Short Story Paris Part 4 of 4 That's all!

 

The café, was once again my place of refuge, in spite of the rain and a considerate number of patrons. And also once again, Stan was missing. 

 

I found Beatrice alone at a table near the back, smiled as I stepped through the door. She waved to me.  I unfolded my umbrella and put it the barrel next to the door before I took a chair.

 

“Did you have a good time with Madam de Rohan?”

 

“And why did you tell me she was in her nineties and wanted sex?”

 

She skipped over my question. “She’s nice lady.  Good time?”

 

“Helen is very nice. It was a special evening.”

 

“It surprising me.” Heavy French accent, without this and that in English, but much better than my café French. 

 

To change the subject: “How is Stanley? I haven’t seen him lately.”

 

“I don’t seen him late. He has troubles.”

 

“With the lawyer?”

 

“What lawyer?”

 

“The one who met him here. Something about his writing.”

 

“I know nothing of that.  I know he does….how do you say it….putting money down.”

 

“You don’t mean betting?”

 

Her eyes lit up.  “Yes! That things!”

 

“He’s in trouble?”

 

“Yes. I warn him. He do not listen.”

 

Well, that was another conversation and another glimpse into the strange life of Mr. Stanley.

 

“How is his writing going?”

 

She shrugged. “He has to finish.”

 

Finish? “A new book?”

 

“It is complication. The bookers want him to write more to pay more.”

 

“And he hasn’t?”

 

Another shrug.

 

“Will he be here, maybe today or tomorrow?”

 

“Qui sait?” Who knows is right.

 

Today or tomorrow turned out to be never, at least for this café.  Beatrice dropped in, met me for an early coffee and told me when and where.  It was quiet between sips. The bookers, as she put it had not showed up the times she had come by.

 

“And you hear more about Helen?” she asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You have things together?”

 

“Art museums, déjeuner, Lunch. Le dîner, Dinner.”

 

“Seul?”

 

My turn to shrug, but without a smile. Damn if I was going to tell her if we had supper alone or any other secrets.  Pretty certain Helen wouldn’t.

The next time I saw Stanley I didn’t approach him and he didn’t see me. Le Lit des Roses, The Bed of Roses Café was fairly filled almost out to the road.

 

The same greasy, naughty lad sat across from Stan and neither of them looked happy and neither was sipping their cups of red wine.

 

I eased closer, with my back to them. I did sip my wine.

 

“You still own me money.”

 

“I gave you every Euro.”

 

“Not enough.”

 

“What do you mean, Recardo, you cheap bastard?”

 

It went on and on until I left.

 

Sometimes you just have to let things go, friend or not. What was I going to do? Track him down and slit his throat?

 

The next evening, I met Helen at her lovely little cubby of artistic wonders. Gaston made dinner for us. Of course, a well-known chef was a close friend. Not my friend of course. What one man could do with one chicken, butter, wine and herbs de Provence would fascinate hungry angels.

 

Gaston sat with us. Like many classic chefs, he spoke English and god knows how many other languages. But, when necessary to help poor me, Helen jumped in.

 

The conversation drifted past cooking and politics, to weather, trips taken and going to taken, until we got to friends.  Somehow, writers came into the stream. Of course, Gaston had never heard of me, or at least the author me.

 

For reasons that confounds me, Gaston mentioned Stanley. He’s read a couple of his books, which astounded me.

 

I couldn’t help myself. Not right then, but a few days earlier. Helen had somehow crossed the line from let’s have dinner to more subtly conversations, that led to our own fascinations. And eventually pillow talk to my worries linked to Stanley’s mix-up. Not the whole thing, more like half of this and that.

 

“Funny you mentioned that author, Gaston. He’s a friend of ours. There’s a hoodlum giving him something of a bit of trouble.”

 

It pays to know people who know people. With the right people, bad things can disappear, or bad things can happen to bad people.

 

I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t say a word when Stanley is back in our favorite café and Recardo never did.

 

I won’t tell the rest of the story, but I’m happy and so is Helen. That’s enough for the two of us.

 

 

It Started with Coffee and Brandy

 

 

  

 

Not exactly a bright morning, the sun choked by clouds, but standing at the bar and sipping a coffee strong enough to choke a Hyena brought its own brightness.  A little dark in the café, with the weak lighting and a look that carried a dark, worn, turn of the century ambiance.  Hard to tell which turn of which century.

