Following a late brunch in the West Village, close by Greenwich Avenue, Noah and April headed for Washington Square Park. The Sunday warm-weather crowds were out in force. A pianist had wheeled his large ambulatory instrument close to the afternoon shadow of the arch and was playing an improvisation on a melody from a Rachmaninov concerto with loud flourish. The hordes of guitar players spread across the park strummed away in total discordance, echoes of their songs clashing indifferently against each other in the sultry air, and the resident pigeon lady sat further south against her usual railing, busy knitting. Around the fountain, children and adults dipped their toes in the water while tourists snapped photos on their sleek mobile phones. A street fair filled the side roads on the other side of the park by the tall university buildings, stalls alternately offering aromatic bites, handcrafted jewellery and other items Noah would never have contemplated gifting even to his worst enemies.
