When Sylvie Sang

When Sylvie Sang

When Sylvie sang the men at the bar would stop and turn on their stools to listen. The bartender would dry his hands, move to the end of the bar, and light up a cigarette. The waitresses would huddle by the wall and hug their trays flat against their bosoms. And the drunken man who cried softly to himself in the corner by the door would lift his eyes and rub his hands together underneath an invisible spigot.

"When Sunny gets blue, her eyes get gray and cloudy."

When Sylvie sang she never really heard the music or thought about the words. She was far away in a small town by a riverbank, holding onto someone she loved... someone she lost. She only heard his voice, felt his heat, and the nightclub disappeared.

But the song always had to end, and when the music stopped the men at the bar would turn again and start to laugh and talk. The waitresses would rush to cover their thirsty stations, and the drunken man would close his eyes again and descend inside himself.

Sylvie would go out into the alley and stare at the night sky. One evening she clung for a moment to the sound of distant laughter. She paused when she saw the couple in love cross an intersection, and she closed the gallery in her mind and slipped into a world of smoke and mirrors until she was called back for her next set. The singing paid the rent and bought groceries, but it cost her dearly. Every night when the neon lights went out, she'd walk back to her room, six blocks down, two blocks over, past the on-ramp, next to the Hallmark store. And there, with no lights on, Sylvie would sing for herself and make love by the riverbank with no audience looking on. And every night the return trip from the riverbank got longer and longer. She paced her days away inside that room.

Her room next to the Hallmark store had once been part of a large house that was broken down into crash pads in the late 1960s. By the terms of the rental agreement there was to be no cooking in any of the apartments. But everyone cooked. Sylvie had one of those GE toaster ovens that she kept on the floor by her bed, and on those cold nights she turned it on and opened the glass door just a crack to let it warm her face.

When there was no show, no songs for Sylvie to sing, no way for her to leave the 'here' behind, images came to her in flashes of light. Voices yelled and swore at her. Distant blows landed on her body. The river overflowed its banks and her Lover floated away, out of sight, and was gone.

The water seeped into the floor causing the ceiling of the apartment below to discolor and drop pieces of green-painted plaster onto the bed of the widower who lived alone and kept diaries so that someday “the world will know. So they'll all know.”

When his ceiling began to fall he ran into the hall. The commotion pulled some of the other tenants out of their rooms, and after a short crisis meeting that bounced back and forth between English, Tagalog, Spanish, and perhaps Greek, they marched, as a small mob, up the stairs to Sylvie's door. The water coming from her room followed the slope of the floor out into the hallway, soaking the frayed edge of the hallway rug. The widower pounded on the door as they all yelled for her to open up. When they got no answer and the water had started its way down the stairs, the widower kicked in Sylvie's door. The door jumped from its hinges and fell to the floor. They could see the water coming from the bathroom, and so the widower and a few other neighbors crowded in. The rest filled the doorway.

There she was, sitting naked on the floor of the shower with her porcelain arms full of paperback romance novels, books of mysteries, and many beauty magazines. She didn't look up when they came in. Her eyes stayed fixed straight ahead.

The widower reached over and turned off the water while one of the ladies began to scream at her about how her craziness was going to cause trouble for all of them. About how if the building inspector came in and found out about all of the cooking, the owner would be forced to bring the place up to code and where were they all supposed to live while the work was being done? And about how, even then, they wouldn't be able to afford the new higher rents that the repairs would cause. Another man shouted at Sylvie to get her shit together or just get the hell out of the building and leave them all in peace.

She didn't hear a word he said. She just stood up, left the dripping books and dresses, and walked past them. As she lowered herself onto the sofa she stopped and looked the widower in the eyes. Then she rolled over and went to sleep. The others started to leave, and the widower covered her with an old afghan that was draped over the back of the sofa. On her bed, laid out very carefully, were three silky-looking black dresses on padded hangers. He should have left then too, but he didn't. He stayed and looked at all the books and the three black dresses. The dresses didn't fit in. Everything else in the apartment was worn and neglected, but those dresses were immaculate and cared for. All of the other clothes in her closet were casual and looked as though she bought them from a thrift shop. The dresses were expensive and classy. And they faintly smelled of cigarettes and lilacs. He put the door back on its hinges and went home and got a little drunk.

After that night the others began to freeze her out. The Armenian woman with no bottom teeth stopped saying hello in the hallway, and the young couple, who were both runaways and so much in love, never asked her to share a joint anymore.

One night when the widower was taking out his garbage he saw her, in one of her black silk dresses. He didn't quite know why, but he became so curious about her. She was such a dramatic mystery to him. He followed her to the nightclub, the "Satin Rose," and stayed until closing time and then followed her home. Night after night he went to the club. He'd sit at the bar, close his eyes, and let Sylvie's voice make him feel good. He didn't want her to see him. He would be compelled to tell her how he felt and he couldn't do that. He was falling in love with her, and she was barely aware of him. And besides, everyone in the club knew that Sylvie was in love already with someone that no one could ever outshine. One song and you just knew.

But the widower wanted to be something to her—do something for her. So, he began to feed her. He would fix food for her and put it by her door. Soup, eggs, some meat when he could afford it. The widower wasn't much of a chef, but he could fix what he remembered his mother making for him. Stew. He crushed vitamins and mixed them in.

At first, she didn't eat anything that the widower made for her. Then she started to take a few bites and, finally, she began to eat everything he put down for her.

In the morning, while he knew she'd still be sleeping, he'd come up and get the dishes from the hallway. Last month, she left him a paper napkin that she'd kissed. He wished he could say things to her in words as eloquently as she spoke from a napkin.

One Friday, the widower had to work late so he couldn't go to the club. When he got home he fixed himself a meal and put a plate in the hallway for Sylvie. The next morning it was still there.

That night the widower went over to the club, but somebody else was singing. He asked the bartender why Sylvie wasn't there. He said that the night before Sylvie had done her usual show except, after the last set, she went through the club and thanked everybody for being there—shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and then she said good-bye, picked up a small brown suitcase from behind the bar, and walked out the door. Then he handed the widower a note. “Here. I believe this is for you,” he said.

The note read:

"Thank you very much.

For coming to hear me sing, for the food,

for loving me when I couldn't."

That night she sang the last song that she felt she had to sing. "Love brings such misery and pain. I know I'll never be the same. Since I fell for you...." When Sylvie sang.