 

A woman sauntered in, nicely dressed, beige suit, butter yellow blouse, light red scarf flavored with yellow flowers. She stood at the bar and ordered a coffee before looking around. Not either short, nor tall.  Somewhere from the middle of American by the accent on top of the Spanish words. The voice had a rough edge of whiskey and cigarettes, and also a little too loud to please a man who was trying hard to concentrate on not concentrating. 

 

She glanced his way and went back to sipping her small white ceramic cup of bitter espresso.  Not bad looking. Her face had that look of indecision.  With her mind made up, she turned. “You American? Canadian?”

 

“American,” he said before taking his own sip.

 

“Not sure what told me. Maybe the shoes and pants and shirt and haircut and that look that speaks of not belonging.”

 

“What kind of look is that?” he asked, in voice flat, not caring about the answer. 

 

“From what I’ve seen, Spanish men have an air of owning the room and everyone one in it.  At least the young ones do. Greased black hair, slacks, white shirts open at the collar, jackets carelessly stylish.”

 

“Sounds like you spend a lot of time checking out Madrilanos.”

 

“Are you married?” she asked.

 

“What have you got in mind?” His headache was not getting better.

 

“You know, we really should introduce ourselves.” She carried her cup and saucer and moved close, but not too close. “My name is Wilma Woodbine.”

 

“George Rudford.”

 

“THE Rudfords?  Rhode Island Rudfords? Here on business? Buying a few hotels?  Maybe a bank or two?”

 

“I’m a writer, photographer. Wrong side of the family.”

 

“And I’m a singer, or was.  Sally Charles, much better than Wilma.  Name ring a bell?”

 

“Rock and Roll, County and Western, Heavy Metal?”

 

The look on her face bared a strong resemblance to a dying cat who’d like to get it over with. “That’s what I carelessly call shit music. Two chords, loud drum, flashing lights, gusts of smoke, crowds in ripped jeans jumping up and down for only God knows why, and lyrics that would bore a scared squirrel. No.” She shook her head slightly, eyes blinked closed. “Big Band.  Real music. Real musicians. Memorable lyrics.”

 

“You said former singer?”

 

“Marriage interfered.”

 

“Is your husband close at hand?”

 

“Today, Brussels, tomorrow London, the next day, who knows?”

 

“Industrialist?”

 

“Gives Rolls Royces away as party favors.” The sour look said the rest of it.

 

“And he left you here in Madrid.  Speak Spanish?”

 

“Sure. Un café por favor. No estoy borracho, estoy feliz,.  I’m not drunk, I’m happy. Speaking of which, can I get a brandy to help washdown this coffee?”

 

He looked at the barkeeper and lightly raised two fingers. “Normally not for me, but it’s one of those mornings when I’ll make an exception. Senor, dos brandy por favor.” 

 

“Surprised they serve brandy in a café,” she said.

 

“In Spain a café is a bar as well.”

 

“Something America should latch on to.”

 

“Too many laws to control our needs.”

 

“Yeah.” She took another sip of coffee and followed with a dainty sip from her brandy snifter. “Rioting in the streets is approved of, but a brandy for breakfast is out of the question.”

 

“I think it’s allowed during a riot.”

 

“So, is your wife close at hand.  But, before that, tell me what you write and what you photograph.”

 

“No. And anything I please and anything that jumps in front of my camera.”

 

“So, are you married?  You never answered. Something to hide.”

 

“Yes, I hide the part about divorce.”

 

“Not a pleasant one?”

 

He let the question slide. “With your husband traveling, how did you end up in Madrid?”

 

“Divorce isn’t complete.”

 

“Still the question. Madrid?”

 

“Hoping to find a matador with a long sword.”

 

“You get right to the point.”

 

“Hahaha..good one.”

 

“In fact, I’m looking for another American who knows Madrid and can show me around.”

 

The afternoon took its time wandering through the Prado, discussions centering on Velázquez and Las Meninas. “A bit distracting,” she said. “Who am I supposed to look at? The kids? The dwarfs?  The men? The women?”

 

“Goya?” 

 

“Too dark. A nightmare on canvas!”

