AN UNFORGETTABLE CHARACTER

During my 35 years as a Creative Writing teacher, an exercise I frequently gave my students was to write about someone they met – even very briefly – that they have never forgotten.  One talented student started off his piece: “His face was lined with broken commandments.”  I loved that.  I always did the exercise too, and here’s what I wrote – a true story:

 

     THE FREE SPIRIT

 

                                          by DVORA WAYSMAN

She fascinated me from the first moment I saw her.  I had never seen a girl so – so flagrantly sinful. Her red hair hung to her waist; her skin was enamelled white with the Cleopatra-eyes outlined in black; her scarlet mouth pouted and her crimson fingernails looked like she’d been working overtime at the abbatoir.  She was everything I’d been warned against and – oh – I envied her desperately!

 

It was no surprise to learn that she was an artist’s model. There was really nothing else she could have been, other than a hooker, and in those bygone innocent days I had neither heard the word nor knew what it meant. Life classes where she would be completely nude. The students, male and female, would surround her and make sketches – I blushed to think about it.  I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

 

Her name was Vali. I learnt that by eavesdropping shamelessly in the Soho Coffee Lounge where she would hang out. It was close to my home, where I lived my sheltered, mundane existence with my parents and siblings.  St. Kilda, the seaside suburb of Melbourne, was considered very bohemian in the late 1940’s, but Vali was light years ahead of her time even for there. When she walked down Fitzroy Street, respectable matrons would mutter: “Shameless hussy!” and propel their daughters along at a faster pace. If they were with their sons, they would point to something on the opposite side of the road in an effort to divert their attention. Of course, it never worked – everyone turned around to take another look – the women enviously, the men lustfully.

 

For she was beautiful. The rich red hair was probably the only part of her that owed nothing to artifice, and it was magnificent.  Her figure was slim, but with full breasts unusual in such a young girl. And despite the macabre make-up, you could tell she had a fragile loveliness that was quite heartbreaking.

 

We were the same age – 17 – that’s what was amazing.  But my life had been a boring round of school, homework and family, while hers – I blushed even to think about it.  She was shocking!  She was wonderful!

 

Everything I had learnt about her was by eavesdropping. I wanted to be a writer, and I’d sit evenings in The Soho over a single cup of coffee (it’s  a wonder they didn’t charge me rent) with my notebook, waiting for life to happen. At some point in the evening, Vali would flounce in dramatically, followed by her train of admirers – young men who had to be artists (some of them wore berets and smoked pipes), and a few women who were decidedly strange.  One of them was an actress who dressed like a man and proclaimed loudly to anyone who would listen that she was “dying for love of Vali.”  I couldn’t work that one out at all.

 

Vali was always the focus of attention. She’d flick a finger and someone would rush to light her cigarette in its long amber holder. She’d drawl out a sentence in her husky, bored voice and all other conversation would stop. I tried to work out which of the group she favoured, but she seemed equally indifferent to all of them, although she’d always leave alone with one of them, and the rest would remain plunged in gloom. Maybe I’m exaggerating. The gloom was part of the Soho’s attraction. You could never see anything clearly for the lighting consisted of candles stuck in old wine bottles, and the ceiling was draped Turkish-fashion in billows of dark fabric, so that the whole place resembled a harem more than a coffeee lounge. The food they served was very nondescript (crumpets or toasted raisin bread), but the coffee – Turkish, expresso or capuccino – was really something, and the fragrance hung heavy on the air.

 

I spoke to Vali only once, but I’ll never forget it. I was lying on the sands of St. Kilda beach one summer Sunday afternoon and I must have fallen asleep, lulled by the lapping of the waves and the effects of the sunshine. When I woke up, she was sitting beside me, filing her long nails to cruel points.  I had never seen her in the daytime and was so astonished, I was rendered speechless. She wore a black 2-piece bathing suit, which was very daring in the pre-bikini era. Her whole body had been painted with a brown lotion we used on our legs in World War II when it became impossible to buy nylon stockings. She had left off the white enamel face

mask, and her freckles showed up, giving her a vulnerable child-woman appearance.

