The bliss of solitude.: January 2007

My creative writing

Children of the Revolution

Once there lived a French revolutionary by the name of Luca. He was a short man. However, what he lacked in height he did not lack in character. He was a dressmaker by trade and he never failed to display that in his own incongruous attire. He was a man of great passion, he showed enthusiasm in everything he did and was not ashamed of his French accent – it was his trademark. His shop was surrounded by a series of cafés and coffeehouses that attracted many dancers who needed costumes made to order. Luca’s costumes were a treat for the eye; buyers described them as a form of art. Therefore, he never found himself without work - he was a busy man but preferred to live that way. Luca was not a rich man, in fact he believed that money could only bring doubt to one’s mind. Nonetheless, he did not deny that he could make more money if he wanted to. The people watched him work through the night and said it was aging him, but he was the sort of man who did not regret even a second of his life – he would describe his life as beautiful, and would tell passing customers that it was his pleasure to serve them. But to Luca’s annoyance, some of his more frequent customers decided that it was in fact the opium, and The Green Fairy, that were aging him.

As a young man, Luca was very quickly absorbed into the bohemian culture he had somehow longed for before it was even established – it fitted him fine. He believed in everything bohemianism stood for: truths, beauty, freedom, but, above all else, love. Although every acquaintance of the man could tell you this, only a few of his close friends had recognised the gaping gorge in his own principles. How could a young man, and now an aging man, call himself a bohemian when he missed the vital ingredient at the very soul of bohemianism itself? He had never experienced the greatest thing of all - to love and be loved in return. Luca had not denied the fact that he had never experienced such pure bohemianism; paradoxically, it was the only thing he had ever wished for.

On one particular Friday afternoon, Luca was busying himself by stitching extra buttons on a Can Can skirt. He had not been asked to, but the skirt was for a particular customer he had always been rather fond of – the buttons were a perfect match - he could not resist. It was at that exact time when a very young, beautiful dancer entered his shop; the beautiful dancer must have been no older than eighteen years. He had never seen her face before, but Luca welcomed her with his usual greeting, nothing more, nothing less. It struck Luca that she was dressed immaculately; her face was pale and her lips were a deep red. She spoke with a strong French accent, and she was polite. Luca thought she must be a new dancer in the area, because she was not weighed down by distracting thoughts; she smiled with a novelty dancers only possessed for a month into their work. They had got talking and not before long she had ordered a whole outfit. While Luca was writing down her order, she explained to him that she was in love. Luca admired the beautiful dancer for telling him this – he told her she was a true bohemian, he told her that she should always be grateful for what life had brought her. He told her that her outfit would be ready in two weeks’ time – she could come and pick it up then. She walked to the door and said goodbye elegantly. She paused before she left, and voiced the calm, well pronounced words, “It is beautiful: is it not, love?” Luca smiled and replied, “Yes, Mademoiselle, it is beautiful.”

Two weeks went by very quickly for Luca, and he worked extra hard to produce an outfit that would be perfect enough to be worn by the beautiful dancer. He wanted to make sure that there was not even the slightest stitch out of place. Still, Friday came and there was no beautiful dancer. Luca reassured himself that maybe she had an extra rehearsal; maybe she was too busy to pick up her outfit. He put it to one side, and labelled it with a very small piece of tissue paper. He wrote: the woman who talked of love.

Another three weeks went by and the beautiful dancer neither made an appearance nor sent any message as to why she had not been to collect her outfit – Luca was surprised by this, but decided that an outfit was just an outfit – outfits brought in money. He took the label off the outfit, screwed it up, and threw it in the bin without bitterness. He sold the outfit to a stern, wealthy woman who was not in love but paid a good amount for the perfect dress.

************

Two years passed, and Luca’s dressmaking was flourishing more than ever. The young beautiful dancer never returned to his shop. However, Luca thought of her often, and hoped that she was safe and still very much in love. He did not worry himself though; Luca told his customers he was too busy to worry himself over such non-existent things. He had made many more outfits that were as perfect as the one he had made for the beautiful dancer, and he was proud of his work. As Luca found himself with less and less time to think, he knew that any time he did get spare should not be taken for granted. Therefore, he dedicated this time to listening to his own thoughts on truths, beauty, freedom, but above all else, love. He was still happy with his life, but, for a reason he did not know, looked forward to the day when he would look upon the face of that beautiful dancer again.

