The Passing Life of the Abandoned Bandoneón

The yard sale is in the stony drive beside a trailer. The weeds are breaking through, and everything that was once inside the trailer is emptied onto the hard, bright gravel. Broken figures of courtiers, old license plates, dark clothes of wool, bits of paper, things with too many sequins crowd the card tables. Three old men sit under a tree, and in the only shade of a 90-degree day lies one object by itself.

The case is worn, and the ivory on the buttons is nearly worn away. The folds of its body are like parchment, but inside are still imprisoned the cries of so many La que murió en París.

The bandoneón is ignored by the people walking by, and the old men only say that they used to hear it late at night when everyone had gone to bed, and the old man who lived in the trailer used to get it out.

"He said playing it was like holding a woman in his arms - jumping, lively and noisy," says one of the men, and all three laugh.