 

“Picasso?”

 

 “Wantabees that had too much to drink and suddenly think they’re artists. I do like Hieronymus Bosch,” she continued, “Looks like a happy bunch in The Garden of Earthly Delights,” she said, still fixated on the triptych. “I like happy.”

 

“Well, Meneer Bosch thought he was painting sin and going to hell.”

 

“Maybe we got it backwards, with Hell and Heaven. Sin more, have more fun.  Sin less, the rocky road to no fun.”

 

He shrugged. “I’m not a fan of depravation either.”

 

“So, what shall we do now?” she asked, with a soothing smile.

 

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

 

“I am,” she said and slipped her arm through his. “Let’s start with another brandy and see what other sins await us.”

 

 

 

Daybreak

 

Bright corners of the new day crawled sleepily through the trees outside her house, a humble home in a humble village.  She stood quietly on the stone veranda, sipping from a white and blue ceramic cup, awakening her throat with the bitter brew, her housecoat wrapped round her slim body. It had become her habit of arising early, embracing the dawn as a symbol of what it meant to be alive.  Boy, did she feel alive! 

 

She hadn’t followed the pattern all her life, but ever since her husband was suddenly gone.  It had been six years to the day when she got the phone call.

 

“I want a divorce.”

 

She didn’t miss him, which also evoked the memory of a certain sadness.  Not the sadness of the phone called, but the sadness that had lingered through twenty years of marriage. Sadness could turn into a bad habit, but at last she’d shoved it away, let it drown in the river of bad memories.

 

Her two kids, both of them grown, had settled far away, on the other side of the globe.  North and South Carolina, Raleigh and Charleston.

 

Maybe she should live closer, but England suited her.  As strange as it sounded, even to her, the weather suited her, the small cottage, the changing seasons, and a location that required little effort to travel to the nearest city, and cities on the continent.  She and her friend, Francine, had just come back from a two months stay in a small town on the edge of Paris. At least she had returned.

 

Her high school French had been brushed up, refurbished, to the extent that she could parler with waiters and trainsmen, and buy a new blouse on the first try, and read the newspapers, except when it was peppered with local dialect.

 

Francine was French and decided to stay. Good for her!  Of course, Jean Pierre had something to do with it. 

 

She had slept with him, too. As excitingly delicious as a fresh croissant with fig jam and a café au lait.  But, of course eating breakfast all the time, and just breakfast, could become slightly boring.  Besides, she found his someone bulging stomach a little off-putting.  No he was not fat, but not the slim French lad that had settled in her imagination since she was a girl.  He did have the French charm, a gallon of it. So the once…or was it twice…?  Francine knew. She had to have known.  Ah, well, Francine never mentioned it and goodness knows she wouldn’t.

 

Jean Pierre and Francine fought off and on, and one night when the heat of confrontation simmered, Francine said, “Here, you take him.”  That was that. C’est l’amour.  But, two nights were enough, sure enough.

 

The French are more open minded.  That’s what Americans say.  Better put to say, in France, liaisons are accepted as a part of nature for both men and women, the part of the brain that says, let’s meet in the afternoon, but don’t let it spoil a friendship.  Cinq à Sept?  Five to seven would be perfect for me, she thought.

 

Francine and Jean Pierre had gotten married a couple of weeks later, the occasion celebrated in a small stone church that was old enough and dusty enough to have served as a delightful spot for honoring the Roman god of dandruff. The priest was slightly younger than the church, short, gray, and a testimony to osteoporosis.  He mumbled in a confused manor that left the bride and groom asking, “Pardon?” more than once or twice. The priest kept going, evidently not able to slow down and risk losing his place in line.  The bride and groom did the best they could and stuck in answers from time to time, randomly, and with great emotion.  “Our heaving faber, how be thy namb.” I do!  Me, too!

 

A small affair and she had served as the Maid of Honor. Several persons from the village of Pont de Pierre, Stonebridge, attended, Pierre meaning stone as well as Peter.  She’d had a chuckle over that.

 

The attendees were a scattering of mostly the old and feeble who’d heard there was an availability of cake. The older women supplied congratulatory tears at various times, whether out of sympathy for the groom, or just forgetting where they were and how they had gotten there.

