It's a rainy Saturday afternoon in Paris.
Perhaps rainy isn't the most accurate word here. It's a thunderous Saturday afternoon in Paris, and once again her instrument sings to me through the open windows, mixed with the constant splattering of rain.
As usual, it's "Rêve d'amour," The Dream of Love by Franz Liszt. She repeats this four minute piece over and over again, but I don't find it repetitive, for me it is one of the most magical four minutes in music.
As I revel in each note, each crescendo, and each sigh of her mind, the blacks and whites send her image to me.
On a cool Saturday afternoon in Paris, she is alone in her apartment on the fourth floor. She sits by the window, cuddled against a comforting pillow with a book in hand. But she is distracted and can hardly understand a single word she read. She watches the threatening clouds and smells the incoming storm.
Her eyebrows reflexively arch into a slight furrow, as she is French and prefers a Saturday afternoon in Paris sunny, but the countenance quickly relaxes as she is a young woman and enjoys an occasional interruption from Nature.
Her slender fingers caress each blue petal of the roses in her window box. She sighs; she is bored by the blue, reminiscent of her grandmother's summer dress, maybe the storm would transform them and wash away the blue. That would leave them white, also not a great color, since white is white; there is nothing, and she dreads nothing.
There she is again, that old dame downstairs across from her. And the cat too, one of the most annoying creatures she has ever laid eyes on, why does it always have to look so arrogant like it's the smartest thing in the world? Maybe it would be frightened by the thunder and jump off the window. What is the lady doing? Probably just rearranging her figurines like she does every Sunday afternoon. But it's not yet Sunday, has she mistaken the days?
The old dame disappears from view again, leaving the cat at the window by itself.
And there it is once more, someone making brioche. It must be the monsieur from upstairs. His voice is low and comforting, whereas that of his boyfriend is high and arousing. They do complement each other well, at least as far as their voices are concerned, never actually met them face to face. They probably have no idea that their conversations descend through the old creaking floors as easily as the aroma of his pastries permeate the entire courtyard. He's alone today, the other one must be at dance class. Good, there will be a few hours without words.
That's good. It's better for a rainy Saturday afternoon in Paris.
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