Rosa

Rosa lived in an attic room of an old Parisian house, and I on the floor below. I often heard the click of her heels as she walked around her room. Now she would go to the kitchen, which was directly over mine – a tiny student kitchen. Now she would come back, probably with a glass of juice, to her old piano. Rosa loved to sing, accompanying herself to the sometimes fast, sometimes slow songs of Israel – the birthplace of her ancestors.

Not long ago Rosa entered a theatrical school and began to sing more often. She had a light step and flyaway hair. I saw her as every day she walked through the courtyard, hurrying to a restaurant where she worked as a waitress in order to pay her rent. The attic rooms were the cheapest in the house because they are cold in winter and brutally hot in summer, but in Paris everything is expensive, especially apartments. And for Rosa, rent was a heavy outlay since she still needed money for her studies at the theatrical school. Her parents warned her that they were against her choice of careers and would pay only for her first year. They wanted to see her a lawyer, a dentist or an architect – professions guaranteeing the reliable future that acting would not. “The Theater is dying,” they said, “because it can’t compete with the movies. And television, well – it’s trash.”

I liked Rosa because of her enthusiasm for her profession and her captivating openness. Meeting me on the stairs, even from a distance I would hear her voice ring out as she rushed to extend her hands in greeting, “Comment ca va?” Once in a while I invited her in for a cup of coffee. We would talk about this and that, about the latest Paris news, about books, about the theater. And we listened to new musical recordings, which we both avidly kept up with.

With Rosa I felt liberated – such a different feeling from what I had at my job, where I always had to properly dressed, and I was tense and uptight. Even after work the people from my office often dropped by. When they came I didn’t invite Rosa – not wanting her to be bored to death. Indeed, what a dissonance this would have been. What incompatibility! I and my coworkers talked about politics and business, thus prolonging my work-day. Their voices clang out noisily and insistently – just like in the office… But I remember that with Rosa came relaxation, peace of mind.

I know
if only they would
speak more softly,
I could hear a song –
you sang long ago.
The quivering petals
of your voice
fall on my breast,
but I cannot
make from them songs,
anymore than mixing
petals
with wind
can produce roses.

The next day I went to work. For me there was no respite from my colleagues, or with them. Was it possible they never got tired of such jobs? Or did they, working on computers, change into computers? And the clothes! All the same style: Christian Dior. One could ask “Why not Saint Laurent?” – But I’m sure it was a conspiracy.

Rosa wasn’t like that. Every day she appeared in some kind of new – always simple but elegant attire. One small detail, like a fur belt around her waist, a little scarf at her neck, or thin bracelets on her wrists, gave her outfits an inimitable air. Each day she changed her personality completely. Yet, she ran across our little courtyard and was easily recognizable as none other than the real Rosa!




© Copyright: Татьяна-Валентина Мамонова, 2009
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