 

Jean Pierre didn’t just offer cake, but a spit roasted pig and variety of baked vegetables, doused with sauces. Naturally, there was beaucoup wine and chunks of baguettes.  Soon neighbors who had missed the wedding turned up with more jugs of wine and well named homemade brandy referred to as Merde de Chèvres, goat droppings.

 

Everyone celebrated well into the evening.  Ah, the memories. She awoke at the breaking of a new day, next to a somewhat familiar face in her bed. It was that first dawn that reawakened her to the beauty of life.  

 

Now that she was back at home, it was time to readjust a bit.  

 

Jean Pierre’s brother, Andre, a slimmer version of his younger brother, came up behind her, as she stood on the veranda, and put his arm around her waist.  “Pourquoi aimes-tu tant le lever du soleil?” Why do you love the sunrise so much?”

 

 

 

 

To Save a Sigh

 

He sat at the same table every morning, probably the same chair, but who could tell as the waiters and cleaning help moved chairs and tables around. All the chairs looked the same, so who could be sure?

 

A drab, old café; the floor tiles held the scares of years and even more shoes.  Dents and cigarette scars on the dark wooden table, in what must have been long lost times. Fading posters told the tales of this festival and that.  Large mirrors reflected their own sad stories of faces come and gone, never to return, loves lost and found.

 

Charles came for the slightly bitter coffee, to spur the imagination, to dream, to wait for words to come out of the air and make him a Hemingway or Faulkner.  Until then, and by the craggy face he was running out of Father-Time’s patience; he would sip and stir, both cream and sugar, and scribble down bits and pieces until they turned into poetry.  Good poetry. Often published in only the most esoteric quarterlies.  Once, the editor, a startlingly beautiful woman, wanted to publish his poetry in a prime magazine.  He didn’t remember her name or if he was more thrilled by her eager face, or the thought that he might make it, finally make it, to the top of the literary trash pile.

 

Didn’t happen.  She was so sorry, but her boss was a grouch. She was sure Charlie would understand.  Yes, Charlie did understand, only too well.  If she really thought so highly of his work, she would have called him Charles. He softly sighed to think of it.

 

Words came fluttering past.  Leaves in the wind.  He reached out and caught a few.

 

The misty morning tells the sum

Of hearts now broken, souls that lost

And yet the faith in loves to come

Long buried, having paid the cost.

 

Well, it was a start.  Not a great one, but that was the benefit of writing slowly and in pencil. You could change your mind, change your fate.

 

Ahhhhh….

  

The breeze would twist and bend the fates

The Gods will answer, bring a sigh

To charge the mind, it’s not too late

To hear her, …….

 

Yeah, then what? What does sigh have to do with it.

 

To hear her….

 

The waitress appeared out of nowhere.  “Would you like a warm up?” blond hair with slight streaks of gray.  Shapely. Well kept nails.

 

“Are you talking about coffee?”  Innocent jest that brought a smile.

 

“Sadly, yes,” she said, with a repeat of that glorious smile, as she lightly brushed fingers through her hair.

 

“My bad luck.”

 

“You never know when luck will change.”  Another smile.

 

He smiled back. “I’ll start with coffee and see where it goes.”

 

“That’s the way my mornings start,” she said, amusement playing across the full lips, the red lipstick.

 

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said, still smiling.

 

If they kept this up their lips would stay stretched.

 

“The easy answer is because this is my first day, but not necessarily my first time waitressing.”

 

“Aren’t you afraid to use the word waitress?”

 

“Why should I be? I’m a woman.”

 

“Well, I thought destruction of the differences between men and women was part of God’s master plan, or somebody’s plan.”

 

“Vive la difference, I say,” said with a French accent. 

 

“You don’t seem like the waitressing type.”

 

“What makes you say so?”

 

“ I’d guess you are well educated and know what you’re doing and how to keep customers happy.  By the way, the accent sounds French, or Belgian, or somewhere else.”

 

“That’s not rare here in London.”

 

“So, where in France are you from?”

 

“The part that would rather live in London. By the way, you’re a writer, n’est pas?”

 

The conversation broke off.  Other customers.  Too much time in one spot. She turned back and smiled again on her way.

 

Damn it, he thought, I should have asked her what rhymes with sigh.

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