Young men who sat on the ground and looked like they owned nothing more than the clothes on their back were generally ignored by the world, especially in big places or if they were not local.

But this wasn’t a big place and Chéri was no local. Everything was foreign to him, including the other young man sitting nearby and Chéri would have probably put him in the “other” box as well, had he not carried with his guitar something that was closer to him than anything else in Whitby.

Chéri walked long, light strides towards jewel, making no sound whatsoever, rendering themselves virtually weightless as he approached the musician. And when he was close enough to be absolutely sure that yes, the song was that song, Chéri stopped, a meter away from Jewel, open his mouth and with a sweet yet strong voice he sang, going up and down, like the waves.
“On a reste/ six ans sur mer - Sans pouvoir border la terre. - On a reste/ six ans sur mer - Sans pouvoir border la terre.” His voice threatened breaking every time he reached the “e” in “reste”, but transitioned stronger to the next word with a strength it did not seem to have and the “Rs” were harder and less French.

The song was in French, in this case, but Chéri sang like a Basque: loud and beautifully.