Page 30 - WTPVol.XI#4

It’s one of those crisp, autumn Sunday afternoons when Paris is at its most beautiful, at least to
Max’s eyes. At his usual table at the Café Le Départ,
he smokes his cigarillo—imported from Spain and procured from a nearby tobacco shop—and sips his coffee, watching a street musician struggle though a Nick Drake tune on his out-of-tune acoustic guitar. He’s singing in English, though he apparently doesn’t know all the words so he slips into French every now and again. The small crowd around him takes his pho- to or videos him with their cell phones, or turn the phones on themselves for the requisite selfie to show their friends back home the great time they are hav- ing in the City of Lights. Max has seen this musician
a few times before, usually struggling through other tunes he attempts to play for anyone who’s willing
to listen. He’s become something of a Sunday fixture around the fountain at Place St. Michel.
The café is not as busy as it usually is and that’s the way he likes it. Quiet, serene, a place where he can just be and commune with his thoughts and read.
He makes it a point to come to this particular café, especially since it’s just a short walk from his nearby Latin Quarter hotel. There are only a few custom- ers—a couple sitting on the far side of the terrace across from the Quai de Montebello, an old local eating a croissant and reading the morning edition of Le Monde, and a rather pleasant older woman
at the table directly next to his, a cigarette burning between two delicate fingers adorned with rings.
An Aperol spritz, which is half empty, sits before
her on the table. She gazes out towards the pedes- trian traffic across from the St. Michel fountain, her lipstick-coated mouth pulled into a pleasant smile, her heavily mascaraed eyes peering out under the
rim of her wide-brimmed blue hat. There’s something about her that keeps drawing Max’s attention, and
he watches her as she brings her cigarette to her lips, then exhales a plume of smoke from the corner of her mouth. She senses she’s being watched and glances at him, and offers a warm smile, revealing a set of rather crooked teeth. He returns the smile and gazes into her eyes for a moment, eyes which reflect the internal light she possesses. She’s rather old, perhaps in her late seventies or possibly crossing the threshold into her eighties, but there’s a youthfulness about her he can’t help feel drawn to.
She raises the glass of Aperol to her lips and takes a sip, followed by another drag from her cigarette, all the
while staring out across the plaza, watching someone sort through the books outside Gilbert Joseph.
It is only then he realizes who she is.
He looks at her again and studies her face to be abso- lutely sure she’s who he thinks she is, but it’s hard to tell. She’s much older now, hardly recognizable, but it’s in the eyes, in her smile. She again senses she’s being watched and turns to face him, smiling again, and that’s when he knows for sure. He can’t believe his eyes.
He doesn’t say anything, though, and turns away, somewhat embarrassed he was caught staring at her, but she doesn’t make an issue of it. He wants to talk to her, wants to let her know he knows who she is, but at the same time he doesn’t want to bother her. Instead he sips his coffee, more as a way to distract himself, and watches the street musician again, who is now attempting a Radiohead song, only now he sings entirely in French. He can only recognize the tune by its melody, but it’s no less a mess than the Nick Drake song.
He hears a voice, rather husky and rough, saying something in French. He turns to see the woman watching him, a smile on her lips, her eyes laser focused on him from under the brim of her hat, her cigarette smoldering between her fingers.
My Français is... he says, then indicates with a ges- ture of his hand that it’s rather bad.
She smiles again, says, English?
Oui.
I speak English, she says, her voice even more raspy than it was when he first heard it. It’s the voice of someone who smoked heavily for decades, a voice far different than what he’s used to hearing from her.
It’s such a pleasant day, isn’t it, she says. I love Paris in the autumn. You’re visiting?
I am, he says. I try and come once a year. It’s one of my favorite places in the world. I would live here if I could.
You sound American, she says. Where in America? New York.
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Anna
Julian Gallo