"And I thought I knew this place from stem to stern" he mumbled, stumbling into this quiet, wood-panelled alcove, quiet and cool as a cave, and he found a leather armchair near the window and sat down. Leaning against the wall, hidden by a shadow from the chair that stopped the only light coming from a small, latticed window, he found an old sixstring. The fretboard was worn, the dark stain lightened where years of fingering had taken the finish away. The spruce top was yellowed, the lacquer finish alligatored as if some invisible spider had woven its web within the translucent surface. A mother-of-pearl rosette encircled the sound hole, glowing with a dim luster even in the darkness of this forgotten corner.
He picked it up, the string sounding a subdued note as the guitar settled against his thigh. He pressed down the E minor, feeling the soft give and smooth action, hearing the resonance that seemed to come not so much from the guitar as from the air around him. Quietly he began to sing

If I had possession over Judgement Day
If I had possession over Judgement Day
No woman without lovin'
Would have a right to pray

The voice, like the guitar, might have been inside his head rather than coming from the figure who sat ten feet from him, half-reclining on a couch. "Not bad. Robert wouldn't mind hearing that, I bet," it said. How long had the man been there? In the dim light of the room, he saw a figure dressed rather absurdly : silk shirt with ruff at the collar and cuffs, concho-studded leather belt, long legs clad in burgundy velvet, heavy-lidded eyes above a wide smile, long black hair that framed the even deeper black of his skin. A slim forefinger played gently across his chin. The man's fingers were disproportionately large, but seemed possessed of elegance and beauty.

"You know you look just like him," he said.

The figure smiled again and said "no, I really think he looks more like me. You have all the hand positions just right, man. It sounds real clean. You play with skill. Do you love to play?"

He smiled and said "thanks. Yeah I really enjoy playing."

The figure smiled and stammered a little as he said "no, that's cool. But do you love to play? Would you die if you couldn't."

He smiled, sadly. No, it didn't really mean that much. It was a thing to learn, and in the learning he had in fact lost something, some of the lust for the playing that departed in direct relation to the increase of the skill. He looked up to see the figure still gazing at him, still smiling, and it said " no, man, no. It's no tragedy. You see....I'll never be free of it. Never."

And without words the black man held his hands out, and he rose from the armchair and placed the guitar in his hands, the stranger's hand wrapping around the neck as he turned the guitar upside down, the long fingers of the right hand pressing gently on the strings, the left hand moving across the glowing rosette in a cascade of ringing notes. He held his breath for a span of time as the impossible melody summoned the sweep of sailing ships upon the ocean, the howl of cold winds against forlorn towers, the very turning of the earth on its great axis.

The visions flowed quietly on, melding with dreams until at last he awoke in the empty room, the guitar beside him where he had discovered it. He rose and walked to the window and found he had slept some time indeed, for the sky was rich with stars, and the half-moon had already risen high. Outside a cooling breeze had sprung up, as it sometimes did on Summer nights, and it found its way through the trees, and through the windows of the Tavern where it banished the heat of the long day, and fell among the revellers like a blessing.