being a recent graduate and in debt to my eyeballs, I needed a job.
Opening the door of the stairwell, I stepped into the hallway and entered into a plush walk down memory lane. Boasting the elegant sophistication of Art Deco, the dimly lit interior exemplified that classic era of Fifth Avenue architecture.
I stood at the door and glanced down at my watch. Noting that I still had a few minutes, I wondered if “punctual” meant exactly on time. Or could one be early? As my knuckles hovered over the door, I lowered my hand and decided to wait. While doing so, I studied the tinted-glass light fittings that jutted out of the wall casting shadowy light over golden frames of women in flowing gowns.
Just as the minute hand hit the hour, I took a deep breath and knocked. After a few moments, I heard slow, shuffling steps, and an older woman opened the door.
“You must be Ava Rose,” she said, holding the door open for me to enter.
“I am,” I said with an awkward smile, holding out my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
As her frail, wrinkly hand landed on mine, her eyes traveled to my face and remained there as if taking in every detail. I even started to worry that there was a remnant of jam from the donut I’d scarfed down earlier or something up my nose.
“I’m Aggie.” She stretched out her arm for me to enter.
“Oh, that’s short for Agatha.”
“It is,” she replied with a hint of a smile. Something told me that Aggie didn’t do too much smiling.
All it took was one step into that beguiling, time-trapped room for an eerie sensation to flash through me. It was a feeling similar to déjà vu, or entering a museum filled with the pungency of decay. Not that the room stank; if anything, it smelled like roses.
Slender, with upright posture, Aggie, who I assumed was in her seventies, possessed an elegant bearing matching the opulence of her surroundings.
She pointed to a curvaceous armchair. “Please, sit. Can I offer you a drink?” She raised a brow, which made me wonder if she meant of the alcoholic variety.
“No. I’m good. Thanks.”
“I might have one, then,” she said, hovering about.
“Please, do. Of course,” I replied, unsure if she’d actually asked for my permission or not.
Although slow, her stride was confident and balanced. Wearing pink bell-bottoms and a silky floral shirt, Aggie had a stylish if not unique air about her. With that plait of gray hair twirled into a bun above her head, she reminded me of an ageing ballerina, especially with her long neck and lifted spine. I could see that Aggie had once been beautiful, especially her glistening aquamarine eyes, which, although faded with age, sparkled with a healthy dose of curiosity.
She stood by a silver trolley, picked up a shaker, and poured its contents into a martini glass. After taking a sip, she strolled back and sat opposite me. “A weakness of mine.” She held the glass to her painted lips. “Do you know how to mix a martini?”
I sat up. “Um… no. I can’t say I do. But I’m a quick learner.”
She nodded. “Good. That’s part of the job. From four until eight. I like my martinis, and…” She opened a pretty silver box by her side and took out a cigarette. “I smoke.” She lit her cigarette with a flick of a lighter. “I promise to leave the terrace doors open.” A hint of a smile came and went.
As I watched Aggie puff deeply on her cigarette while clasping the stem of an elegant V-shaped glass, I thought I’d traveled into a scene from a 1950s film.
While the sun filtered through the pink living room, my ordinary life in a tiny bedsit located somewhere in the bowels of the city, where only those scrounging about for their next meal lived, seemed like a distant memory.
Sipping pensively on her martini, Aggie kept switching her attention from me to the expansive view of the Hudson, which was visible through the beveled-glass French doors that opened out to a balcony the size of a small room.
Sneaking a look at Aggie sucking on her cigarette, I thought about the past, when people hadn’t heard about cigarettes causing cancer or, if they had, chose to ignore the warnings. That was a far cry from my world, where everyone, including me, stressed about everything.
My guide to happiness read something like this: living a healthy life to at least ninety, which would mean