Jardin d'hiver

This is a sequel to Maybe it's time and Sweeping Sun that you can find on my page.

Clotie had rehearsed the call four times already. Now was the time to try - she took a deep breath and dialled the number.

"Hi, hello, hi. I was calling regarding the receptionist role."

"We already have receptionists."

"I know, I came for an interview three weeks ago and I haven't heard back from you. I was wondering -"

"And you're calling only now?" She laughed and hang up.

Clotie sat on the misty edge of the fountain. Looking at the palm trees, ivy and ferns that stretched confidently under the glass dome of the conservatory, she felt even smaller. She had had only two interviews in her whole life and had never worked - how would she do well in those obscure "recruiting processes"? She dipped the rings on her fingers into the water. It rippled. Nothing had happened in the past five months and, despite her natural optimism, she knew little could remedy her situation. Her phone tinkled - new email. "Thanks for your application..." These emails, though, she had received a thousand times. She dropped her phone into the fountain and watched it sink. A spasm shook the upper part of her arms - she was done.

She was alone in the conservatory, jardin d'hiver in French i.e. winter garden. People were sipping hot drinks inside the café, a circular space that surrounded the conservatory like a panopticon. She felt exposed, but unseen for they were all smiling, touching feet under the table, ranting about their jobs, gossiping about their friends or looking down at each other. She stood up from the fountain to head inside and warn her friends about her phone - they might worry if they couldn't reach out to her. But she soon remembered, she had no-one. She rubbed her eyes and adjusted her ponytail as she sat back at the fountain. She might as well stay there. She had had enough of social masquerades, chill music, waitresses wriggling and Instagram settings. Those absurd tableaux. The only reason why she came here was the silence of the conservatory. Its woody smell and the glasses that reminded her of the infinity of the sky each time. Something that, in Paris, was easy to forget about. But even that, on that day, was not enough. Her life was non-existent, she had made no progress in five months and she couldn't lie to herself anymore about it. From the edge of the stone fountain, she stared at the chequered tiles that gave the café its retro touch. And it stared back at her.

Someone tapped her shoulder and she turned around. The woman asked something in English. Clotie sneered - she had waited for opportunities to show off her language skills for so long and now that it was happening, she only wanted to be left alone. As rude as it may be, she didn't answer the woman, she just turned around and looked at the other side of the conservatory.

"Excuse me." The woman now stood in front of her, seemingly, lecturing her. Who did that tourist think she was? Go back to wherever you come from. You and your silky cloth. You and your scarecrow hair.

"No English, sorry." Clotie turned to the other side, again. If the woman turned around again to face her Clotie would tell her off. But the woman didn't, she stood still in her back - she was observing the phone in the fountain.

"Ca va?" she heard her ask from behind with her foreign accent.

"Of course, ca va not." Clotie said with a sneer. She stood up to leave and felt the hand of the woman on her wrist, retaining her. She turned around. The woman looked worried. "I am fine, sank you." Clotie said, untying the woman's fingers from her wrist. The woman hinted at the phone in the fountain and repeated "sank you" with a smile. Clotie did not understand the joke, her English was limited, but the woman's smile touched her. No-one had shared a joke with her since... since a very long time. Alf had lost his humour about a year ago and she had no friends. She always failed at maintaining friendships or, rather, she let them crumble down and realised it only when it was too late to fix them. Also, most people frowned upon her lifestyle and "easy" life. No job, couple of sketches a week, night walks and praline rose cakes everyday - no-one took her seriously. Even she, at times, struggled to.

The foreign woman dragged Clotie to her table inside, by the lacquered piano, where a young man with a sweater and wool cap was eating a tart. Probably her son. As Clotie and she approached, the piano man started to play Jardin d'Hiver by Henri Salvador. No more indie music, just something soothing.

"Clotie, Leo. Leo, Clotie.", the woman said to the young man.

Leo leant slightly backwards as he heard Clotie's name - he didn't want to share that moment with a stranger. Clotie had never thought of herself as a repelling being. Did she look that terrible? Her reflection in the lacquered piano seemed decent to her. Was anything wrong with this Leo? The woman patted Leo's shoulder and he replied something. She laughed out loud. A couple of faces turned around and looked at them. The woman ignored them, magisterially.

"You with us." she told Clotie. First invite in... ages. Clotie fetched her bag and portfolio from her previous table and sat down with them. The woman hinted at her portfolio and Clotie felt her cheeks burning, remembering it was empty. Without knowing it, that woman had called her out on three of the lies she liked to tell herself: that she spoke English, that she was an artist with a portfolio worth sharing and that she was actually okay. No wonder Alf and her friends had walked out on her. The woman fetched the portfolio, without saying a word, as if she had done this a thousand times - approaching young artists and diving into their artistic universe, regardless of how guarded they were. Making them comfortable in taking the leap to show their work, regardless of what it looked like. Her hands had brown spots and smelt of patchouli, just like Clotie's shawl. Her nails were painted in deep burgundy and she wore semi-precious pearls. They were big and gave her a psychic style. Now Clotie could see the subtelty in her looks: the silk dress, the large rings and her décoiffé hair. It made sense.

The woman laughed when she saw the portfolio was empty.

"I have a dream." Clotie mumbled as an apology, Leo chuckled and as the woman glanced at him, he stopped and looked back at his fig tarte tatin.

The woman dove her fierce eyes into Clotie's and she felt like a tiny deer. The woman drew a pen out of her bag and on a napkin she drew a rectangle - "my house". Waves surrounded the rectangle and a beacon looked over them. Did that woman live by the sea? She drew herself standing inside of her house with a canvas, painting, and a small silhouettes sitting and painting too, listening to her. So she was an art teacher? She then drew Leo at the centre of the class, lying on a daybed, leaning his hand over his elbow. He was a model not her son.

"Canada." The woman said.

"Very beautiful." Clotie said, she could imagine orange forests, and pines, and the sheer water, fresh and deep and dark.

"Do you want to become an artist?", the woman asked. Clotie's cheeks burnt with embarrassment. Did she want it? Yes. Had she taken classes? No. Had she had the opportunity and money for it? Yes. Did she take it? No. Did she practice regularly? No. Could she seem entitled to an outsider? Perfectly.

The woman's hand landed on hers. "Simple : yes or no?"

Clotie nodded.

"Good." The woman drew another character in the house, with a ponytail. To the right a hexagon and a tower at the top, "France." Leo laughed. And an arrow from the hexagon towards the rectangle.

"I need help in my house. You come and I teach you." She looked at Leo and Leo fetched their own portfolio from behind him. It was in leather and thick.

"This is the work of Brenna." he said. The woman's name was Brenna. What a beautiful name. Brenna was an artist herself. Wow. Now it made sense. But what were they doing here in Paris? Brenna smiled - but with a different smile, this time. It was bitter and contained. She drew a list of names from her bag. Next to each name, a phone number and the name of an institution: either a museum, foundation or bank. Brenna mimicked money with her hands.

"My house needs money." She took a sip from her now certainly tepid Jasmine tea.

"Are you in?" Leo asked.

"Of course, I am."