Alfredo

The Streets of Ouro Preto

By the time Alfredo turned six, he had developed three firm opinions about the world.

First, breakfast tasted better when someone sang while preparing it.

Second, his grandfather owned far too many rules about touching musical instruments.

Third, nobody in Ouro Preto could convince him that a person needed to be tall to become a great musician.

He had reached the third conclusion after watching a travelling singer perform in the town square. The man had been short, round-bellied, and almost entirely bald, yet his voice had carried across the crowd with enough strength to make people stop shopping and listen.

If that man could command a square full of strangers, Alfredo reasoned, then surely he could do the same one day.

He had already begun practising.

Unfortunately, his audience consisted mainly of his mother, his father, his grandfather, and Bento, who had learned to leave the room whenever Alfredo repeated the same verse more than five times.

On the morning Alfredo decided to explore the town properly, Bento made his opinion clear.

The dog was lying beneath the kitchen table when Alfredo appeared wearing a shirt that Elena had ironed the previous evening. His trousers were slightly too long, his sandals were on the wrong feet, and a small cloth bag hung from his shoulder.

Inside the bag were two pieces of bread, a wooden whistle, a toy horse, and three smooth stones he had collected because they looked like treasure.

Bento raised his head.

Alfredo grinned.

“Today, we are going on an adventure.”

Bento lowered his head again.

“You don't have to come if you're afraid.”

One ear lifted.

“I'm not afraid,” Alfredo assured him. “I'm going to see the whole town.”

From the kitchen, Elena turned around.

“The whole town?”

Alfredo froze.

He had expected to announce his plans to Bento, not to a mother who could transform a simple adventure into a discussion about safety, permission, and why children should not disappear into crowded streets.

“Yes, Mama.”

“And who gave you permission?”

Alfredo considered lying.

He decided against it.

“Nobody yet.”

Elena folded her arms.

“Then you are not going anywhere yet.”

“But, Mama—”

“Alfredo.”

He closed his mouth.

She approached, crouched before him, and straightened his shirt.

“You may go into town with your father or grandfather. You may visit the square with someone responsible. You may even explore a few streets if I know where you are going and who is taking you.”

Alfredo's shoulders drooped.

“So I cannot go alone?”

“Not today.”

He sighed as if the weight of the entire world had been placed upon him.

Elena kissed his forehead.

“Growing up does not mean doing everything alone. It means learning when to ask for help.”

Alfredo thought that sounded like something adults said when they wanted to prevent children from having fun.

Still, he nodded.

“Can I ask Papa?”

“You may.”

He ran out of the kitchen before she could change her mind.

Rafael was in the front room, checking the list of repairs waiting at Casa das Cordas. He had a pencil tucked behind one ear and a small notebook balanced on his knee.

“Papa!”

Rafael continued writing.

“If this concerns a broken window, I would like to state that I have not yet received any reports.”

“It doesn't concern a window.”

“Good. That saves us a discussion.”

“I want to go into town.”

Rafael looked up.

“With whom?”

“You.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Rafael glanced at the notebook.

“Unfortunately, I am a very busy man.”

Alfredo's face fell.

Rafael watched him for another second before closing the notebook.

“But I suppose the town can survive without me for an hour.”

Alfredo's eyes brightened.

“Really?”

“Really. First, you will put your sandals on the correct feet. Second, you will stay beside me. Third, you will not touch anything without permission.”

Alfredo glanced at his feet.

He had not noticed the mistake.

“Fourth,” Rafael continued, “you will not challenge strangers to musical competitions.”

Alfredo stared at him.

“How did you know?”

“Because you have been practising your victory speech in front of the mirror.”

Alfredo's mouth fell open.

Rafael laughed and stood.

“Come on, little musician. Let's see what Ouro Preto has to offer.”

Neither of them noticed Mateus watching from the hallway.

The old man had heard the conversation, and something in Rafael's willingness to take Alfredo into town pleased him.

The boy needed more than lessons in a repair shop. He needed to see how music lived outside their family, how it changed from street to street, and how different people could create something beautiful without playing the same way.

Perhaps, Mateus thought, the world could teach Alfredo what he himself could not.

Then Alfredo came rushing back to kiss his grandfather goodbye.

“I'm going to become famous today!”

Mateus smiled.

