“Prosper”
Klara Rossby
“Have you heard Ravel’s Boléro?”
I lift my eyes from my book and shake my head, surprised by Prosper’s question—we haven’t spoken much since I moved in last week. He pushes his brown curls out of his face, exhales a cloud of smoke, and walks over to the stereo.
“It’s 15 minutes long but you must listen to all of it. C’est nécessaire.”
I nod and place my book on the coffee table as soft classical music fills the room. He gestures at me to join him at the bookshelf, pushing aside the cello and life-size mannequin to make space. His cigarette rests between his lips as he runs a determined finger over the white spines of the Folio Classiques. The cramped apartment in the diverse Belleville neighbourhood of Paris is covered in books scattered across the cracked tile floor and stacked up against the walls. Natural sunlight streams in and illuminates the masses of mason jars of germinating seeds and tangled plants that scale the bookshelves—filling the apartment with an intoxicating smell of herbs and flowers. I study his red eyes and tired face as his fingers graze the titles in sync with the rising crescendo of the music. The bookshelf seems to hold every French classic, ranging from Sartre’s existential plays to Zola’s twenty-volume series. He points at the top shelf:
“You must read these.”
I read some of the titles. Le Ventre de Paris, La Chartreuse de Parme, Voyage au bout de la nuit, Huis Clos, Lecture de Proust….
He pulls out a copy of Diderot’s philosophical novel Jacques le fataliste et son maître, and hands it to me.
“Start with this one.”
I raise my voice to be heard over the music’s bass drum and ask if he’s read all of these books. He explains that he doesn’t learn much in high school and teaches himself instead. He smiles at the floor and brushes aside a book with his foot, referring to his mother by her first name.
“Dominique isn’t here often, but she buys me books.”
I look back at him, unsure how to navigate this conversation in French. He chuckles to fill the void and gestures towards the bookshelves.
“Welcome to Paris.”
The music reaches its fortissimo possibile, the full orchestra joining in—trombones and cymbals and more—bringing the song to its sudden, rapturous, ending.
The front door slams shut just as the stereo goes silent, and Dominique walks into the living room—she’s wearing her usual shapeless black clothing and clunky black combat boots. Her thin dark hair is gathered in a messy knot on the top of her head, revealing her exhausted face. Aside from their artsy air, the two don’t resemble one another in the least. Prosper and his calm attitude tower over the nervous unease of his petite mother. She gives me, the temporary addition to their small family, an apologetic smile before glaring at her son and demanding why he wasn’t in school today—or yesterday and the day before, for that matter. Her face sinks when she sees the cigarette resting between his fingers. She shakes her head slowly and sighs.
“Mais Prosper.”
He smiles and walks over to his mother, kisses her on the check and tells her the smoke adds such a nice aroma to their dusty old apartment—and that he’ll go back to school when it’s worth going back to. She coughs and waves away the cigarette smoke, her other hand pointing towards the door.
“Go.”
His eyes plead with her for a moment, but she keeps pointing towards the door. He picks up his phone from the table, grabs his leather jacket, and leaves the apartment. Dominique pushes her hands through her hair and walks over to the window, rearranging the jumbled collection of framed baby photos. She calls me over and shows me a picture of a 4-year-old Prosper on a swing, explaining how he used to love visiting his grandparents on the farm. I stand awkwardly, convinced she’s speaking more to herself than to me. She picks up the newest school photo of her son. Somewhere behind his sharp features, messy curls, and cool demeanour lies the same childlike eyes as the 4-year-old. She puts the picture back down, opens the window, and peers down the street to see where her son is going.
*
Spring arrives in Paris a week later. I turn the page of Jacques le fataliste et son maître, enjoying the morning silence while snacking on last night’s chèvre. The hundreds of tangled plants that fill the apartment stretch towards the sun after months of thirst. I hear muffled footsteps from across the hall and seconds later jazz music seeps out from the gap beneath Prosper’s door and into the rest of the apartment. He comes into the kitchen in his purple bathrobe, swaying his bony frame along to the music while banging open cupboard after cupboard. He holds out a carton of eggs towards me.
“You want an egg? I’m making eggs.”
I smile and shake my head, and he yells down the hall to ask if his mother wants one. His efforts are answered with a distant cry to turn off the music and let her sleep.
Prosper rolls his eyes and laughs to himself. He throws a frying pan onto the stove and pushes open the window—filling the kitchen with the crisp morning air. In one swift movement he cracks two eggs over the frying pan and, after glancing over at what I’m reading, smiles approvingly.
