Paris Cafe

NPR runs an occasional fiction writing contest. The last one just ended. The idea was to write a very short story of 600 words or less that can be read aloud in three minutes. For the March contest the story had to be based on a photograph of an empty cafe table topped with an open newspaper. The judge was Alan Cheuse, author and NPR book reviewer. I decided to enter a story based on a real event from our visit to Paris two years ago.

There were over 3000 entries. I didn't win. Nonetheless I found the exercise interesting and fun.

Here's my losing entry.

Paris Cafe

Ed stumbles off the RER dragging his suitcase. The directions emailed by a landlord he has never met direct him to use the Place de Notre Dame exit. Arrows lead further and further down a deserted platform. Water drips from the tunnel ceiling. He comes at last to stairs, then an escalator, the exit turnstile, finally more stairs into the blinding sunlight. At eight o’clock on a Saturday morning the famous square in front of the Cathedral de Notre Dame is deserted.

He walks shivering alongside Notre Dame. Ancient buildings on the opposite side of the cobblestone street glow soft gold in the morning light. Shopkeepers are just opening tourist stalls hawking tee shirts, model gargoyles and postcards. Behind the cathedral a wide pedestrian bridge crosses to Ile St. Louis.

Rising from the middle of the glittering Seine is a solid block of 17^th century limestone houses, each five or six stories high. Iron balconies on the second and fifth floors overlook the river. The ground floors facing Ile de la Cite are devoted to shops and cafes.

Hungry, tired and disoriented after the overnight flight from Dulles he has two hours before he can pick up the keys to the apartment. The St. Regis is the first open café after the bridge. Half a dozen men standing at the bar glance up as he enters, then quickly turn back to their papers and coffee.

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour.”

The waiter indicates a tiny window table and raises an eyebrow. Ed smiles and sits. The waiter returns and drops a used copy of today's Le Monde on the red enamel table.

“Merci. Café et un croissant, s’il vous plait.”

“Café ou café aux lait?”

“Café aux lait, merci.”

Across the narrow side street a waiter is setting up tables and chairs on the sidewalk even though the temperature is just above freezing.

His coffee and flaky warm croissant arrive. The large blue cup of strong coffee with frothy milk is very hot. Perfect.

Every minute or so a new customer comes in, says hello, has an espresso delivered at the bar, speaks a few words to his neighbor, glances at the paper and leaves. Only one other person sits at a table. Ed leafs slowly through the paper trying to get the gist of the news from the pictures and the few French phrases he knows.

A man comes in with a Jack Russell terrier. He reaches down and unfastens the dog’s leash. The man takes his place at the bar but the dog trots over to the service entrance at the end of the bar, cocks his head and waits expectantly. On his next trip the proprietor spots the dog in his path.

“Bonjour, ma petit chien.”

The dog wags its stubby tail.

“Nous voudrions un petits gateau?”

The dog immediately sits and looks up expectantly.

The proprietor turns back to the kitchen and emerges a second later with a little cookie.

The dog daintily takes his cookie, returns to lay at his owner’s feet and eat it. A minute later the man finishes his coffee, re-leashes his dog and they leave.

During the next half-hour essentially the same thing happens twice more, once with a bulldog, once with a miniature poodle. Brilliant, the proprietor has trained neighborhood dogs to bring their owners to his café every day.

It's time to seek out the owner of the apartment.

“L’addition, s’il vous plait.”

Ed leaves the paper open on the table and walks out into his first Paris morning, smiling.