[...] Meanwhile, on the pavement, the nightmare had taken the form of a very old man clutching a guitar and singing (so to speak), first a little waltz, and then a tango. I caught a few snatches of lyrics that helped me recognise them. As for the notes he was attempting to extract from the guitar, not one bore the slightest relation to any kind of melody or harmony. He was using the guitar more like a percussion instrument, hitting all the strings at random with his rhythmic slapping. And the voice … all that was left of the old man’s voice was a pathetic squeak, and needless to say, it was completely tuneless and lacking intonation. I feel sorry for people like that, and I was ready to give him a few coins when he came over to our table. But he didn’t come over to anyone’s table at any point in the whole half hour we were sitting there; he went on singing and battering his guitar, and as soon as he finished one song he launched straight into the next. As if he was only trying to express himself.