Goodbye, Gypsy Rose

The Buona Fortuna Restaurant was busy, and smokey. Romania doesn't have ordinances prohibiting smoking -- anywhere, from what I can tell. Hence, in what could only have been a long ago confluence of behaviors in the U.S., I watched a woman, thin, late thirties, fork in one hand, glowing cigarette (elbow on the table) in the other, alternately, casually, work both.

Smoke aside, the restaurant was pretty nice, located on the bank of the Crişul Repede River which cuts through Oradea. Like many of the restaurants in Eastern Europe, it plays maddeningly retarded American/English pop music. I am learning to tune it out, though apparently, not yet completely. I still scrape the soles of my shoes when I get home.

Judging from the well-dressed, youngish clientele, the Buona Fortuna might be upscale for Romanian incomes, but as the Romanian leu is anemic against the U.S. dollar, I couldn't have eaten as cheaply if I had cooked ramen noodles at home.

I had ordered, but the place was busy and my food was slow in coming. I waited, and watched. Facing the front door, I looked on as people came and went, came and went.

Then, around 9:30 a pixie -- maybe 10, maybe 4'10", including the pink harlequin hat she sported squarely -- charged (as much as a pixie can charge) through the front door. Wearing a white t-shirt, strapped into pink capri overalls and pink shoes, she came in selling red roses.

Wasting no time, she moved with precision. Once inside she looked to see if anyone made eye contact with her, or smiled at her adorableness, and if so she made straight for the table. If a customer was reluctant, she would beg  "Please" twice. But only twice. Sometimes she closed the deal, sometimes she didn't. Either way, she pushed on.

At those tables seemingly unaware of her, she would approach from an angle, tentatively, and, from a short distance, hence with a slight reach, she would place a rose stem in front of the person she sized up to be the best bet. Sometimes the rose got bought; sometimes it didn't. Regardless, she pushed on.

The restaurant was long, with many tables, all occupied. She had a lot of flowers to sell on short legs. Her pink hat darted and hovered from table to table like a dragonfly.

Then there was the manager.

He was in his thirties, clean white shirt and clearly a nice, likeable guy. Still, this little gypsy child was, in a sense, harassing his customers. And it is true: some cold-shouldered her with fear that this impish child might in some way cast a spell over them, entrance them into buying a rose which in their heart of hearts they did not want to buy. Don't look at her! She's a Medusa! You're heart will turn from stone!

So the manager, doing what he needed to do, intercepted little Gypsy Rose and gently escorted her to the door through which she first burst. All the while walking her toward the door he spoke, smiled, sometimes shrugged, and occasionally laughed, but always keeping his fingertips pressed lightly to her back. She, for the length of her escort, turned, looked back up to him, pleaded her case, but to no avail. Out the door she and her flowers and her pink harlequin hat went.

Back came the manager, triumphant but not gloating, shaking his head and laughing. And like that, the general chaos of the Buona Fortuna reabsorbed him into his general managing duties.  

Not thirty seconds later the front door opened when Gypsy Rose's pink hat poked inside to locate the manager, and, not seeing him, charged in as she had the first time, to finish what she had begun.  

What pluck, I thought, and fell in love with this little girl. She spotted me spotting her and zeroed in, aware her moments were numbered.

She said something to me in Romanian (I guess) in her puny little voice which I didn't understand, and I said something to her in English she didn't understand. Obviously it was all about flowers. She wanted to sell me one; I didn't want to buy one. Standoff. 

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?" 

In the end I gave her 5 leu for a flower I didn't take. She said "Thank you very much" in quite good English, and hurried to the next table.

My thinking was that, perhaps, she had to turn in a fixed amount for the flowers, and anything above that she could pocket.

Whatever, it wasn't long before the manager caught on that Gypsy Rose was again working the room, and with the same gentle geniality he had shown the first time, he again escorted her out, this time for good.

***

I was finally out the door myself around 11:00. Stuffed, I decided to walk off my full belly a little and have a nightcap.

Str Repbublicii-Corso is Oradea's half-mile long pedestrian mall. It is flanked by little shops selling jewelry and trinkets; ATMs; sweet shops; phone shops; and lots of cafes. With the nice weather having arrived, most cafes arranged lounge-like chairs and tables in tight clusters outside their regular shops, in what used to be the middle of the road before the street went pedestrian. 

Running down the center of Str Repbublicii-Corso,
two or three cafes side by side will form a continuous archipelago of sovereign domains, each with distinctive tables and chairs underneath distinctive umbrellas.

There was nothing special about the Cafe Ra apart from the fact that it had a free table, so I took it. 

