Nikola’s hair was slicked back and parted on the side—he wore a white shirt and a brown vest with oversized shoulder pads. His trousers were at least two sizes too big, and they were made of thick woollen fabric. He wore white leather loafers. That was the way Almira dressed him. He held the trumpet that Tobar had lent him, sucked up the humid river air and blew into it. It made sounds that were an entire universe of music, the most beautiful sounds he had ever created. When he stopped playing, people around him clapped in approval.
Moving heavily in his outsized clothes, Nikola approached the main stage, which was now empty. His muscles were sore. The ten-dinar bill that Baba had given him for the trip was soaking wet in his shirt pocket as he had been sweating for hours. Nikola thought about buying a cold soda but quickly rejected it as he couldn’t read the menu for the drinks, and he didn’t have the confidence to ask for help. Anyway it’ll be a waste of money, he thought. I’ll just drink some water from the stream.
Nikola sat down to rest under a chestnut tree, feeling tired. His bones ached. He spread out on the ground and began to cry—soon falling asleep on the dried grass.
A buzzing mosquito woke him up. It was already dark and stars lit up the night sky. It felt strange to him that he was somehow free, with no one looking after him. He wasn’t hungry, and he didn’t have to collect cardboard. There was no one here to ask him to fill buckets with water or burn the rubbish.
And the trumpet bands clashed. Horns rang out from all directions.
Nikola dashed down the hill.
“The Roma are never shy. They can’t be or they will die of hunger,” Deda used to say. Instead of breaking into the crowd, pulling the shirt sleeves of wealthy-looking men and tourists, playing for them and handing out compliments while they danced, and asking for more and more dinars, Nikola stood alone on the pavement, holding the trumpet. He stood there a long time.
“Look! There’s that boy with the trumpet!” a man shouted out. “He can play for us if everyone else is busy. Let’s ask him.”
A well-dressed family of four stood there. Two girls—one younger than him, one Saida’s age. The father pulled out a bill from his pocket and handed it to one of the girls.
It must be nice to have a father who pulls out money from his pocket and hands it to you, Nikola thought.
The eldest daughter handed the money to Nikola. Her eyes shone brightly.
“Here,” the teenage girl said. “Can you play for us?”
She was giving him a ten-dinar bill. A ten-dinar bill! Ten dinars was a lot of money. He would have had to collect paper for three nights to earn ten dinars.
“Papa, he is not playing. Do you think that he understands?”
“He may be shy.”
The father came up to Nikola. His face was friendly and gentle. The wrinkles around his eyes squinted as he talked. “Won’t you play something for us? All the big bands are busy for the night.”
Nikola finally took the ten-dinar bill that the girl held out, folded it up and stored it with the one that Baba had given him.
He had to play now. He recalled what Baba had said about how a real trumpeter didn’t ask what to play. He played what he felt. With his eyes shut, he placed his lips on the trumpet and played.
“I love that song!” shouted the younger girl.
Nikola pressed and blew, bent and curled, swayed with the sound like a cobra—then knelt and stood up again. He couldn’t see whether the family liked his music or not, because he kept his eyes closed and just played.
When he finished, Nikola was silent like a caterpillar in his cocoon listening to the loud applause. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and startled him, and there was the trumpet player whose face was on all the festival posters.
There was a crowd in front of him: blonde and red-haired tourists, women carrying bags and umbrellas, little children eating ice cream and crepes, and drunken young men with rolled-up shirt sleeves and gold necklaces with their girl friends in high heals leaning on their muscled arms.
He heard voices call out: “He is the festival champion!” “The greatest star of all time!” “He won the Golden Trumpet last year!”
And that famous trumpet player stood there looking at Nikola kindly, resting his hand on his shoulder, holding his trumpet in his other hand.
“What is your name?”
“Nikola Seich,” muttered Nikola.
“The world will hear about Nikola Seich and his brass trumpet. You are very gifted. Did you know that?”
“No,” answered Nikola.
“My name is Drago Nadic. I won the top prize last year. I’m in the competition this year, but tonight I decided to play on the street. I was just walking by when I heard you playing, and I was stunned to find out that you were just a boy.”
Nikola didn’t know what to say.
“What other songs do you know?” asked Drago.
“This is the only song I play well.”
“The Roma say that ‘the fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.’ It is better to do one thing well, than many things poorly. I am sure that you can play other songs as well. Let’s try this one.”
So, they played. And the crowd grew, throwing more money into a box. Dancing chocek and kolo. Begging for more.
Nikola and Drago moved around, playing in the tents, at the hotel, on the street. Their fingers flew over the notes for hours.
Nikola didn’t know what time it was when Drago said that he needed to sleep. He counted the money they had earned and slid some banknotes into Nikola’s pocket. “Find your friends, Nikola, and get some rest. It was a long night. But I must see you tomorrow. This is the beginning of your music career. Come tomorrow at noon to the main stage and sit in front. I will be performing with my band and would like to call you up to play ‘Carnival in Paris’ with me. You do it so well. Do you want to play together with me on the stage?”
“I have been dreaming all my life that I might play trumpet with a brass band on the stage in Guča.”
“Then we’ll make sure that your dream becomes true tomorrow. Here is my card with my phone number. You can study trumpet with me.”
Nikola stood there. Silent.
“You can always find me at the Golden Trumpet Hotel. I have coffee there every morning from eight to ten. If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. I am happy to help a young talented musician like you.”
He handed the card to Nikola. On one corner of it was a golden trumpet. Then the man walked into the night.
Where was he going? He didn’t remember from which direction they had come to Guča. The streets looked different than before, and nothing seemed familiar. The café where he was supposed to meet Rika was closed, and the lights of the hotel were out—only an occasional human figure meandering through the darkness.
It was too late to look for Rika. He couldn’t find the way back himself and had nowhere to go. There was a statue of a man blowing a trumpet in the central square. Nikola sat on the bench underneath it, squeezing the instrument between his knees. He felt dizzy and fell asleep.