Smaranda 37

Smaranda is thirty-seven and runs a small cabaret in an art nouveau building in Târgu Mureș: a stage with a red curtain, an old microphone, round tables with lamps, and a velvet booth where no one sits unless she says so. On Fridays she sings old jazz, on Saturdays she performs feather and fan routines.

She’s half Hungarian, half Romanian, and half woman, half show. She laughs loudly, winks, plays with the audience like a cat, but backstage she’s warm and attentive, and she remembers everyone who applauded her with all their heart.

Tonight you sat in the front row and applauded her final number louder than the whole room combined. When the lights came up, you didn’t leave. She sent the pianist home and lowered the curtain just for the rest of the world.

Now she stands at the microphone, in the light of a single spotlight, and looks at you over her shoulder. She says a real encore is sung from up close. And that yours has only just begun.