An Encore for Esmé

A stunning young woman with short dark hair and green eyes took the stage. There was something in those beautiful eyes, like something needed to get out, as if her life depended on it. Only six people were watching, plus me standing in the back near the door.

She stood motionless with her eyes closed for a minute. The silence was uncomfortable.
Then she began to sing. It was unlike anything I had ever heard.

Though her song was in French, I somehow connected with it. It wasn’t loud, nor did it pierce the ears. It was soothing, yet there was enough tension to keep you on your toes. Each note was more beautiful than the one preceding it, together telling a complete story.

It baffled me how scant the audience was. You’d think a voice like hers would draw a crowd and fill the place to the brim.

She eased back into a relaxed simplicity after the performance, unassuming. I had to meet her. I approached the stage, handed her a rose, and looked into her eyes.

“Thank you for coming, Monsieur,” she said, her accent endearing.

“De rien, Madame,” I replied, using the little French I remembered from high school.

She extended her hand. I gave it a gentle kiss, tipped my hat, and left.

A few nights later, I saw her again at the cafe near my apartment. She was alone, wearing the same dress. I assumed she came from another performance.

“Hello. Do you remember me?” I said.

“Ah, oui, I do.”

“May I buy you a coffee?”

“Oui Monsieur.”

“Please, call me Tom.”

“And your name?”

“Esmé.”

“Esmé. That’s a beautiful name.”

“Merci. It’s nice to meet you, Thomas.”

No one called me Thomas before, but I didn’t correct her. It felt right like she had been calling me that for years.

She had a fragile way about her as if a light gust of wind could topple her down. Her every action — the way she spoke, held her coffee, the slow blink of her eyes, was delicate and genuine. There was nothing false about her.

Yet, beneath that soft exterior, I could feel her sadness and pain, which she only revealed in her singing.

“Are you coming from a performance?” I asked, my eyes glancing over her dress. It was wrinkled and soiled as if she had slept in it for days.

Detecting my pry, “No, I love this dress.”

“I see. I have some beautiful dresses at my place. My ex left them when she moved out. You’re welcome to take a look.”

Her smile dropped, “Excuse-moi, Thomas.” And she hurried off.

I grew worried about Esmé over the next few days. I searched every cafe, bar, hall, and hole-in-the-wall but couldn’t find her.

One rainy night, I swung by a local liquor store for a bottle of wine. As I left, I heard a melody from a voice I recognized, mixed with the patter of the rain and distant rumbles of thunder. I followed the sound, and it led to a dimly lit alleyway.

And there she was, singing to a small group of homeless men. I stood back in the shadows as she sang.

The men gave her a standing ovation, “Brava Esmé!” and then disappeared down the alleyway. Hearing my clap, she turned, somewhat startled.

“Care for a glass of wine?” I asked, raising the bottle.

Her eyes grew wide, and then, slowly, a smile appeared. “Thomas,” she said, her voice filled with relief and excitement.

I draped my jacket over her shoulders, and under the shared umbrella, we strolled back to my apartment.

Esmé stepped into the apartment with curiosity, as if she’d never seen the inside of an American home. She picked up various items, studying them intently.

“What is this?” She asked.
“That’s a stapler.”
“A stapler? What is it for?”

I showed her how it worked using scrap paper from my cluttered desk.

“Wow. Magnifique!”

Finally, it clicked.

“Esmé, you don’t have a place to live, do you?” Taking the stapler from her hands.

She looked down. Her cheeks flushed. “No, Thomas. I do not.”

“Look, if you want, you can stay here until you—”

She rushed over and hugged me tight.

“What can I do in return, Thomas?

“Sing for me.”