 

“Don’t I know you?” she asked.

 

I looked around to see whom she was addressing and was startled to find that it must be me.

 

“Kind of …” I stammered.  “From the Soho.”

She laughed. “Oh yes, you’re the little mouse with the notebook.”

 

I blushed. “I’m going to be a writer one day.”

 

“Are you? How funny.  I can’t even spell.”

 

“You’re so popular. You have so many friends” I said inanely.

 

“Not much longer. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

A tear squeezed itself out of the corner of her eye. I couldn’t believe it. Vali, with her enchanted existence, was crying.

 

“My lousy family gave me a one-way ticket to Paris. They claim that I’m screwing up their reputation.” She laughed bitterly.

 

“Oh no!” I was horrified. “What will you do there?”

 

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be OK” she replied. “I’ll go to the Left Bank – there’ll be plenty of  artists who’ll want me.”  She tossed her hair defiantly. “I’m glad to be going. I intend to have every single experience life can offer by the time I’m 30. After that, I’ll be ready to die. No-one will miss me, that’s for sure.”

 

“I will” I protested shyly.

She gave me a funny, crooked smile, got up and strode down the beach until I lost sight of her among the crowds.

 

I never saw her again. She’d be a lot more than 30 now. I still wonder about her and if she managed all those experiences.  Maybe they finally killed her – the promiscuity, drugs, who knows what else. But every time I go to Paris, and I’ve been a few times, I find myself in Montmartre. I wander around little art studios or sip coffee at a roadside cafe. My eyes scan all the faces, and I know that I am looking for a 17-year-old redhead named Vali, who wanted so much to taste life’s experiences.

 

I guess I’ll go on searching for her for the rest of my life.

____________________________

I’m always glad to hear your comments.  For new, aspiring writers, I have a large collection of magazines on the craft of writing.  Although many are very old, the advice in them is relevant today and very valuable.  I am willing to give a number of them free to any writers who could come to my home in Jerusalem to collect them.  Call me first (02 6513096) or send an e-mail to: dwaysman@gmail.com     Happy writing.

 

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     THE FREE SPIRIT

 

                                          by DVORA WAYSMAN

She fascinated me from the first moment I saw her.  I had never seen a girl so – so flagrantly sinful. Her red hair hung to her waist; her skin was enamelled white with the Cleopatra-eyes outlined in black; her scarlet mouth pouted and her crimson fingernails looked like she’d been working overtime at the abbatoir.  She was everything I’d been warned against and – oh – I envied her desperately!

 

It was no surprise to learn that she was an artist’s model. There was really nothing else she could have been, other than a hooker, and in those bygone innocent days I had neither heard the word nor knew what it meant. Life classes where she would be completely nude. The students, male and female, would surround her and make sketches – I blushed to think about it.  I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

 

Her name was Val. I learnt that by eavesdropping shamelessly in the Soho Coffee Lounge where she would hang out. It was close to my home, where I lived my sheltered, mundane existence with my parents and siblings.  St. Kilda, the seaside suburb of Melbourne, was considered very bohemian in the late 1940’s, but Val was light years ahead of her time even for there. When she walked down Fitzroy Street, respectable matrons would mutter: “Shameless hussy!” and propel their daughters along at a faster pace. If they were with their sons, they would point to something on the opposite side of the road in an effort to divert their attention. Of course, it never worked – everyone turned around to take another look – the women enviously, the men lustfully.

 

For she was beautiful. The rich red hair was probably the only part of her that owed nothing to artifice, and it was magnificent.  Her figure was slim, but with full breasts unusual in such a young girl. And despite the macabre make-up, you could tell she had a fragile loveliness that was quite heartbreaking.

 

We were the same age – 17 – that’s what was amazing.  But my life had been a boring round of school, homework and family, while hers – I blushed even to think about it.  She was shocking!  She was wonderful!

