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get my bag,” and Dad mumbled, “I’ll get the car keys,” and they both shuffled out behind Twig, who looked a bit startled. Twig isn’t actually very good at football and I think he would have liked it better if neither of the parents had been there, but Flora says that doesn’t matter.
    â€œIt’s a question of principle,” Flora said.
    Jas, Flora, and I all went to the concert. Me to film, Flora and Jas to cheer for Zach like we had promised, and all three of us because, even though none of us will admit it, we were all dying to see what Zachary Smith looked like. The concert took place at Alina’s retirement home in Richmond, where Zoran goes once a week to play the piano, and where he now also has a lot of pupils. We all piled into the drawing room, and I began to film.

THE FILM DIARIES OF BLUEBELL GADSBY
SCENE TWO (TRANSCRIPT)
THE CONCERT
    INTERIOR. AFTERNOON.
    The drawing room at Richmond Hill Retirement Home. Resident students (all old) sit in armchairs arranged in a semicircle around chairs taken from the dining room, where nonresident students (mostly children) squirm in the front rows with their parents behind them. JAS and FLORA sit at the back, next to CAMERAMAN, who is standing.
    NOTE: To keep things moving along and in order to get to the really interesting part of the afternoon, this transcript is skipping detailed descriptions of all the acts, which included renditions of “Summertime,” “Frère Jacques,” Chopin’s Nocturne, assorted pieces from the Music Examination Board’s books for Grades One to Five, and a number of current rock songs. And then, right at the end
 . . .
    ZORAN:
    Zachary Smith on guitar, singing “Broken Birds
,
”
a song of his own creation.
    Â 
    ZACHARY SMITH stands up. Flora, Jas, and even Cameraman crane forward. He is not at all how they imagined him. Medium height, slight and pale, with dark eyes and hair falling over his face. He wears black jeans, black high-tops, and a green-and-black checked shirt open over an old rock band T-shirt, and his wrists are covered in bands and bracelets. He takes his place at the front and scans the audience, but it’s clear he doesn’t find who he’s looking for. His face drops and he bends over his guitar, taking his time to tune it. His hands are shaking. The moment seems to go on and on. Somebody in the audience giggles. Zoran plays a few notes on the piano and Zach rallies. He strikes a few slow chords and begins to sing.
    Broken bird in my hollowed hand
    Beating heart like you want to shout
    Beating hard to fight your way out
    Broken bird trying to fly
    Where are you going? What do you want?
    Be careful the wind don’t blow you about.
    And the waves draw lines along the sand, the sand,
    The waves draw lines along the sand,
    And when they’ve drawn them they take them away,
    I hope they take me too someday,
    I hope they take me too.
    Broken bird when I let you go
    You mustn’t look back, you mustn’t, no.
    Head for the sun and fly right to it,
    Look for the light and go straight through it.
    Don’t look down or you’ll fall and break,
    â€™cause the wind ain’t gonna carry you forever.
    And the waves draw pictures on the sand, the sand,  . . .
    Â 
    Â 
    The lyrics (in Cameraman’s humble opinion) are a bit sentimental, but the melody is simple and haunting and the voice—throaty, rasping but somehow also, when it hits the high notes, pure—holds the audience captive. Zachary Smith finishes. He is still for a moment, holding the silence at the end of the piece. When he looks up, it’s like he’s come back from a long way away and is a little bit lost.
    Camera takes in Great-aunt Alina and her husband, Peter, clutching hands, rapt. Several adult members of the audience are crying. A lot of the younger kids stare with their mouths dropped open in amazement because they never thought one of