Someone yells Prosper’s name from the street. He leaves his eggs sizzling on the pan and lunges his torso out the window—screaming that he’ll be down in a moment. After scarfing down his eggs he retreats to his bedroom, emerging moments later in skinny black jeans, a Joy Division t-shirt, and a big book in hand. He tosses the book towards me, Gombrich’s L’Histoire de l’art. Before I can ask him how he knows I need this for class, he says “salut,” places a cigarette between his lips, and slams the front door behind him.
Dominique stumbles into the kitchen a few minutes later and sits down across from me. I mark my page with a napkin, put down the book, and get up to make us some tea. She shoves aside her mason jars of sprouting seeds and rests her head on the windowsill, wincing at the sun.
“He’s never here any more.”
I look over, unsure of how to comfort a mother about her 17-year-old son. I barely manage sharing a bathroom with this teenage boy and his inability to flush the toilet.
She assumes I can’t understand and repeats herself.
“Prosper. He is never here anymore.”
I hand her a steaming cup of ginger tea and smile sympathetically. She takes a sip and rests her head back onto the windowsill, humming along to the music still playing from Prosper’s bedroom.
*
I close the front door behind me and see Prosper lying on the couch with a heated floral sachet on his forehead. Dominique is pacing around the living room angrily—her hands gesturing wildly as she releases all her pent-up frustration from the past weeks:
“You can’t keep doing this.”
“Someday you’ll get killed.”
“You need to pass your exams.”
I sneak towards my room but Prosper notices me and, with a relieved smile, calls me over—foiling my hopes of avoiding family drama. Dominique throws up her arms when she sees me, and she explains the situation. I struggle to keep up with her French and pick up on something about him blockading his school so they can go to the manif, how the police are teargasing the demonstrators, and something else about his friend being hit on the head with a baton. She sits down and puts her head in her hands. Prosper looks up at her and pleads.
“I’m just doing what’s right. You used to take me to manifs all the time.”
His mother picks at her fingernails and mutters how France is falling apart but that doing what’s right doesn’t matter if it puts her son in danger.
I can’t help but remember Dominique’s proud face when she showed me around their home my first day here. Their grimy bathroom was covered in vibrant protest stickers—many designed by her, and the living room walls are plastered in tattered film posters. When I asked what films she enjoys the most, her eyes lit up and she said “those that fight the regime.”
Prosper walks over and tries to hug his mother, but she looks away—I barely recognize the woman who would give me lists of everything worth hating about president Hollande. Prosper tries to hug her again but she remains unresponsive. He nods, grabs his jacket off the back of a chair and leaves the apartment. After a few moments Dominique looks up at me and shakes her head in disbelief.
“He’s always off doing something senseless.”
She walks over to the window and looks in both directions—sighing at the empty street.
Dominique retreats into her bedroom for the night, so I do the dishes and take out the trash—descending the spiral stairs to the front door. I shudder from the cool evening air and throw the trash bags into the container. When I turn around I see Prosper sitting on the pavement by the apartment gate. He smiles at me sadly and lights another cigarette. Before I head back inside he leans over, winces, and whispers: “has she gone to bed yet?”
*
I wipe away my unwelcome tears before opening the front door as quietly as I can, hoping everyone is asleep. I’ve grown to enjoy Dominique and Prosper, but there are times I’d rather be in my real home—far away from the hostile streets of the 20th arrondissement. But just as I close the door behind me, Prosper walks out of the kitchen in his purple bathrobe holding a baguette. I force a smile and continue towards my bedroom—but am stopped by a hand on my shoulder. He looks at me and examines the situation. I’m relieved he doesn’t ask what happened. Instead, he nods slowly, takes the bag from my hand and carries it to my bedroom, signalling at me to wait where I am. He rushes back, places the bread on the kitchen counter, opens a cupboard, and returns seconds later with a small, rectangular package—holding it forward with an unassuming half-smile.
“Chocolat?”
I chuckle despite everything, say merci, and snap off a piece. He puts his skinny arm around my shoulders and walks me back to my room. We pass the living room where Dominique sits on a chair by the open window, her head resting on the windowsill, gazing down at the empty street below as the cool evening air streams into the apartment. Her tiny frame is wrapped up in a fleece blanket and her reading glasses are sprawled next to her head on the windowsill. She’s probably asleep. Prosper stops walking, looks at his mother, and then back at me before whispering:
“Tu sais, sometimes I don’t know what she’s looking for.”
*