 

Everything I had learnt about her was by eavesdropping. I wanted to be a writer, and I’d sit evenings in The Soho over a single cup of coffee (it’s a

 

 

 

 

 

-2-

wonder they didn’t charge me rent) with my notebook, waiting for life to happen. At some point in the evening, Val would flounce in dramatically, followed by her train of admirers – young men who had to be artists (some of them wore berets and smoked pipes), and a few women who were decidedly strange.  One of them was an actress who dressed like a man and proclaimed loudly to anyone who would listen that she was “dying for love of Val.”  I couldn’t work that one out at all.

 

Val was always the focus of attention. She’d flick a finger and someone would rush to light her cigarette in its long amber holder. She’d drawl out a sentence in her husky, bored voice and all other conversation would stop. I tried to work out which of the group she favoured, but she seemed equally indifferent to all of them, although she’d always leave alone with one of them, and the rest would remain plunged in gloom. Maybe I’m exaggerating. The gloom was part of the Soho’s attraction. You could never see anything clearly for the lighting consisted of candles stuck in old wine bottles, and the ceiling was draped Turkish-fashion in billows of dark fabric, so that the whole place resembled a harem more than a coffeee lounge. The food they served was very nondescript (crumpets or toasted raisin bread), but the coffee – Turkish, expresso or capuccino – was really something, and the fragrance hung heavy on the air.

 

I spoke to Val only once, but I’ll never forget it. I was lying on the sands of St. Kilda beach one summer Sunday afternoon and I must have fallen asleep, lulled by the lapping of the waves and the effects of the sunshine. When I woke up, she was sitting beside me, filing her long nails to cruel points.  I had never seen her in the daytime and was so astonished, I was rendered speechless. She wore a black 2-piece bathing suit, which was very daring in the pre-bikini era. Her whole body had been painted with a brown lotion we used on our legs in World War II when it became impossible to buy nylon stockings. She had left off the white enamel face

mask, and her freckles showed up, giving her a vulnerable child-woman appearance.

 

“Don’t I know you?” she asked.

 

I looked around to see whom she was addressing and was startled to find that it must be me.

 

“Kind of …” I stammered.  “From the Soho.”

 

 

 

 

-3-

She laughed. “Oh yes, you’re the little mouse with the notebook.”

 

I blushed. “I’m going to be a writer one day.”

 

“Are you? How funny.  I can’t even spell.”

 

“You’re so popular. You have so many friends” I said inanely.

 

“Not much longer. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

A tear squeezed itself out of the corner of her eye. I couldn’t believe it. Val, with her enchanted existence, was crying.

 

“My lousy family gave me a one-way ticket to Paris. They claim that I’m screwing up their reputation.” She laughed bitterly.

 

“Oh no!” I was horrified. “What will you do there?”

 

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be OK” she replied. “I’ll go to the Left Bank – there’ll be plenty of  artists who’ll want me.”  She tossed her hair defiantly. “I’m glad to be going. I intend to have every single experience life can offer by the time I’m 30. After that, I’ll be ready to die. No-one will miss me, that’s for sure.”

 

“I will” I protested shyly.

She gave me a funny, crooked smile, got up and strode down the beach until I lost sight of her among the crowds.

 

I never saw her again. She’d be a lot more than 30 now. I still wonder about her and if she managed all those experiences.  Maybe they finally killed her – the promiscuity, drugs, who knows what else. But every time I go to Paris, and I’ve been a few times, I find myself in Montmartre. I wander around little art studios or sip coffee at a roadside cafe. My eyes scan all the faces, and I know that I am looking for a 17-year-old redhead named Val, who wanted so much to taste life’s experiences.

 

I guess I’ll go on searching for her for the rest of my life.

_____

Tel. & FAX: 972 2 6513096                            Dvora Waysman

e-mail:                                                               5/5 Karmon St. Beit Hakerem

ways@netvision.net.il                                      Jerusalem 96308 Israel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     THE FREE SPIRIT

 

                                          by DVORA WAYSMAN

She fascinated me from the first moment I saw her.  I had never seen a girl so – so flagrantly sinful. Her red hair hung to her waist; her skin was enamelled white with the Cleopatra-eyes outlined in black; her scarlet mouth pouted and her crimson fingernails looked like she’d been working overtime at the abbatoir.  She was everything I’d been warned against and – oh – I envied her desperately!

