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An older British gentleman, asked permission, by
pointing at the stool across from me and then his
foot, to tie his yellow ochre colored shoe. As he
bent forward his hair almost brushed my face. His
hair had probably been flame red in an earlier life,
or shall I say, earlier in this life. It was currently
a faded red mixed with grey that one maintains with
chemicals. He was talking about various nuts, entertaining
the crazy couple at the table to my left by trading
colorful insults. My neighbor engaged with this
character in an outrageous barrage of insults, including
one I’d never heard in my life: “If
I listen to you long enough I may find out my own
name”. Yak. Yak. Yak. “Ya, ya, I must
go.” Pure verbal entertainment. Up to now,
I wasn’t sure these people weren’t just
crazy total strangers had who stumbled into a good
natured exchange of barbs. There words came fast
and were certainly clever.
These continentals were at very least well known
by regulars at the café and passers by. In
ones, twos, and threes, counting dogs on leashes,
a cast worthy of a Broadway comedy stopped to pass
on a compliment, greeting, or additional bizarre
comment or join the ever growing crowd around the
table. One basset hound joined the group. He was
an old basset who whacked my leg with his tail,
but was otherwise polite. I was only a fly on the
wall, or at a table, taking my time with a double
espresso, and toying with a new tiger fountain pen
Lauren, my daughter, had given to me. I was making
notes in a black covered notebook, with a leatherette
finish. The format was small, about the size of
a postcard.
A Parisian Terrasse table is only about 20 inches
in diameter, at the most. It’s large enough
to hold a few beverages, an ash tray, and a small
menu. It is designed for economy. While I did have
room to write in the tiny book, I kept it on my
lap.
At the Café de Flore, the color scheme is
white and green, to differentiate it from the motif
used by the Deux Maggots, which is green and gold.
These two famous cafes are virtually next door to
each other. Years ago one café and then the
other pronounced itself to be the cultural center
of the universe. Each cited its list of noted writers
and actors who were regulars. “Our writers
are more forward thinking than theirs, blah, blah,
blah.” The espresso was the same hue, value,
and intensity in either establishment; the blackness
of a coffee bean liquefied and turned around the
corner toward the color orange. It was expensive
in either place. The café chairs are light
weight, easy to stack, durable, and allow for arrangements
of maximum customers in minimal space. The table
abutting ours never changed size while numerous
sitters spiraled into the cluster. As the crowd
grew in size the enjoining voices became overwhelming
and the common language changed from English to
French. The change was like a tide coming in, as
the English speakers did not depart, while the number
of French speakers swelled. High tide was in and
French was the language. It was now all French and
our original pink haired Englishman retreated across
the Boulevard St. Germain to the Brassiere Lipp,
to join his friend, Albert Cossery, the Egyptian
expatriate writer. Another Egyptian writer was with
Albert. I wouldn’t have known who Albert was
except our table mates saw Albert across the street
and started yelling above the sound of the traffic
and gesturing between vehicles “Albert!! Albert!!
Come over and join the table”.
Traffic didn’t magically stop on Boulevard
St. Germain. The three crossed over to the Café.
Albert relocated as the focal point for the table.
It would seem he had recent surgery and had no voice.
He answered questions with his hands, which changed
the party from an exchange of quips to polite gestures,
leading to a type of charades.
Guesses, in French, were in singular words shot
back at our Egyptian writer, Albert, who confirmed
correctness with a nod or waved a no with his hand
to the player. Albert although quite articulate
in any number of tongues, was a failure at hand
gestures. His attempts at sign language evoked wide
and wild interpretations. His friends, after a series
of Albert’s hand swinging, proposed this as
a possible answer: “My mother, no, my father,
no, my mother in front of the train station at Montparnasse
.......”. The mystery of his gestures never
unraveled more satisfactorily. Albert didn’t
seem to care whether or not the answer was correct.
He continued to smile and take notes in his tiny
butterscotch orange notebook.
He carried a small orange notebook, but didn’t
show his jottings to his audience. How easy would
it have been to write his reply and display to the
group? I liked the red fountain pen which he tucked
back into the inside breast pocket of his daffodil
yellow sports coat. The pen was a dark garnet shade
of red. As he scribbled into his notebook, I peeked
to see that the pen was filled with scarlet ink.
He was a truly colorful personage, not afraid to
be the center of attention, even craved it. His
plumage heralded his presence: “I am here
and as colorful inside as out!” He wore orange
socks and shoes with his yellow jacket and matching
pants. His shirt was a deep jade green and the woven
tie that spilled down from his throat was a rich
cadmium red deep. He sipped his café and
pitched the empty white and green wrapper from his
Café de Flore square of chocolate onto the
sidewalk. Gestures ceased and the mood shifted again
in the neighborhood.
Our aged basset hound’s keeper gave all a
polite goodbye, picked up the leash and tugged his
charge into motion, leaving behind all to comment
on how well behaved the dog had been.
Not long afterward Albert sipped his final sip
of café, allowed the pink haired Englishman
to pick up the tab, waved goodbye, then went away
in his yellow suit. Goodbye yellow suit. Goodbye
silent writer.
The café became ordinary once more. Waiters
clearing tables, tearing paid receipts, and nodding
to the regulars. The afternoon’s amusement
had ended. The customers, mostly tourists and former
models, sat dressed in khaki and grey suits, white
dresses, and the occasional Hard Rock Café
t-shirt, nursing drinks. Around the corner, minus
his basset hound, came our friend to rejoin his
friends. All were gone but for two. He had gone
home, to put on something that made a statement:
it said, “Hey, look at me, I can wear a yellow
sport coat, too.” He then sat in Albert’s
vacant throne.
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