It was again a Friday afternoon when her familiar face stumbled through the door at the very peak of winter. Luca only recognised her when she began to speak, but even this was not clear - she was slurring. He looked at the dancer and did not say anything; he thought that her hair was windswept, and her face was red and tired. He saw that she was not walking as elegantly as she had done the last time they met. She came up to the front desk in the shop and declared rather loudly that she had come to pick up her outfit. Luca explained, with hesitation, that he had sold it when he thought that she was not coming back to collect it. The dancer came closer to Luca and he could smell The Green Fairy on her breath, he could see the tear marks down her face. He felt sorry for her but he was angry with her also; Luca was not used to feeling that angry, it was a feeling bohemianism opposed. She had lost everything that he had admired in her and found himself impatient, “Are you not still in love? What is wrong with you? You said it was beautiful, and I agreed with you!” She laughed sarcastically at his question. “Of course I am still in love. Love makes us act like we are fools! It doesn’t change the attachments in our lives, the bad things that happen. It only makes the pain worse.” Luca looked at her with a questioning gaze and asked, “Then why are you so distressed? Why do you drink so much you can’t walk properly?” She remarked with no hesitance,
“Because that is what I do. You can not go on declaring life as beautiful when you know very well it is not. This is what bohemianism is! Do you not see? The Children of the Revolution! That’s what we are! That is what we are.” Almost out of breath, she dropped her bag on the floor and collapsed to retrieve it. Luca frowned involuntarily at the dancer. He was confused as to why she was so angry. He didn’t like the way she spoke – it made him uncomfortable. With her face down and her hair shrouding it, Luca could only just see the tears running rapidly down her face – she was distraught; she was lost and defenceless, and Luca couldn’t quite comprehend this. She had not lived up to his expectations. He paused to think for a few seconds, not quite knowing how to respond to the dancer on the cold floor of his dressmaker’s shop. Then he helped her up, taking her cold, dry hands into his own and supporting her. She looked at him and said, “So, you do not have my dress? Then I will be on my way.” She pulled away from Luca with her head down and made her way to the door silently and aware of her own vulnerability. Luca did not want her to go in such an unpronounced way: “Mademoiselle, you do not have to dance tonight, you are not fit to.” The dancer looked at him like a child who had not yet lost his innocence, “Do not be a fool, Luca. Of course I have to dance tonight.” She left the shop and Luca did not move from his position for a minute or so.

************

Eight years passed and Luca had aged enormously. He had been told that he would have to walk with a stick soon, and he might even have to give up his shop. To this, as everyone expected, Luca refused flatly. He simply went on with his life as he had done when he was young, although he found himself sitting down more often and getting out of breath frequently. But it did not worry him - he had never believed in worrying. He was now the only dressmaker in the whole village – all the others had gone out of business. Luca had beaten them all and he had done it with no spitefulness at all. He was now even happier with his outfits, and while many said his body was failing him, he had never lost his eyesight – he always knew what he was doing. Luca never thought about the dancer that came to see him; it had been a long time and he had forgotten her, so when she walked through the door one last time he did not identify her. She wore nothing but black, and had a netted veil over her face as if she were mourning. She had aged significantly. However, she still spoke with the same well pronounced words as she always had. To Luca she was just another dancer that needed another outfit quickly, and when she did order the outfit Luca was sure he recognised the dress she was describing – but maybe it was just a coincidence. Luca had made a lot of outfits in his time, and it was impossible for him not to have made any dress more than once. Luca could see that she was sad and assumed that she was in mourning. Just before she left the shop for the very last time, Luca, feeling he had to say something to comfort the woman said, “Mademoiselle, you do not look happy. You do not have to dance tonight.” The dancer was quiet when she spoke the words, “Do not be a fool, Luca. Of course I have to dance tonight. I always have to dance,” she left his shop and Luca paused for a moment. He felt a definite familiarity. But Luca was too busy to worry himself any longer - there was work to be done.

The bliss of solitude.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

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