Catharsis

„I didn’t get lost.“

She must be only ten years old, with worn out jeans, a short pink jacket, and her hair hidden under a corduroy cap. She is repeatedly answering to the old woman: „I didn’t get lost.“ Her eyes are showing that she really means it, but it isn’t working on the old lady. She is deeply concerned about the fact that this fragile ten year old girl in white sneakers is standing alone at a tram stop at one o‘clock in the morning. She is absolutely sure that this child must be lost, despite the fact that the girl isn’t running around helplessly and sobbing.

„I see... But isn’t it a bit too late to be out in the street? Don’t you think?“

„But you‘re out in the street now too,“ reminds the little girl with ease. The old lady gets a bit mad.

„It‘s a bit too late for you, young lady. What are you doing here anyway?“ the old lady is losing her motherly temper. The child gives her a sharp look as if considering whether this person is authorized to be asking these kind of questions.

„I’m waiting for a tram,“ replies the girl and then looks into the space, where it will appear in a few minutes.

„On your own?“ the old lady continues to state the obvious, and the girl chooses to ignore her. I can see it in the old lady’s face - the inner struggle that she experiences right now. She might be a mother herself, I assume, and she would hate the idea of her own child waiting for a tram on the street in such a late hour. Not even mentioning the scarier idea: where has the child been this late?

„Do you see anybody else?“ is the delayed, amused reply. The woman frowns and looks around.  Excluding me she can see about three other people. (I’m not sure about this number, I am mainly focused on her and the girl). One of them is a teenage boy in a suit. He is sixteen and apparently tired from lifting beer-glasses. It’s pretty clear that he skipped his dance lesson and went to a pub instead. If it wasn’t for the interesting pair of women, I would definitely dwell in my own memories of doing the same thing. But back to the old lady – after she carefully examines everybody else with her sharp eyes, she turns back to the girl who didn’t move an inch. The girl continues waiting, with a bored expression and sucking the end of her jacket lace. The old lady stares at her, opens and closes her mouth couple of times, then she gives up. She sighs, rolls up her sleeve and glances at her watch. It doesn’t make her feel any better, but she keeps her mouth shut.

The girl in the pink jacket gets on the same tram as I do. She sits in the front in the seat intended for blind people and stares out of the window absently. I am standing close to her, waiting for what comes next. Just to be clear, I am as equally curious and surprised as the old lady at the tramstop was. There’s one difference, though: I have never had any maternal feelings.

I‘m coming home from a theatre performance. Despite the fact that I was just accompanying someone and wasn’t expecting any miracles, I am disappointed. The performance just didn’t have any exquisite ending. My subconcious is now taking this interesting change in my travel routine as the performance’s missing big finale. I saw Les Miserables with my sister and her friend – just in case you‘re interested – and as far as I’m concerned, this weird little creature could be some kind of modern Cossette. In fact, I already started calling her that in my thoughts.

Where is this Cossette heading? Home? And where does she live? And why – that’s what intrigues me most – why the hell is she not scared? Not a bit? At her age, I would never dare to wander the city streets in the night.

At another tram stop, a random guy wearing a blue jacket steps in. The moment he sees Cossette, he heads towards her. The little girl is not paying attention to the world around her, she breathes on the window and fogs the glass. The white fog disappears quickly as she paints in it with her finger. The random guy waits for the tram to start moving and bows to the girl. I am tempted to jump in, but I can’t, I do not dare interrupt the play. I am curious – deadly curious – what will come next. The girl looks up to him, disinterested, listening to his whisper. After he finishes, she appears to be contemplating. Then she looks straight into his face and nods at him, demanding that he leans towards her again. The guy seems to be very satisfied with himself. Cossette says something to him in a low, resolute voice. The guy doesn’t look satisfied anymore, but the girl continues talking. The guy doesn’t stay long enough to hear the whole speech, instead he straightens his back and steps towards the door. Cossette turns back to the window and places her white palm on it. It seems that he has made no impression on her. Far more important are her attempts to create a perfect palm-like shape on the window, but she can’t manage it. She keeps breathing at the glass and I wonder – when do kids in school start with physics? Does anyone like Cossette attend school at all? She might be supernatural creature. Prague has so many ghosts, why couldn’t one of them take the shape of a little girl and travel on a night-tram?

