The phone rang. She jumped, letting out a little squeal. Her son had died prematurely. From a heart attack, I think. We met so long ago I barely remember. Every call took her back to the day he died. It remained the harbinger of his untimely death.
The story of our meeting was a strange one. At least, it seemed strange to me.
I received a phone call from an aunt, herself in her nineties. A friend of hers wanted to learn Spanish.
A Most Interesting Student
The prospect of teaching someone in their eighties or nineties intrigued me. My students were usually in their late teens and early twenties. In my twenties myself, I could not afford to turn a job down. So I went.
It is not that I minded her age. I loved spending time with folk of her generation. I grew up among them and enjoyed their company. Yet she seemed an unusual candidate for a one-to-one Spanish class. Especially in Greece, in the early nineties.
Our “classroom” setting was equally surprising. A smallish double room in a prestigious Athens hotel. My student lived there in winter, returning to her island home in warmer months.
It was the reason for the classes that amazed me the most. My client was preparing to give a talk about a famous Spanish painter, Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes. A dedicated artist herself, she was determined to pronounce his name correctly. So, she booked in for Spanish classes. As you do.
The classes marked the beginning of a firm friendship, only ending when I left the country and went travelling for a while. Regular correspondence was more difficult in pre-digital days and, somehow, we lost touch.
I was sad when I heard she had died. She had taught me a great deal.
And yes, her talk on Goya proved a success. I am sure she pronounced his name correctly. She was a diligent student who took great pains to get things right.
Roses as Memories
My mind remembered her again just yesterday. I picked roses from our garden, their blooms so fragrant and inviting in the summer sun, I had to gather a handful before nightfall.
Roses always bring her to my mind, even after more than 30 years. I once gifted her a rose bouquet. I remember it was yellow. Overcome with joy she filled her tiny bathroom sink with water, then plunged in the stems and cut off the ends, keeping them fully submersed while she clipped them.
I believe she left them there overnight. Or at least for a few hours. I assume, retrospectively, she might have needed her bathroom sink that evening.
Her trick was to cut the rose stems under water, then leave them submerged. The water fills the stem, rather than an air bubble getting stuck in the way. She told me it helps them last longer. That it brings out the best in them.
My garden roses were past their best when I brought them in. I wanted to enjoy them for a little while before the petals began to fall. I am not expecting them to last that long.
Yet every time I fill a vase with roses, whether shop-bought or garden-grown, I remember my lovely student, and give thanks for her example. For her tips, her company, her pursuit of excellence and her enquiring mind in older age.
The Healing Balm of Art and Beauty
She had lost so much. Her son, her husband and, at one point, her home. She had fled one country for another following a bomb blast and ensuing troubles. Those events had left their mark on her. Every phone call rang out a stark reminder of the one announcing her son’s demise.
Yet her spirit was undaunted, as was her love of art and the finer things in life. Her island rose garden bore testimony to that, as did her painting and love of the ballet.
Today, with hindsight, I can reflect that her love of beauty and its focus may have pulled her through. She lived to a great age, especially when viewed through the lens of lesser longevity.
Still, her legacy to me remains with every flower. We knew each other little, but we knew each other well. Rest in peace, dear soul. Thank you for the memories you planted in my heart.
