the last of its energy just to hold itself above the earth until the arrival of merciful nightfall. I have come down to Sanur for a New Year's Eve walk, but have drooped instead into a chair at Starbucks, content to watch the cars and motorbikes go by. Despite the sluggish heat, everyone seems in an unusual hurry, as if racing to make the most productive use of the several hours left in the waning year. On the walkway, a man is pushing a cart bulging with horns and hats and rattles and cotton candy. As he pushes the cart, he blows on one of the horns, and rather inventively so. He has missed his calling in life, I think. One can only imagine what he could do with a saxophone. He blows his horn and people honk the horns on their vehicles in reply, but no one buys the hats or horns or rattles or cotton candy. Nonetheless, the man plays his noisemaker, his serenade in B flat for paper trumpet and gas engine, white sleeves hanging from his spindly arms like sails on a windless sea.