Just a Gentleman Passing Through

Françoise Fabliaux was behind the counter at Gustavus Salon de The, when a distinguished-looking gentleman sat himself at one of the tables on the sidewalk. It was too early to open early for customers to be served on the patio and since Francois was the only server on duty, he decided to inform the gentleman that he needed to come inside.

“Excuse me, monsieur.” He walked up to where the gentleman was seated. “We do not serve customers until ten o’clock this morning. Come inside and I will serve you.”

“Ah, but this morning air is invigorating.” He smiled and inhaled deeply.

“Oui, it is beautiful.” He agreed.

“Do you serve coffee?” He asked as his eyes scanned the early morning boulevard. 

“Oui.” Françoise could not be taken with the gentleman’s elegant style. “Also, I must warn you that the Gestapo is out looking for resistance fighters. Last night someone set off a device near their headquarters.”

“Oh my.” His eyes widened a bit, “I am not exactly a friend of the Fuehrer. Perhaps I will come in.”

“Oui, c’est pour le mieux.” Françoise bowed his head. The gentleman rose to his feet, put his newspaper under his arm and followed Françoise inside. 

“So, how are things with the Vichy Government installed in this beautiful city?” He asked as Françoise seated him at a table with a lacy tablecloth. Françoise looked around the small room with a very apprehensive look on his face.

“Monsieur, mercy, we never know who is listening.” He continued to look around the room as his face turned pale.

“I am not known as a man who has learned to keep his mouth shut, eh?” His laugh came straight from the lower parts of his soul it seemed. His deep laughter reminded Françoise of his father’s laughter before the police came to take him away. “Forgive me my good man for my lack of restraint. I shall use my better judgment from here on out.”

“You never know these days who is listening. I have seen them take customers from this place in handcuffs before they have finished their tea.” He smiled. There were only four customers in the salon and Françoise knew all of them by name. Still, it was better to err on the side of caution these days.

“Good man, I will have some tea. It smells wonderful.” He took another deep breath. “I just love the ambience.”

“Merci.” Françoise was comfortable smiling around this gentleman who had such a gracious manner. “I shall be right back.”

Meanwhile the gentleman scanned the cramped room filled with posters of past operas and live performances of Moliere and Beza. The counter was most likely made in the previous century. It amazed him how much of Paris was reminiscent of the past bygone eras. It added to the charm of the city and always tugged at his sense of nostalgia. Even the aroma of tea leaves seemed to permeate from the wood itself. Paris was evocative of his own home in southern Spain. 

Magala was the town he was born in. His appreciation of its old-world charm planted the seeds of what would become his legacy, but his passion led him north to Paris where artistic opportunity was much more abundant. Drawn to Henri Matise, he would influence by favism and other emerging artistic styles.

“Monsieur.” Françoise returned with a steaming cup of tea and a croissant. “The croissant is on the house.”

“Merci.” He smiled removing his beret revealing a retreating hair line with some white mixed in with his thinning hair. He stirred some cream into his tea.

“Françoise, who is that man? He looks familiar.” Jacques Monteur asked. Monsieur Monteur owned a tailor shop a block or so down the road.  

“I have no idea.” Françoise confessed, but he did look familiar. 

“I swear I have seen him before.” Jacques stroked his white van Dyke beard. 

“Perhaps I should ask him?” Françoise shrugged.

Jacques shook his head, “Please don’t. That would be rude.”

Françoise just shook his head and went to check on the other customers.

Meanwhile the gentleman took out some pencils and began doodling on a napkin. As Françoise completed his rounds with the other customers, he became curious at what the gentleman was drawing. With no other customers seated near his table, it was hard for him to get a good look at what he was sketching. 

“I am finished with my tea, but I would like some more. This is very good. My mother used to drink tea with her lady friends.” He smiled without looking up at his curious waiter.

“More tea.” He acknowledged. Quickly Françoise got the tea pot and another tea bag. He returned to the table where the gentleman continued his sketch on the napkin.

“That is quite striking.” Françoise commented as he poured the hot water over the tea bag. 

“Even when I feel the urge to do a quick sketch freehand, I wish to give something to the world it has never seen before.” He chuckled as he handed Françoise the napkin.

Françoise looked at the sketch, “This is incredible.”

“I appreciate your fine taste in art, my good man.” He chuckled as he put his pencil back in the pocket of his shirt. “I have studied some of the best artists this world has to offer. The way Monet caught the subtle shadows of the late afternoon sky at the cathedral. Only he could do that. When I walk through the halls of the Louve, I am in my sacred place. The masters of the Renaissance whisper in my ear. Do you want to know what they tell me?”

“What?” Françoise’s smile was wide in anticipation.

“They tell me to keep making art. We need more in these times of tribulation and misery.” He pushes back the other chair at the table, “Come sit.”

“Oh, I can’t, I’m on duty.” He shook his head.

The gentleman looked at the four men sitting in the salon, “They do not seem that thirsty to me. Sit.”

