White Hair and an Umbrella

by Carlos Ferreira (Portugal)

Making a local connection United Kingdom

If you ever find yourself in Leicester Square, deep in the heart of London, look for the man with the white hair and the umbrella. He will come. He always comes. At seven o’clock sharp. Everyday. He will stop in front of the cinema and stare at the film listings. He’ll look at the blue lit screen and read it for a few minutes. Too many minutes. His right hand will be inside his pocket and his left will hold an old umbrella. It’s black and its metal tip will be resting on the ground, carelessly, waiting for him. I hope you do see him. And I hope he makes you feel as curious as he made me feel. Movies don’t change every day, but that doesn’t seem to disturb his ritual that, one way or another, seems sacred. I watched him do that over and over again, day after day, night after night. Maybe going to the movies was an old habit that he refused to abandon, a passion that demanded complete devotion from him. He certainly seemed to be that kind of man. The kind that does everything with complete devotion. He was always impeccably dressed underneath the parka, with a three-piece suit that is now a lot looser than it was ten years ago. The handkerchief sat perfectly in the front pocket and the necktie was always twisted into a magnificently crafted Half Windsor knot. And not once did I see his white hair poorly trimmed. Everything was always perfect. Everything. Except his shoes. Those were old and worn out. Maybe he spent his days walking. Maybe he walked around London trying to deceive time, that refused to pass fast enough so that he could meet his wife again. Maybe he had to say goodbye too early, a long time ago. Yes…maybe that was it. Maybe it was even her who insisted that they’d go to the movies for the first time, years and years ago. And then the next week, and the week after that. Maybe they always went to the Leicester Square movie theater on Fridays. Or maybe on Tuesdays. Maybe the reason he pondered so much in front of the listings was because she still kept him company during the sessions, hiding in the front pocket of his shirt. Maybe he just wanted to make sure he was picking the right movie. And if so, maybe she would smile as he fought against a tear during the part the protagonists hold hands. I only approached him once. He was nice. I stared at the blue screen too and asked him if he had any suggestions. He said “whichever one makes you laugh throughout and cry at the end”. His voice was harsh but he wasn’t. Then I asked him if he was waiting for someone and he said “Someone is waiting for me rather. Enjoy your movie!”. Then smiled and strolled away. I wasn’t sure about much, but I knew he was from right there, from the heart of the city. He walked without paying attention, as if he knew every corner, every piece of the pavement, every car that passed by, spinning on his hand the umbrella that would protect him from the inevitable London rain. I remember thinking it was fitting that, of all the cities in the world, he was from that one. Every time I’ve ever been to London it seemed like, despite everything being fast and different, the city itself never changed. Everything shifted since the last time I was there. The people, the cars, the buildings. But then the night falls, you see the roads shining from the rain and hear a street artist in the distance and realize it still feels the same. No matter how much changes in the city, some things will always remain the same. Some men will always remain the same. I never really got his name but, if I ever feel like asking, I’ll know where to find him. And if he’s not there, well…he has probably found what he was looking for. I hope so. We all love a happy ending.