 

It was no surprise to learn that she was an artist’s model. There was really nothing else she could have been, other than a hooker, and in those bygone innocent days I had neither heard the word nor knew what it meant. Life classes where she would be completely nude. The students, male and female, would surround her and make sketches – I blushed to think about it.  I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

 

Her name was Vali. I learnt that by eavesdropping shamelessly in the Soho Coffee Lounge where she would hang out. It was close to my home, where I lived my sheltered, mundane existence with my parents and siblings.  St. Kilda, the seaside suburb of Melbourne, was considered very bohemian in the late 1940’s, but Vali was light years ahead of her time even for there. When she walked down Fitzroy Street, respectable matrons would mutter: “Shameless hussy!” and propel their daughters along at a faster pace. If they were with their sons, they would point to something on the opposite side of the road in an effort to divert their attention. Of course, it never worked – everyone turned around to take another look – the women enviously, the men lustfully.

 

For she was beautiful. The rich red hair was probably the only part of her that owed nothing to artifice, and it was magnificent.  Her figure was slim, but with full breasts unusual in such a young girl. And despite the macabre make-up, you could tell she had a fragile loveliness that was quite heartbreaking.

 

We were the same age – 17 – that’s what was amazing.  But my life had been a boring round of school, homework and family, while hers – I blushed even to think about it.  She was shocking!  She was wonderful!

 

Everything I had learnt about her was by eavesdropping. I wanted to be a writer, and I’d sit evenings in The Soho over a single cup of coffee (it’s a

 

 

 

 

 

-2-

wonder they didn’t charge me rent) with my notebook, waiting for life to happen. At some point in the evening, Vali would flounce in dramatically, followed by her train of admirers – young men who had to be artists (some of them wore berets and smoked pipes), and a few women who were decidedly strange.  One of them was an actress who dressed like a man and proclaimed loudly to anyone who would listen that she was “dying for love of Vali.”  I couldn’t work that one out at all.

 

Vali was always the focus of attention. She’d flick a finger and someone would rush to light her cigarette in its long amber holder. She’d drawl out a sentence in her husky, bored voice and all other conversation would stop. I tried to work out which of the group she favoured, but she seemed equally indifferent to all of them, although she’d always leave alone with one of them, and the rest would remain plunged in gloom. Maybe I’m exaggerating. The gloom was part of the Soho’s attraction. You could never see anything clearly for the lighting consisted of candles stuck in old wine bottles, and the ceiling was draped Turkish-fashion in billows of dark fabric, so that the whole place resembled a harem more than a coffeee lounge. The food they served was very nondescript (crumpets or toasted raisin bread), but the coffee – Turkish, expresso or capuccino – was really something, and the fragrance hung heavy on the air.

 

I spoke to Vali only once, but I’ll never forget it. I was lying on the sands of St. Kilda beach one summer Sunday afternoon and I must have fallen asleep, lulled by the lapping of the waves and the effects of the sunshine. When I woke up, she was sitting beside me, filing her long nails to cruel points.  I had never seen her in the daytime and was so astonished, I was rendered speechless. She wore a black 2-piece bathing suit, which was very daring in the pre-bikini era. Her whole body had been painted with a brown lotion we used on our legs in World War II when it became impossible to buy nylon stockings. She had left off the white enamel face

mask, and her freckles showed up, giving her a vulnerable child-woman appearance.

 

“Don’t I know you?” she asked.

 

I looked around to see whom she was addressing and was startled to find that it must be me.

 

“Kind of …” I stammered.  “From the Soho.”

 

 

 

 

-3-

She laughed. “Oh yes, you’re the little mouse with the notebook.”

 

I blushed. “I’m going to be a writer one day.”

 

“Are you? How funny.  I can’t even spell.”

 

“You’re so popular. You have so many friends” I said inanely.

 

“Not much longer. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

A tear squeezed itself out of the corner of her eye. I couldn’t believe it. Vali, with her enchanted existence, was crying.