“Try becoming a little more patient first.”

“I can do both!”

And before Mateus could answer, the front door slammed.

Ouro Preto did not reveal itself all at once.

It unfolded gradually as Rafael and Alfredo walked through its old streets, each turn opening onto another view of the town's sloping roofs, painted façades, stone stairways, and distant green hills.

The morning air was cool enough to make Alfredo pull his sleeves over his hands. Sunlight touched the upper walls of the buildings while the narrow streets below remained partly shaded.

People were already moving through the town.

A woman carried a basket of vegetables on her head. Two men argued over the price of timber beside a cart. A shopkeeper swept dust from his doorway, and an elderly man sat outside a house polishing the brass handle of his walking stick.

From an open window came the sound of a radio playing an old Brazilian song.

Alfredo turned toward it immediately.

“Papa, listen!”

“I hear it.”

“It's a good song.”

“It is.”

“Why is it coming from the window?”

“Because someone inside owns a radio.”

Alfredo frowned.

“That is not what I meant.”

Rafael smiled.

“Then ask a better question.”

Alfredo thought hard.

“Why does the person inside want everyone outside to hear the song?”

“Perhaps they like it so much that they want to share it.”

Alfredo considered this possibility.

He liked it.

If he ever became famous, he decided, he would make sure that everyone in Ouro Preto could hear his music.

They continued downhill.

At the next corner, they passed a bakery where warm bread filled the air with a smell so inviting that Alfredo stopped walking.

Rafael took another two steps before noticing.

“What is it now?”

Alfredo pointed at the bakery.

“I think my stomach is calling me.”

“Your stomach called you ten minutes ago.”

“It is calling louder now.”

Rafael pretended to think about it.

“Perhaps we should investigate.”

They entered the bakery and bought a small pastry to share. Alfredo took one bite and closed his eyes in happiness.

“This is the best food in Brazil.”

“You said that about your mother's cake yesterday.”

“That was the best cake in Brazil.”

“And your grandfather's bread last week?”

“The best bread in Brazil.”

Rafael shook his head.

“Your country has an extraordinary number of best foods.”

Alfredo nodded seriously.

“It is a very good country.”

They sat on a low stone ledge outside the bakery and finished the pastry. When Alfredo had brushed the crumbs from his shirt, Rafael pointed toward the open square farther down the street.

“Now, there is somewhere worth visiting.”

Alfredo followed his gaze.

The square was already crowded. Vendors had arranged their goods along the edges, and several musicians were gathering beneath the shade of an old tree.

A man carried a large wooden drum. Another was tuning a small stringed instrument. A woman with a bright scarf around her hair was speaking to a group of children.

Alfredo stood up so quickly that his cloth bag slipped from his shoulder.

“Music!”

Rafael caught the bag before it hit the ground.

“Yes, music. And before you rush over there, remember our rules.”

Alfredo held up three fingers.

“Stay beside you. Ask before touching. No challenging strangers.”

“Very good.”

“Can I challenge them tomorrow?”

“No.”

Alfredo sighed.

Together, they entered the square.

The first musician Alfredo noticed was playing a cheerful samba rhythm on a pandeiro.

The instrument looked simple enough: a shallow circular frame with small metal jingles around its edge. Yet the musician handled it with extraordinary ease, shaking, tapping, and striking it in patterns that seemed to emerge from his wrists without effort.

Beside him, a guitarist supplied the harmony.

Their music was lively but not hurried. It seemed to bounce through the square, slipping between conversations and drawing people toward the open space in front of them.

A little girl began dancing.

Her grandmother clapped along.

Two boys attempted to imitate the musician's footwork, nearly colliding with each other.

Alfredo watched everything.

He was not thinking about the mysterious melody from his grandfather's locked room. He was not wondering why Mateus sometimes grew quiet when music played.

He was simply fascinated by the instruments, the rhythm, and the way people responded.

The drummer noticed him staring.

“Do you like the music, young man?”

Alfredo nodded enthusiastically.

“I like it very much.”

“Do you play?”

“I sing.”

“Ah! Then perhaps you can sing for us.”

Alfredo immediately stepped forward.

Rafael caught his shoulder.

“Remember our rules.”

Alfredo looked at the musician, then at his father.

“I was invited.”

“You were.”

“So I can sing?”

