…Another man who caused me a particular impression in that place was the afflicted, aged, scrawny, eyeless doorman of the inn. I do not know it positively, but he was probably mute, too. I never heard, not a word, but any sound whatsoever coming out from his oral cavity. At least, he undoubtedly wasn’t deaf withal…
He would only appear late in the evenings, after the denizens thinned out. He emerged out of the shanty where he lived, in the yard’s corner by the gate, and slowly advanced towards us, groping the way with his walking stick. He would then sit discreetly in some chair by himself, where he seemed to be tuning himself in and attending our various discussions with great interest.
He always gave me the impression – by twitches of his body parts and other reactions – that he very well understood what was said. That amazed me, for even among the younger generations, very few people in this city knew even the most basic English.
Some nights again, when we stayed up playing music until late, he would get closer and stand right in front of us. He listened to the music keenly, with deep emotions depicted on his face, which suggested that if he had eyes, they would have teared.
The story you've just read is a part of my "Real Stories of Real People" collection, wherein I narrate my encounters with various remarkable characters I've run into while traveling around the world. The entire collection is published on my blog and may be read here. But if you'd like to get them with you to the beach in your ebook reader or as a physical book, and very appreciatedly support my creative activity, go ahead and grab your copy from Amazon for the cost of a cup of coffee.