 

“My lousy family gave me a one-way ticket to Paris. They claim that I’m screwing up their reputation.” She laughed bitterly.

 

“Oh no!” I was horrified. “What will you do there?”

 

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be OK” she replied. “I’ll go to the Left Bank – there’ll be plenty of  artists who’ll want me.”  She tossed her hair defiantly. “I’m glad to be going. I intend to have every single experience life can offer by the time I’m 30. After that, I’ll be ready to die. No-one will miss me, that’s for sure.”

 

“I will” I protested shyly.

She gave me a funny, crooked smile, got up and strode down the beach until I lost sight of her among the crowds.

 

I never saw her again. She’d be a lot more than 30 now. I still wonder about her and if she managed all those experiences.  Maybe they finally killed her – the promiscuity, drugs, who knows what else. But every time I go to Paris, and I’ve been a few times, I find myself in Montmartre. I wander around little art studios or sip coffee at a roadside cafe. My eyes scan all the faces, and I know that I am looking for a 17-year-old redhead named Vali, who wanted so much to taste life’s experiences.

 

I guess I’ll go on searching for her for the rest of my life.

_____

Tel. 972 2 6513096                                          Dvora Waysman

e-mail:                                                               5/5 Karmon St. Beit Hakerem

ways@netvision.net.il                                      Jerusalem 96308  Israel

website: http://www.dvorawaysman.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     THE FREE SPIRIT

 

                                          by DVORA WAYSMAN

She fascinated me from the first moment I saw her.  I had never seen a girl so – so flagrantly sinful. Her red hair hung to her waist; her skin was enamelled white with the Cleopatra-eyes outlined in black; her scarlet mouth pouted and her crimson fingernails looked like she’d been working overtime at the abbatoir.  She was everything I’d been warned against and – oh – I envied her desperately!

 

It was no surprise to learn that she was an artist’s model. There was really nothing else she could have been, other than a hooker, and in those bygone innocent days I had neither heard the word nor knew what it meant. Life classes where she would be completely nude. The students, male and female, would surround her and make sketches – I blushed to think about it.  I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

 

Her name was Val. I learnt that by eavesdropping shamelessly in the Soho Coffee Lounge where she would hang out. It was close to my home, where I lived my sheltered, mundane existence with my parents and siblings.  St. Kilda, the seaside suburb of Melbourne, was considered very bohemian in the late 1940’s, but Val was light years ahead of her time even for there. When she walked down Fitzroy Street, respectable matrons would mutter: “Shameless hussy!” and propel their daughters along at a faster pace. If they were with their sons, they would point to something on the opposite side of the road in an effort to divert their attention. Of course, it never worked – everyone turned around to take another look – the women enviously, the men lustfully.

 

For she was beautiful. The rich red hair was probably the only part of her that owed nothing to artifice, and it was magnificent.  Her figure was slim, but with full breasts unusual in such a young girl. And despite the macabre make-up, you could tell she had a fragile loveliness that was quite heartbreaking.

 

We were the same age – 17 – that’s what was amazing.  But my life had been a boring round of school, homework and family, while hers – I blushed even to think about it.  She was shocking!  She was wonderful!

 

Everything I had learnt about her was by eavesdropping. I wanted to be a writer, and I’d sit evenings in The Soho over a single cup of coffee (it’s a

 

 

 

 

 

-2-

wonder they didn’t charge me rent) with my notebook, waiting for life to happen. At some point in the evening, Val would flounce in dramatically, followed by her train of admirers – young men who had to be artists (some of them wore berets and smoked pipes), and a few women who were decidedly strange.  One of them was an actress who dressed like a man and proclaimed loudly to anyone who would listen that she was “dying for love of Val.”  I couldn’t work that one out at all.