Rafael considered the situation.

“If the musicians don't mind.”

The drummer laughed.

“Let the boy sing. We can always use another voice.”

Alfredo looked as if someone had just handed him a crown.

He climbed onto the low stone ledge beside the musicians, turned toward the small crowd, and cleared his throat.

For one brief moment, he forgot every song he had ever learned.

The faces before him seemed much larger than they had from the ground. People were watching. A man near the bakery was still chewing. A woman held a basket against her hip. The little girl who had been dancing stared at him expectantly.

Alfredo's mouth went dry.

He glanced at Rafael.

His father did not call him down. He simply nodded once.

Alfredo remembered a cheerful song Elena sometimes sang while working around the house. It was about a bird that stole fruit from a garden and blamed the wind for the missing pieces.

He began softly.

The first line came out unevenly.

The second was better.

By the third, he had forgotten to be frightened.

He sang about the greedy bird, the angry gardener, and the wind that refused to accept responsibility for anything. His voice was young and thin, and he occasionally stretched a word longer than the melody required.

The crowd laughed at the right moments.

When he reached the ending, he added a small flourish of his own, lifting the final note until it almost became a squeak.

The children burst into applause.

Alfredo bowed so deeply that he nearly lost his balance.

The drummer caught his elbow.

“Careful, maestro!”

The word sent a warm thrill through Alfredo's chest.

Maestro.

He liked the sound of it.

The guitarist leaned forward.

“You have a lively voice, boy.”

“Thank you.”

“But you rushed the middle.”

Alfredo's smile weakened.

“What?”

“You hurried through the second verse. The rhythm was trying to carry you, but you ran ahead of it.”

Alfredo stared at him.

The guitarist was not smiling cruelly. He sounded as though he were discussing a loose string on an instrument.

“Did you enjoy singing?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Then learn to listen as much as you sing. A melody has its own pace. You cannot force it to move faster simply because you are excited.”

Alfredo looked down at his sandals.

He had expected praise.

He had not expected advice.

The drummer clapped the guitarist on the shoulder.

“Don't frighten our young star. He's six, not sixty.”

“I am not frightening him,” the guitarist replied. “I am telling him the truth.”

Rafael approached and placed a hand on Alfredo's shoulder.

“He is right about one thing. You must learn to listen.”

Alfredo's cheeks warmed.

“Everybody keeps saying that.”

“Perhaps everybody has noticed something you have not.”

For several seconds, Alfredo considered refusing to sing ever again.

Then the drummer began another rhythm, and the feeling passed.

Music was still music.

One mistake did not make it worthless.

Alfredo stepped down from the ledge and stood beside his father, listening to the musicians play.

This time, he paid attention to the spaces between the notes.

He noticed how the guitarist waited for the drummer's rhythm before changing chords. He noticed that the woman with the bright scarf sometimes sang a line and left the final word for the crowd to answer.

The music was not simply a collection of sounds.

It was a conversation.

Alfredo had never thought of it that way before.

He began tapping his fingers against his leg, trying to follow the rhythm without getting ahead of it.

The guitarist noticed.

A faint smile appeared on his face.

“Better,” he said.

Alfredo pretended not to hear him.

But he did.

And he remembered.

They remained in the square longer than Rafael had intended.

Alfredo wanted to see every instrument, hear every song, and ask every musician how long they had been practising.

He discovered that the pandeiro player had learned from his uncle. The woman with the bright scarf had sung in church since she was a child. The guitarist had spent years practising before he felt confident enough to perform in public.

“Years?” Alfredo repeated.

The guitarist nodded.

“How many?”

“More than I can count without making you tired.”

Alfredo looked horrified.

“Do I have to practise for years before I become good?”

“You have to practise for as long as you want to keep improving.”

“But what if I want to become good today?”

“Then you should begin today.”

Alfredo did not find this answer particularly helpful.

Still, he decided that he would practise after lunch.

As the musicians took a short break, Rafael bought a small bag of roasted peanuts from a vendor. He handed some to Alfredo, who ate them while studying the instruments.

Then he noticed a boy standing near the edge of the square.

The boy appeared to be around nine or ten, perhaps a little older. He had dark hair falling across his forehead and wore a plain blue shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. A worn guitar rested against his chest.

Unlike the other children, he was not watching the crowd.