The rest of the journey passed without any distractions. The tram is about to reach my stop, so I walk towards the door and my last look at her is a good-bye. She is examining her short, bitten off nails. She doesn’t look like she is getting off at this stop, so I’m surprised when I hear quick children’s steps behind me. I want to look back, but I conquer that desire. The tram passes me and disappears in the night as I walk up the street. The steps behind me quicken and I understand – I slow down a bit and let her walk past me. She walks like a steam engine, so determined and resolute, her chin buried in her collar and her hands hidden deep in her pockets. She doesn’t look so self-confident anymore. I realize that the show is over for tonight. It‘s almost one o‘clock, the old lamps light the street in a soft orange tone, and there is a lonely child walking ahead of me. At the corner she turns right, and I walk behind her feeling a bit creepy. We pass a former kindergarten and arrive at a crossroad. Cossette takes the middle road. Usually, I take the left turn, but now I follow the girl.

I don’t know if its just curiosity, or if I’m actually feeling responsible for this fragile little thing and I want to make sure she makes it home safe. I’d rather choose the second possibility.

Cossette starts walking faster. I hesitate, but don’t want to lose her, so I walk faster too. All of the sudden, she starts to run. Now this is the dilemma – if I run after her, I prove myself suspicious. If I slow down, she’ll be gone. I hesitate for too long and she disappears in the passage. Oh great. I slow down and walk to the passage, determined to at least take a look. I realize too late that I didn’t hear any steps since the moment she disappeared in the passage. Cossette huddles at the entrance by the wall. There is this weird, cold look on her face. I stop and we just stare at each other for a while.

„Aren’t you afraid of strangers?“ says the child. Why doesn’t she run away? I’m in no mood for another game of chase. In fact, I regret I started this whole thing. There is something very disturbing about this child. As she is standing in the dark passage, she doesn’t look like Cossette anymore. She looks more like some wicked goblin, who knows something that I don’t. And she finds it very amusing.

„What?“ I ask stupidly. The girl watches me with narrow eyes.

„If I were you, I wouldn’t follow a strange person. Especially... not at night,“ continues the girl and watches me cautiously.

„I wasn’t following you,“ I spit out quickly, in attempt to defend myself in front of those eyes. „I just wanted to make sure you‘d make it home safely.“

She steps back and her face disappears in shadows. „What?“ says the girl in an amused voice. „You care for me? You don’t even know me.“

„I don’t – it’s just – so late at night, alone-“ I stutter, trying to explain myself and my legs are slowly walking backwards.

„Are you saying,“ says the girl in a serious voice, „that you’re a nice guy?“

„I don’t know. I guess. I don’t want to hurt you. Go home, and I will go home, too, ok? Just get back home safe, that‘s all I want for you.“ I manage to say this instead of good-bye and intend to run away from this little person hidden in the shadows. My heart is beating in my throat.

„You are good,“ says the girl as if pitying me. I stop and watch her turn her back on me and walk into the darkness. Suddenly, she stops and starts turning back. I will never find out why because at that moment, my survival instincts scream aloud and I run far away from the girl and the passage.

I sleep terribly that night. I am haunted by the hallucination of a soft children’s footsteps in my flat. I’m having weird dreams of deserted theatre halls, where random guys in blue jackets, concerned ladies, evil pubkeepers and escaped prisoners keep wandering around. Bulgakov had to have similar dreams before (maybe even after) he wrote Master and Margarita. Morning comes, and I almost scream as I look at myself in the mirror. With dark shadows under my eyes, I look like Jean Valjean. I‘m forcing myself into chewing a piece of bread when my girlfriend calls.

„You haven’t forgotten about dinner tonight, have you?“ she reminds me kindly.

„Don’t worry.“ I try sounding cheerful, but she doesn’t buy it.

„You sound tired – did you guys go for a drink last night?“

„A drink? No... but I returned home late, I had to walk my little sister and her friend home.“

„Are you sure you just walked them?“

„Who do you think I am?“

„All right. I’m sorry... It‘s just, you sound so tired.“

„Yeah, well. That’s the performance. You know. It was so... convincing,“ I say to my own surprise in a guilty voice. She starts laughing, „Of course! You experienced some intense catharsis?“

I try remembering what that weird foreign expression could mean. It didn’t sound familiar.

„Catharsis describes the effect of tragedy on an audience, an emotional release that purifies morally and mentally,” explains my beloved other half.

“I have been putting myself back together for a week after watching Cyrano de Bergerac,” she adds with deep understanding.

“Yep, that’s what it is,” I agreed. “It’s totally the catharsis’s fault.”

When she hangs up finally, I feel relieved. I drag myself into the bathroom and try not to execute myself accidentally while shaving. My hands are shaking.

There is one thing I know for sure. Whatever it was yesterday, it wasn’t catharsis. That happens only in the theatre.