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"People talk about respecting one-another," Helen cut off my dreaming. "Can you imagine how much brighter the world would be if people would be honestly grateful for one-another's existence? I think most people are grateful for one-another, although they rarely realize that. When I confront them with it, they are shocked, but a while later they agree. And when they do agree, their life becomes brighter."
Our world soon became brighter in a different way, in a less important way, as we reached the brightly-lit Railway Station Plaza. She pointed to a tall building at the opposite end, which barely stood out against the black sky. The building looked like a modern hotel. A few windows were lit up.
As we came closer it became gradually apparent that this was a high-rise apartment and not a hotel. A hotel would have been logical right next to the Railway Station Plaza. As we came to it, the building appeared to be brand new. It had a brightly-lit entrance. It reflected the same air of elegance as she did.
She pointed out proudly that she lives on the top floor.
Her place wasn't as large as I had expected, but more beautiful than I had dared to imagine. An oak table stood in a dining nook, right beside a large window. Four elegant chairs surrounded the table.
The main room was largely taken up by a grand piano, an older model. The window in this room extended nearly across the entire wall. It offered a sweeping view of the railway plaza below, its glittering lights, and a dark park-like area in the distance.
On the wall next to the piano was a bookshelf located with birthday cards standing among glass ornaments. She had told me that I should make myself feel at home while she put the coffee on. One of the birthday cards on display was apparently custom made by an artist who wished her a happy "forever-day" celebration as he called it. Inside it said, "To my precious love, and my beautiful lover."
The care with which everything was arranged testified to the great love that the artist spoke of, which evidently extended also to her friends.
Since she hadn't returned, I ventured to join her in the kitchen that was apparently located off to the side of the dining nook where the oak table stood. The sliding door to the kitchen was partially open.
Almost in the last moment, as I was about to enter, I noticed that she was crying. A letter lay in front of her on the table together with a small booklet that appeared to be a bankbook of some sort, to judge by its size. She didn't see me. Her head was bent low. Her hands partially covered her face. A crumpled paper napkin lay on the table. I turned back and looked out of the window again, waiting for her, giving her time.
Money troubles? I pondered. What else would she be in the bar for so late at night? Maybe somebody owed her and didn't pay her back. Maybe she was waiting for this person in the pub, who stood her up, for which she was now in a state of crisis. Maybe that someone was someone close whom she had trusted. It usually hurts twice as bad when trust is betrayed. Or, maybe she just lost her job and didn't know how to make ends meet. Or maybe she was just plain broke or got robbed. I could think of a thousand reasons why people might cry over money. I had been there myself. I felt almost ashamed for how well I was paid now in the diplomatic service, compared to most people's income who struggle every day to make ends meet. I had to laugh at myself, as I remembered a time long ago when I was so broke that all I could afford to eat was a stick of cheese and some dry buns, and that had to be rationed out for a week till the next payday came around. I was too proud to ask for help. It seemed easier to go hungry for a week.
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