The night was warm, but breezy. The cafes were getting a bit boozy.

The waitress came around with a bowl of tiny pretzels and I ordered a Ciuc (Romanian beer). Then I settled into my faux-wicker chair and its all-weather cushions and proceeded to watch my young neighbors, the majority of whom were puffing away. 

The beer arrived a few minutes later and so did Gypsy Rose, her pink hat glowing like a firefly. She appeared at my side, standing straight, smiling excitedly, holding roses in one hand and waving "hi" with the other. We were friends. Deep in my cushions, we saw each other eye to eye.

I asked her how it was going. She pursed her lips and shrugged. She counted the cut stems of the roses she had remaining, touching each one with her finger. One, two, three, four. 

I thought, maybe, that Gypsy Rose had to sell the remaining flowers before she could go home for the night, that she had to keep hawking flowers until the very last one got sold. So I first confused her, and then surprised her, by purchasing the four remaining flowers for 40 leu.

She said, "Thank you very much," just as she had in the restaurant, and headed up the dark mall. I watched until her pink hat disappeared.

I laid the four flowers on the table. What was I going to do with them? Nothing. Not that they mattered. The point was not to purchase roses but to purchase some time for Gypsy Rose. I surmised from my restaurant experience of her that, so long as she had a flower to sell, she'd try to sell it. Buy them all, I thought, and send her home. I hoped that the waitress liked roses, as they would be hers once I left.

Moments later, on the far side of the tables, skipping down the mall, was Gypsy Rose, with a new fist full of roses. Now I understood.

***

I was a bit crestfallen. Here I thought I was fulfilling the part of benevolent savior; instead, I was just a wallet. I did not blame her; that's just how things are. I still had genuine affection for her, because to see her is to instantly have affection for her.

I drank my beer and wondered: what will become of that little girl. Whoever she is selling flowers for is banking on her sweetness and unaffected charm. I wondered: would it be better for Gypsy Rose to keep that sweetness and charm forever, or to lose it, perhaps outgrow it, and thereby lose her exploitability?

And, as it was past 11:00 at night when she had just been issued a new round of roses, I wondered: who is looking out for her, and why isn't she home, asleep, like a child should be at that hour? If the cafes are open until 2:00 or 3:00, does Gypsy Rose have to work their customers until 2:00 or 3:00?

In just the two minutes or less of our exchanges I saw something wonderful in that little girl, something worth nurturing. A light. A force. Would it survive? Would she escape? Would she ever be given the chance, or be challenged, to reach her potential? To rise above a rose peddler?

***

The following night, Saturday, I walked Str Repbublicii-Corso on my way to a different part of town. It was about 8:30, though by the amount of daylight I never would have guessed.

There, up ahead, donning her trademark hat, was Gypsy Rose, flowers in hand, standing by a bench behind which stood an older woman and a younger child. Mother and sibling?

We spotted each other, with, I'd like to believe, genuine mutual delight: I don't think a ten-year-old's enthusiastic wave can lie. 

I approached, aware of the woman behind the bench, wondering her role. 

I asked Gypsy Rose, "How's business?" not expecting that she'd understand, but thought that maybe, by also pointing to the roses, she might. She shrugged, and pursed her lips, and counted the tips. One, two, three, four. 

"Yes?" she said, looking up and smiling hopefully.

"No. Nem. Maybe on the way back."

"Please?"

"Maybe on the way back."

"Please?"

I shook my head and smiled. My little friend smiled, too. 

And I looked up to confirm to the woman I thought was with Gypsy Rose, maybe on the way back.

Her thoughts had stopped earlier. "Business. That's all that it is," she said with resignation in an accent I could only guess to be Romanian. "That's the sadness of it all."

Instantly, I realized that this woman knew more about Gypsy Rose, her brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts,  uncles, than I would ever know, and possibly more than most on Str Repbublicii-Corsowould would ever know.

I looked back at Gypsy Rose from the woman diametrically unrelated to her, and said, "Maybe later."

There was no later that night.

***

The next night, Sunday, my last night in Oradea, Str Repbublicii-Corso at 8:00 p.m. was even busier than the two nights before.

I wasn't so much interested in spending time on the mall, lounging around and being trendy, as I was in taking a picture of Gypsy Rose. My whole focus was to spot her -- or have her spot me -- while sitting there, and then to do what we do. But in addition, I was prepared to pay for a photograph of her. I wanted to share her with you. I wanted you to see her in her pink hat.

After two hours outside Cafe Ra I had to acknowledge that I wasn't going to see Gypsy Rose that night, was not going to take her picture.

The good guy in me said with some optimism, So maybe...; the bad guy in me said, Damn.