 

Val was always the focus of attention. She’d flick a finger and someone would rush to light her cigarette in its long amber holder. She’d drawl out a sentence in her husky, bored voice and all other conversation would stop. I tried to work out which of the group she favoured, but she seemed equally indifferent to all of them, although she’d always leave alone with one of them, and the rest would remain plunged in gloom. Maybe I’m exaggerating. The gloom was part of the Soho’s attraction. You could never see anything clearly for the lighting consisted of candles stuck in old wine bottles, and the ceiling was draped Turkish-fashion in billows of dark fabric, so that the whole place resembled a harem more than a coffeee lounge. The food they served was very nondescript (crumpets or toasted raisin bread), but the coffee – Turkish, expresso or capuccino – was really something, and the fragrance hung heavy on the air.

 

I spoke to Val only once, but I’ll never forget it. I was lying on the sands of St. Kilda beach one summer Sunday afternoon and I must have fallen asleep, lulled by the lapping of the waves and the effects of the sunshine. When I woke up, she was sitting beside me, filing her long nails to cruel points.  I had never seen her in the daytime and was so astonished, I was rendered speechless. She wore a black 2-piece bathing suit, which was very daring in the pre-bikini era. Her whole body had been painted with a brown lotion we used on our legs in World War II when it became impossible to buy nylon stockings. She had left off the white enamel face

mask, and her freckles showed up, giving her a vulnerable child-woman appearance.

 

“Don’t I know you?” she asked.

 

I looked around to see whom she was addressing and was startled to find that it must be me.

 

“Kind of …” I stammered.  “From the Soho.”

 

 

 

 

-3-

She laughed. “Oh yes, you’re the little mouse with the notebook.”

 

I blushed. “I’m going to be a writer one day.”

 

“Are you? How funny.  I can’t even spell.”

 

“You’re so popular. You have so many friends” I said inanely.

 

“Not much longer. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

A tear squeezed itself out of the corner of her eye. I couldn’t believe it. Val, with her enchanted existence, was crying.

 

“My lousy family gave me a one-way ticket to Paris. They claim that I’m screwing up their reputation.” She laughed bitterly.

 

“Oh no!” I was horrified. “What will you do there?”

 

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be OK” she replied. “I’ll go to the Left Bank – there’ll be plenty of  artists who’ll want me.”  She tossed her hair defiantly. “I’m glad to be going. I intend to have every single experience life can offer by the time I’m 30. After that, I’ll be ready to die. No-one will miss me, that’s for sure.”

 

“I will” I protested shyly.

She gave me a funny, crooked smile, got up and strode down the beach until I lost sight of her among the crowds.

 

I never saw her again. She’d be a lot more than 30 now. I still wonder about her and if she managed all those experiences.  Maybe they finally killed her – the promiscuity, drugs, who knows what else. But every time I go to Paris, and I’ve been a few times, I find myself in Montmartre. I wander around little art studios or sip coffee at a roadside cafe. My eyes scan all the faces, and I know that I am looking for a 17-year-old redhead named Val, who wanted so much to taste life’s experiences.

 

I guess I’ll go on searching for her for the rest of my life.

_____

Tel. & FAX: 972 2 6513096                            Dvora Waysman

e-mail:                                                               5/5 Karmon St. Beit Hakerem

ways@netvision.net.il                                      Jerusalem 96308 Israel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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2 thoughts on “AN UNFORGETTABLE CHARACTER

  1. This was stunning! Goodness – wow. Vali would be blest to read this, you have given her a special place in your heart and now with us. Thank you for sharing her with us, Dvora. Love, Carrie

  2. Tobi Lynn says:

    Hi Dvora, How are you? Good seeing you in email during these socially distant days. Just thought to ask for your advice,- I am writing a collection of short stories in English and was wondering if you knew what I could do so as to publish it. I imagine I would need an editor and agent or such. Do you have any idea who I should contact to get things started? Thank you so much. Tobi, (Sonya’s daughter. )

    בתאריך יום ב׳, 13 ביולי 2020, 19:58, מאת From Dvora’s Desk ‏:

    > Dvora Waysman posted: “During my 35 years as a Creative Writing teacher, > an exercise I frequently gave my students was to write about someone they > met – even very briefly – that they have never forgotten. One talented > student started off his piece: “His face was lined with bro” >

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