He was watching the guitarist.

His fingers moved silently against the strings, following the chords with remarkable precision.

Alfredo leaned toward Rafael.

“Who is he?”

“I don't know.”

“Is he a musician?”

“He has a guitar.”

“That doesn't mean he is a musician.”

Rafael glanced at him.

“You have a wooden whistle. Does that make you a musician?”

Alfredo considered the question.

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps the boy is one too.”

Before Alfredo could respond, the young guitarist stepped into the open space.

He did not ask for permission or announce himself. He simply waited until the other musicians finished their conversation, then approached the guitarist with the worn instrument held carefully in both hands.

“May I play something?” he asked.

The older musician looked him over.

“Of course.”

The boy adjusted the strap and began to play.

Alfredo forgot about his peanuts.

The first notes were gentle, almost hesitant. Then the melody unfolded, revealing a graceful rhythm that moved easily between chords. The boy's fingers travelled along the fretboard with confidence. He shifted positions without looking down, his right hand keeping the rhythm steady while the melody rose above it.

There was nothing supernatural about the performance.

No instrument played by itself. No strange sound emerged from nowhere. The boy was simply skilled.

And he was good.

Very good.

Alfredo watched with his mouth slightly open.

The young guitarist moved into a faster passage, weaving a bright melody around the underlying rhythm. A few people stopped to listen. The older guitarist nodded appreciatively.

When the performance ended, the small crowd applauded.

The boy lowered his instrument.

“What's your name?” the drummer asked.

“Lucas.”

“How long have you been playing?”

Lucas shrugged.

“Since I was little.”

“That's not an answer.”

“Since I was five.”

Alfredo's stomach tightened.

Five?

He had been singing for years, but he could barely manage a song without losing his place. Lucas had been playing for almost half his life.

The older guitarist examined the instrument.

“You've practised seriously.”

“My father says there is no point playing if you are not willing to practise.”

“Your father sounds sensible.”

Lucas smiled briefly.

Then his eyes moved toward Alfredo.

“You were singing earlier, weren't you?”

Alfredo straightened.

“Yes.”

“The bird song?”

Alfredo nodded.

“I made up part of it.”

“I noticed.”

For some reason, that sounded less like praise than Alfredo had hoped.

Lucas rested one hand against the guitar's body.

“You have a nice voice.”

Alfredo's face brightened.

“Thank you!”

“But you rush.”

The brightness vanished.

The older guitarist laughed.

“Apparently, we have all noticed that today.”

Lucas looked at him, puzzled.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Rafael replied. “Go on.”

Lucas shifted the guitar against his chest.

“If you want to sing with instruments, you need to listen to the rhythm. Otherwise, the music won't know where to find you.”

Alfredo frowned.

“The music doesn't need to find me. I am right here.”

Lucas stared at him for a moment.

Then he laughed.

Not mockingly, but with genuine amusement.

“That's true.”

Alfredo was unsure whether he had won the argument or lost it.

He decided to ask a different question.

“Can you teach me to play guitar?”

Lucas glanced at the instrument in his hands.

“Can you play already?”

“No.”

“Then I can't teach you much today.”

“You could teach me one thing.”

Lucas considered this.

At last, he sat on the stone ledge and rested the guitar across his lap.

“Come here.”

Alfredo hurried forward.

Rafael followed, remaining close enough to intervene if necessary.

Lucas showed Alfredo how to hold the guitar without squeezing it too tightly. He explained where to rest his right hand and how to place a fingertip against a string.

Alfredo tried to copy him.

The first sound was a dull clunk.

The second was worse.

The third produced a thin, unpleasant twang that made Alfredo wince.

Lucas laughed.

“Your finger is touching the wrong part of the string.”

Alfredo adjusted it.

Another twang.

“Not so hard.”

He tried again.

This time, the note rang clearly.

It was a single note, plain and unremarkable.

But Alfredo's eyes widened.

“I did it!”

“You did.”

“Make it do that again.”

“Your finger must do it.”

Alfredo tried once more.

The note buzzed.

He tried again.

Another dull sound.

He frowned and adjusted his finger, remembering what Lucas had shown him.

The next note rang cleanly.

A grin spread across his face.

Lucas nodded.

“Better.”

Alfredo looked at the guitar as though it had revealed a secret.

