Cities contemplating jazz

A person needs images. Beautiful, powerful pictures that can withstand the rage of time. These beautiful, powerful sketches rest in our heads like expensive bottles of wine in sturdy wooden boxes. And if necessary, we will bring them out. For some, these are memories of holidays, parties, museum visits or sport events.

My most precious image is that of Rebekah. In my first year of high school, she was in my class. Short, red-haired, sassy. She hopped around the school like a daring bullfinch. She did not seem to be afraid of anything. Not for the teachers, not the boys. When she laughed it sounded like someone was playing saxophone.

I was a shy and timid little boy in those days. Where Rebekah already secretly smoked cigarettes, I still played with Lego at home. While Rebekah flirted with the older boys in between hours, I read comic books by Tintin, Lucky Luck during the break.

But how she spoke in class when everyone was silent, how she frolicked through the days, how she pushed, played, I could only watch it with admiration. Was I in love with her? Maybe. But the abyss between her and mine was endlessly deep. She was already fully alive, young, beautiful while I was just waking up.

One day she was no longer sitting in her favorite seat at the front of the classroom. Could she be sick? But the following days she also stayed away. No one had heard from her. Had she moved with her parents? Was she perhaps at a different school? At the end of the week, we took the courage and cycled to her house. But that turned out to be empty. There were only a few faded curtains hanging over the large windows. No other signs of life.

But nevertheless, Rebekah has stayed ever since. In my head, in my mind. And every time when life pushes me off a cliff and I must find my way back in the pitch black, I think of her. That gorgeous, smart, mischievous, sweet and frisky Rebekah. Free like a bird, unpredictable like the wind, warm and friendly like the sun.

“Isn't it really true? It can’t be true, can it?”

Her voice has not changed after all these years. It is still loud, clear and sharp. Rebekah is sitting on the terrace of café The Jazz Musician with some friends. Vibrant music can be heard from the café. Art Pepper? Oscar Peterson? She waves at me. And then I can't help but to stop in my tracks and wave back at her.

“No, but that must be a long time ago!” She pushes herself a way through legs and torsos and stumbles toward me. Just as I remember her. Cheerful, self-assured. I only cannot remember her ever speaking to me in high school. Let alone so exuberant.

"What a coincidence! Do you live here? I'm out for a day with my girlfriends. And we were just having a drink,” she confesses.

She looks at me like I'm a statue from Madame Tussauds. Because the meeting is so unexpected, I don't know how to respond. I was on my way to the greengrocer to buy some blood oranges, potatoes and lettuce. And now I end up meeting Rebekah. My secret heroine in the times when life is dark, troublesome and cold.

While she talks on and on – she is the financial director of an IT company, she is married, divorced, and has three lovely children and a dog – I can't help but gasp for air. Rebekah has remained Rebekah, but at the same time she has also become someone else. Taller, more voluminous, more mature. There is certainly still a hint of that petite, red-headed and sassy girl in the woman standing before me now. But mostly she has become kind of ordinary. Okay, she is definitely sharp, pretty, blonde. But she is a dime a dozen.

When I want to make it clear to her that I have to move on, she can't help but whisper something in my ear. “I'm almost afraid to say it,” she says hesitantly, “but you have become a bit old. And a little dull, gray, and normal. You used to be so funny and lively. Where did that boy go? Where is the excitement, the adventure?”

She pinches my cheeks and returns to the terrace. I stay behind. Dumfounded. Taken aback. And from the open doors jazz music is whirling through the city. ‘Things ain’t what they used to be’.