„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.