It had taken him several attempts to produce one clear note.

Lucas could produce dozens in a single breath.

For the first time that morning, Alfredo understood the difference between loving music and knowing how to make it.

The discovery was uncomfortable.

It was also exciting.

He wanted to learn.

He wanted to play the guitar properly, not merely touch the strings and hope for a pleasing sound. He wanted to understand how Lucas could move his fingers so quickly and how the older musicians could turn simple chords into something that made people stop walking.

He wanted to become better.

Not tomorrow.

Not after years of waiting.

But he was beginning to understand that the journey could not be skipped.

Lucas handed the guitar back to its owner, who had allowed the brief lesson with an approving smile.

“Keep practising,” Lucas told Alfredo.

“I will.”

“And listen before you play.”

Alfredo sighed.

“Everyone says that.”

“Then perhaps you should listen to everyone.”

This time, Alfredo laughed.

He did not particularly like Lucas.

Not yet.

But he wanted to see him play again.

By midday, the square had grown busier.

A vendor called out the price of oranges. A woman argued with a customer over a basket of vegetables. A group of children chased a ball between the benches until an elderly man ordered them to stop.

Rafael bought a small portion of food from a stall and found a shaded place where he and Alfredo could eat.

Alfredo sat beside him, unusually quiet.

Rafael noticed.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“That's a suspicious answer.”

Alfredo pushed a piece of food around his plate.

“Lucas is better than me.”

“At playing the guitar?”

“At music.”

Rafael chewed slowly before answering.

“Lucas has practised his instrument for years. You have spent much of your time singing and making up songs. You cannot expect to be equally skilled at something you have not yet learned.”

“But I want to be good.”

“Then learn.”

“Will I become as good as him?”

Rafael looked at his son.

“I cannot promise that you will become better than Lucas. I cannot promise that you will become famous, either.”

Alfredo's expression darkened.

Rafael continued before the boy could retreat into disappointment.

“But I can tell you this: if you love music enough to practise, you will discover things about it that you cannot discover by wishing. You may become a better singer. You may learn the guitar. You may write songs that Lucas could never write.”

Alfredo looked up.

“Really?”

“Perhaps. Everyone has something different to offer. The important thing is not to spend your whole life measuring yourself against someone else.”

Alfredo thought about Lucas's fingers moving across the strings.

“I still want to play like him.”

“Then start with one clear note.”

The answer reminded Alfredo of the lesson.

He looked at his hands.

One clear note.

It sounded very small compared with the music he had imagined making.

But it was something he could do.

He finished his food and stood.

“Can we go back to the musicians?”

Rafael smiled.

“Of course.”

They returned to the square, where the older guitarist was packing away his instrument.

Alfredo approached him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You may.”

“Do you teach children?”

The musician looked surprised.

“Sometimes.”

“Can you teach me?”

Rafael began to speak, but the man raised a hand gently.

“Why do you want to learn?”

Alfredo could have said that he wanted to become famous. He could have explained that he wanted people to applaud him, that he wanted to sing in front of crowds, or that he wanted to play as well as Lucas.

Instead, he looked at the guitar.

“Because I want to make music that sounds the way I hear it in my head.”

The musician studied him.

“That is a better reason than wanting applause.”

“Will you teach me?”

“I can show you a few things when you come with your father. But learning takes patience, and I will not promise that it will always be easy.”

Alfredo nodded solemnly.

“I can be patient.”

Rafael coughed into his hand.

The musician's mouth twitched.

“We shall see.”

He wrote the name of a nearby music teacher on a scrap of paper and handed it to Rafael, explaining that the man sometimes offered lessons to children whose families could afford only a modest f*e.

Rafael thanked him.

Alfredo tucked the paper into his bag beside the wooden whistle and the three stones.

The town had given him something more valuable than praise.

It had given him a beginning.

On the walk home, Alfredo asked questions without stopping.

He wanted to know how guitars were made, why some strings sounded lower than others, whether Lucas practised every day, and how long it would take to learn a whole song.

Rafael answered what he could.

For the questions he could not answer, he promised to ask Mateus.

When they reached Casa das Cordas, Alfredo hurried inside and announced that he had met a guitarist who could play faster than anyone in the world.

Mateus, who was repairing a loose tuning peg, looked up.

