It’s coming down in buckets. An unusually soppy day for Los Angeles. Puddles abound and brollies sprout skyward like so many fecund fungi on a forest floor. I’m running late and the rubber treads on my shoes are slipping and sliding all over the stone steps of LACMA. It’s a small sort of miracle I arrive at my destination neck intact, my legs are so wobbly.
And that wobbliness is mostly attributed to the visage awaiting me. Holding our place in line for an evening of classical music is Aga from Poland. Natty and poised and of cordial complexion. She sports retro kicks and a smile that, too, takes me back to a fond bygone era. She’s a sight, alright. Eccentrically hued in dress too. Seemingly plucked from an episode of Blossom, her.
Beyond the defining borders of short and just grazing the descriptor tall. The top of her head comes snug right under the indefinable line of perfect, I’d hazard. Camera draped across her neck characterizing her as unmistakably tourist. I daresay she is uncommonly pretty. And woe to her camera for not being able to careen its lens backward and capture the mesmerizing lashes behind the viewfinder. For there’s the true spectacle.
I arrange the charcoal and start the grilling. She clues me in on her back story. But I’m so entranced by her ensemble that I can only retain bits and pieces of her biography. She’s living in Aberdeen at moment working at a petroleum company with her newly minted degree in Geology. Gawking at LA sights was a little bonus after a seminar in nearby Texas.
We find decent seats in the auditorium and avail ourselves to the dulcet tones of the classical guitar concert. And the pacific strums of the fret boards tinctured seamlessly with her lightly brogue-ed voice as I began my series of intrusive questions. Here the real concert begins. She taps her baton twice lightly upon the podium and begins her own mellisonant sonata.
“My favourite word is ‘przyjazn*.’” is her first revelation. She infers I might need a spelling of the word once my eyebrows arch and reach the ceiling. She accommodated and jots the term on a napkin. I make a mental note of not using it to dab the perspiration on my forehead should I get too woozy in the presence of this blooming boutonniere.
I fling another one at her.
“What’s your least favourite word?”
“Totally.” Another wave of her baton. The bassoons quiet.
“I feel it’s such a filler word that adds very little to a sentence. Like ‘totally’ this or ‘totally’ that. Like the word ‘like’ actually.”
Her wrist swivels and the string section trills subtly.
I’m beginning to lose myself to the music and have to constantly grab the spinning helm wheel and re-steer this inquisitive barge on the correct course. The wheel creaks with strain.
“What’s a talent you’d like to have?”
“I’d like to be a professional dancer.”
I hate to break it to her but when she traipses around puddles on those looming, lissome stalks she calls legs all I can see is Swan Lake. Pirouette after pirouette along Wilshire Boulevard.
“If we were to throw open your refrigerator in Aberdeen right this moment, what foodstuffs would we be peering at?”
She gives this a serious think. And then offers a very serious answer.
“Beer and chicken probably.”
If she would’ve said nachos too then there’d be a nice little Super Bowl party in her lettuce crisper. I delve further into the subject of what regularly rubs up against her stomach lining.
“How do you like your steaks?”
“Medium-rare. I concede I’m a little picky about how my meat is prepared.” This eyesome aurora continues to confound expectations. Shatters them with another gesture of her baton. She spreads desolation with each wafture. I decide to prod with a little more vigor. See if I strike any bone.
“When was the last time you broke the law?” I ask with a slight connive of the lip.
“Years ago. I was caught out drinking in public which is strictly verboten in Poland,” said with a wistful fondness. As if she’d crack another brew in front of a cop just for nostalgia’s sake.
It’s at this point in the performance I ask her to draw something that reflects her current state of emotions. She claws at the canvas with such a ferocity. She hands it over to me. I avert my gaze from the paper and remind her to title the work first. She quickly scribbles something. And I look down to meet this little ditty staring up at me:
I see no reason to ask any further questions regarding the drawing. I feel it speaks lucidly for itself.
The concerto enters its final perorations. And I’m able to mine the following tidbits before the curtain draws: She sings Polish songs in the shower. She had an avocado and bacon omelet for brunch today. She doesn’t own a television. And she claims that “kurwa” is the most versatile word in the Polish language.
The violins have been packed and the cellos lugged away. The auditorium darkened. We step out into the ocean dripping down on us. Orbs of luminescence reflecting off the pools of rain water from the street lights. Aga shows me how to expertly hold an umbrella during high winds and takes glee in reminding me I wouldn’t last a day in Scotland. This garrulous gladiola’s got some gall.
Our conversation lands on sobriety tests. I explain our procedures here and she struggles to recite the alphabet backwards. Then she shows me Poland’s version. She strikes a one-footed yoga pose. Arms outstretched. Muscles taut. Undaunted by the deluge and daring in dexterity and form.
This is the crescendo. And the rain raged. Furious with applause.
*friendship.