ROSE for ANNE by Yuanda

As part of the Write, Edit, Bali tour, students from RMIT’s Professional Writing and Editing Associate Degree teamed up with students from Ganesha University’s newly-formed creative writing course. We worked together in small groups to help edit and publish the stories that the Indonesian students had written in English. Most of the changes were purely grammatical, and the experience was positive for all of us. We shared a universal passion for writing and benefited from exploring the cultural nuances and word choices that come when writing in a second language. Yuanda’s story was inspired by Vladimir Nabokov’s novel, Lolita.

What can you do? When you realize that you are thirty and also, that there’s something odd about you. Something only you can understand, without being able to tell anyone. Sometimes you can’t even understand it yourself.

It’s because of you, Anne. You’re the one who caused this. Why did you leave me eleven years ago? I still remember what we went through, what we saw, what we felt. I can still hear your voice accompanying me with lilies in your hair. I can still hear your little song about our home-town flowing through your green eyes. Your red lips didn’t need any color on them, you were beautiful like a cherry on my Sunday morning pancake. You’re still sweet, eternal in my heart, in my mind. You dance in every corner of my room. But, there’s still a “but”, you’re too selfish. Yeah, you’re selfish, you preferred leukemia to me.

After you died, I moved to Madison and worked as a pianist in a tiny school. I enjoyed my days forgetting you. I tried to cherish my time in Madison. I tried to forget you every night I spent with tears in my eyes and the wind in Toronto. But possibly, who knows, I was wrong? I came to Madison and it’s only made me love and miss you more, Anne.

Until the day I played piano for my friend Lucy’s ballerina class. She said, “My girls are performing at the fall night party. Please play Speak Softly Love for them.” I was busy with my fingers playing Speak Softly Love that day. The wind blew. Lucy and her students laughed cheerfully while moving their bodies to and fro. I was so happy playing for them. But one of them bothered me with her singing. How can she still sing the words while lifting and bending her legs? She turned, smiled … and she looked at me. That smile with her small thick red lips. Yes, she smiled, so sweetly. She smiled at me. I didn’t know if I should return her smile. She had your eyes, Anne. Why was her blonde hair tied with ribbons, which made me see you dancing in the music I played?

I could not forget that smile for three days. I could not sleep. I looked at your face in the photo in the blue frame that I kept in my room. Then I thought back to that day in Lucy’s ballet class. Her smile made a frame with its color in my mind. Come on, Dan Stuart! Forget it. How can you admire a 16-year-old girl? You are a grown man. You should think about getting married. You can’t love her, right, you can’t love her. What for? She might consider you an uncle, or even a father. No! You cannot love her.

“Rose!” another girl called her from afar to the stage. She ran with her ballerina steps, which increasingly bothered me. How could I fall in love with a 16-year-old girl? Oh, I hate myself!

At the fall night party she danced so beautifully. I played Speak Softly Love while looking at her hair tied neatly. I saw her green eyes. I saw her red lips that seemed to call me to kiss her. I could feel the curves of her body that were increasingly calling me to hug her … Oh damn, it’s just an illusion. Delusion. The music ended. The applause was so strong that I felt even lonelier as she ran backstage. I walked with my empty feeling and sat on the stairs near the stage. But then something sweet happened. She ran! Surprised me! “Thank you, Mr. Stuart, you played beautifully.” Then she kissed my cheek, before running off to find Lucy. Lucy looked at me and smiled.

A week after my infatuation started, I moved to Massachusetts for three years to improve my skills as a pianist. There were two things in my heart. I was happy because this would help me to be more prosperous and secure. But I was also sad, of course, that I had to leave Rose. Yes, Rose, a young Rose in Madison. But, never mind, I guess, I could give her a chance to finish her study until the moment I was able to tell her I love her.

I became famous for my piano playing skills. In my heart, my tunes filled-up Madison with beautiful sounds especially for Rose. After three years, I returned to Madison and was warmed by the memory of Rose’s cheery smile.

“Have you seen her, Lucy?” I asked on my return.

“You took so long to come back Dan. There’s so much that you don’t know …”

“Give these roses to Rose, Lucy, I don’t know which house she lives in.”

“But Dan, Rose died in childbirth a year ago.”

I am not Anne’s, neither Rose’s. I am Toronto’s. I am 75. And I am alone.

About the author

Yuanda is a 21-year-old writer from Singaraja, Bali. She is studying at Ganesha University, Bali, Indonesia, and has a passion for romance writing and humourous stories. She is also a self-confessed make-up addict who cannot live without lipstick.