“Faster than anyone in the world?”

“Maybe.”

“Then he must be very tired.”

Alfredo ignored the joke.

“His name is Lucas. He showed me how to play one clear note.”

Mateus set down his tool.

“Did he?”

Alfredo nodded and described the lesson, demonstrating with his fingers how he had pressed the string. His first attempt produced no sound, but he tried again until he managed a tiny, wavering imitation of the note.

Mateus listened carefully.

Then he smiled.

“That is a good beginning.”

“Can you teach me more?”

“Of course.”

“Today?”

“After I finish this repair.”

Alfredo groaned.

“Everyone is busy!”

“Because people keep bringing us broken things.”

“Can't the broken things wait?”

Mateus laughed.

“Some can. Others cannot.”

Alfredo glanced at the instrument on the workbench.

He wanted to complain, but he remembered what Lucas had said about practice. He also remembered that the guitar belonged to someone who was waiting to play it.

So he sat on a stool and watched his grandfather work.

For several minutes, the only sounds were the faint scrape of a tool, the movement of strings, and the occasional voice from the street outside.

Then Alfredo began humming a cheerful tune he had heard in the square.

Mateus recognized it as an ordinary samba melody. He tapped the rhythm against the workbench, and Alfredo followed him.

The boy rushed ahead.

Mateus stopped tapping.

Alfredo stopped humming.

“Again,” Mateus said.

They began once more.

This time, Alfredo tried to wait for the beat.

He still made mistakes, but he listened when Mateus corrected him. When the old man tapped more slowly, Alfredo slowed down. When the rhythm changed, he tried to follow.

It was not a remarkable performance.

No one applauded.

No mysterious melody appeared.

But by the end of the lesson, Alfredo could keep the rhythm for an entire verse without racing ahead.

He looked pleased with himself.

Mateus was pleased too.

“Tomorrow,” Alfredo announced, “I will learn a whole song.”

“Perhaps.”

“And next week, I will play better than Lucas.”

“Perhaps not.”

Alfredo frowned.

“Grandfather!”

“Ambition is a fine thing, my boy. But give yourself time to grow into it.”

Alfredo thought about this as he helped return the tools to their places.

Outside, the afternoon sun slipped behind the rooftops. The streets of Ouro Preto grew quieter, and the musicians in the square began packing their instruments away.

Alfredo had arrived that morning believing he would become a great musician simply by singing loudly enough.

He returned home understanding that music demanded more of him.

It demanded practice.

It demanded patience.

It demanded that he listen to people who knew more than he did.

He did not particularly enjoy all those demands.

But he was willing to try.

As evening approached, Rafael called him home for supper. Alfredo collected his bag, checked that his wooden horse was still inside, and hurried toward the door.

Then he stopped.

“Grandfather?”

Mateus looked up.

“Can I come back to the square tomorrow?”

“If your father agrees.”

“And can I see Lucas again?”

“If you happen to meet him.”

Alfredo grinned.

“I will find him.”

“Remember,” Mateus said, “you are going to learn music, not chase a rival.”

Alfredo paused.

“Can I do both?”

Mateus laughed.

“Go home, little musician.”

Alfredo ran outside.

Mateus watched him disappear into the evening light, then returned to his workbench.

For the first time in several days, his thoughts were not occupied entirely by the old guitar or the melody that had returned through his grandson's humming.

He was thinking about a boy who wanted to learn.

A boy who had discovered that talent was not the same as mastery.

A boy who would have to stumble, practise, and find his own voice.

That was a future Mateus could understand.

And perhaps, he thought, it was a future worth protecting.

Yet when he reached for the repair cloth, his hand brushed against the scrap of paper Alfredo had left behind.

It was the music teacher's name and address, written in hurried handwriting.

Mateus smiled faintly and placed it beside Rafael's account book.

Then he turned toward the back of the shop.

The locked music room remained silent.

For a moment, he considered opening it and checking the old guitar.

He did not.

He had promised Alfredo a lesson tomorrow, and there was an ordinary melody he wanted to teach him first.

A melody with a clear beginning, a satisfying ending, and no unanswered questions hidden between its notes.

Mateus returned to his work.

Behind the locked door, the old guitar rested in its corner.

And somewhere along the street, Alfredo was already singing his way home.