These notes I jotted down while waiting for a family movie to start--The Incredibles. Yes, I know. Anyway, I only started these last night, and then finished them today.
Sketches at La Cafe--The Boy
Seated outside with the soft breezes playing through my hair, I take a long sip of the strongly steeped tea, its fragrance filling my nostrils. I breath a deep sigh as I place the teacup back on the saucer. Strains of music from some place down the street wafts to me upon the air, soft notes of the violin mingling with the crisp picking pattern of the guitar under the skilled fingers of its musician. The scents of roses--red, yellow, pink, and soft blushed peach--and the sweet smelling tea and cakes being passed back and forth on trays by the waiters fill La Cafe.
Suddenly, a commotion across the street catches my eye. A group of boys are all clustered around another lad, who is busy performing acrobatic feats. His hair is red as a tomato, freckles covering every spare inch of his face, crooked teeth showing through his equally lopsided grin. His appearance is dirty and his trousers are patched with mismatched fabrics. Amid mutterings of encouragement and doubt, the boy flips himself onto his hands and walking around on the pavement, teetering first one way, then the other for balance.
Eventually though, he topples over to much laughter and yelling from his friends, quickly righting himself amid slaps on the back. He talks rapidly in french, spouting words while gesturing with his hands and re-living his moment of triumph. He is laughing now, and as he looks up, he catches my eye across the lane. Contrary to his crooked smile and two missing front teeth, the look in his eyes is mature--almost as if, young though he is, he has had much responsibility pushed upon him. As he looks quickly away, I reached for a scrap of paper and the pen I always kept around me. I continue to study the boy as he does a few back handsprings, then snaps up what few pennies the passersby cast at him.
I watch him, as he, still surrounded by the rowdy group of boys, heads down to turn onto an adjoining street--out of sight. I cannot think of a name to capture his wild appearance, and so I christen him The Boy, not knowing what else to call him. I take a sip of my now-cold tea, and fold up the piece of paper upon which these notes are scrawled.
[the smell of ink slowly soaking through the paper]
I was in band practice today and I started to doodle on a song sheet. (Our leader was talking to some other band members, so I didn't have anything to do except sit there, understand.) Well, you know me, writing when I ought to be paying attention--I started jotting down some descriptions on that paper (which happened to be a chart for God of Wonders), and it blossomed into an idea: Sketches of La Café. This is mainly an idea where I scrawl out observations from a certain vantage point: La Café.
So here is the first in a series of small columns that I hope to be posting in the future:
Sketches at La Café: Mrs. O'Connor.
The air is full of soft noise: the gentle hum of many conversations, the clinking of dishes as the cutlery is being used, the tinkling of ice as the waiters refill depleted glasses. I idly stir my tea around with my spoon, studying the old woman as she sits there in the corner, quite by herself. She has an empty cup upon her rose-painted saucer, and a half eaten biscuit on her crumb-covered plate. Her flowered house dress is shabby, yet clean, while the shine on her leather shoes not being able to hide all the scuff marks. Her face, wrinkled with lines of age and wisdom from past mistakes never repeated, is free of worry--peaceful, if you follow me. Her eyes are vacant, perhaps recalling a memory of a time long ago--dusty and full of age, like a book whose cover has not been lifted for many years. A smile slowly lights upon her lips, and she gives a wistful sigh with the sweetness of the recollection that plays slowly within her mind.
Suddenly jerking out of her reverie, she politely nods at a passing water, then stands--slowly for her back is stiff. She drops a few coins onto her small table and tucks her knit clutch under her arm. Shuffling across the room, she pushes open the café door and steps out onto the quaint Parisian street, pinning her wispy grey bun under her hat. Walking quickly, she disappears into the crowd.
My tea lies cold and abandoned as I slowly scrawl these few notes on a crinkled napkin. I don't know her name, but watching her hobble out of sight, one forms in my head. I christen the old lady Mrs. O'Connor. And even though I don't actually know her, I feel connected with her in some strange way--the bond that ties an author with the character that colors the story.
I then pay for my tea and step quickly out of the La Café, notes tucked in my pocket.
