Two people found in the Garden of Invalides, Sunday afternoon.
The guy writes, facing backwards, his pad resting on the plants.
The woman, obviously older, stodgily dressed, sits normally. They
never face or speak. Yet, they are too close for strangers. Or
perhaps he was there, and she simply came to enjoy the view. They
ignore each other. Just as I leave the scene, he gets up, spins
around, and they walk off together.
Jacques-Martin is a student of Sorbonne, where he studies art and literature. He aspires to write. Sunday they visit together, sharing lunch she prepares in her apartment nearby. Afterwards they walk to the garden, where he reflects and composes. She enjoys the bright light of the first autumn afternoon, happy for the quiet company. His father has died, not long ago, of a heart attack, in his mid-60s. She lives alone, anticipating the weekend visit, lavishing all morning over the meal.
Jacques-Martin writes of an older couple in America. They have been arguing in the kitchen. The man has prepared a large roast veal. The wife an expensive roast beef. She is distraught; why is he so headstrong, so unaccepting of her care? She has had enough. Tossed into the garbage is a bright, shiny new carving knife. Of what use is it now, she says, I give up. We will not cook any more.
Lost in his despondent story, Jacques-Martin has said nothing. His mother turns slightly and says, shall we go? He rises, withdrawing his leg and spinning around. They walk off together.
I say to myself, "I will never see these people again."
Copyright © 2004 William J. Clancey. All Rights Reserved.