As if in a trance, Françoise sat in the empty chair. The gentleman tilted his head, his dark eyes peered at him, “Where are you from?”

“Lyons.” He answered.

“Born and raised?”

“Until my mother died of consumption.” He put his head in his hands as he answered the question.

“Oh, what a pity. My condolences.” He nodded.

“Then they came to muster me into the army.” He sighed.

“You were a soldier?”

“Until the Germans took Paris and then I went and burned my uniform. I did not wish to serve the Vichy.” He closed his eyes.

“I do not blame me. The Germans came to my home and attacked the civilians. Generalissimo Franco sent the Germans to destroy my home.” The more he spoke, the more enraged he became. Fire burned in his eyes as he recalled the horrors that came with the war. 

“This is why I don’t wish to draw the attention of the Gestapo.” He bowed his head, “Some of my comrades have already been executed. Some of them ran to the woods to join the resistance. Meanwhile, I work in this place hoping to hide from prying eyes.”

“Have no fear. I will tell no one of your past.” He shook his head, allowing a slow grin to spread across his face that came with a wink. With the smile still in place, he lifted his cup to take a sip of his tea.

“Waiter.” He heard one of the customers summon him.

“Got to go.” He nodded as the gentleman folded his hands near his cup.

“Oui.” Françoise nodded as he neared the customer who hailed him. 

“I need some more tea.” He held out his cup. 

“Coming right up.” He grabbed the hot water from the burner and pour some new hot water into the customer’s cup.

“So, who is that man?” The customer asked, pointing his nose in the direction of the gentleman.

“Just a gentleman passing through.” answered the stranger. “Happy to be in this salon drinking tea with complete strangers.”

The other customers laughed at hearing the stranger’s remark. 

“I am Monsieur Bannock.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” The stranger nodded holding up his teacup. “Wonderful view of the river.”

“Very rustic, non?” Monsieur Bannock commented.

“Very rustic, oui.” The stranger smiled and put the cup to his mouth. “I appreciate the simple things in life.”

“We all do.” Bannock nodded. “But in these times, simple may not always be easy.”

“Then you must celebrate the moments that are.” He banged his cup on the table, “I have come here, and I am enjoying the company of good me as yourselves. My waiter, Françoise, has given me the pleasure of good tea and company.”

“But what is your name, monsieur?” Bannock asked.

“I prefer my anonymity, kind sir, if you would indulge me.”

“I will.” Bannock agreed.

“I find things are safer if we remain anonymous.” He slapped the table with his open palms, “Things can become dangerous if the Germans have too much information about who we are.”

“I agree.” Another customer raised his hand, “My name is Jules Martron, and my comrades were taken into custody. I haven’t seen any of them since.”

“Now if you fill my teacup, my friend, I shall be honored to sit in the company of these men.” The stranger laughed, “Only this time, make it coffee.”

“I will make another pot. It has been sitting here a while.” Françoise nodded.

The stranger shook his head. “Non, mes ami, the stronger the better.”

The laughter was booming. Françoise filled the stranger’s empty cup with hot black coffee with the viscosity of tar.

“That is more like it.” He wagged his head.

“Oh great.” One of the customers pointed out the window, “Here comes the Gestapo.”

Sobriety and sanity fell over the six as two German Gestapo officers walked into Gustavus Salon de The. Each of them wore stern iron mask as a facial expression with a skull and crossbones pinned to their collars. 

“Good morning gentlemen, I am Major Schnieder.” He ran his gloved finger across the counter. Lifting it to his eyes, he shook his head in disapproval and wiped his glove on his trousers. “We are here as customers.”

At this Françoise began to tremble.

The jovial mood of just a few short minutes ago had turn somber as both men with armed with sidearms walked across the wooden floor of the salon as the heels of their boots clunked against the floor. The second agent was silent as his eyes scanned the faces of the customers. When his eyes fell on the stranger, he noticed the stranger did not avert his eyes to him and wore a smug grin on his face.

“We shall have some coffee and strudel.” Major Schmieder looked over his shoulder at the trembling waiter. He nodded, “I shall have to make another pot.”

“Very well.” He looked over to the counter where there was a display of post cards. He walked over to have a look as Françoise began to make another pot of coffee.

“So, what is the topic of conversation this morning?” A wicked smile spread across his face.

Everyone stared at the tables in front of them except the stranger who leaned back in his chair and stared at the light fixtures hanging from the ceiling.

The major was drawn to him by his display of behavior unlike the others.

“You look familiar.” He stopped in front of the stranger. 

“I’ve been told I have a face that will let me get away.” He peered out at the major through the corner of his eye.

“Do you live in Paris?” The major sat in the empty chair across from him.

“I am a citizen of the world, if that’s what you are referring to.”

“So, you wish to be wise guy?” Major Schnieder crossed his arms over the Iron Cross dangling from his neck.

“Not at all. I mean no disrespect.” He sighed.

“I have seen you before.” He put two fingers to his lips and squinted at the stranger. “You are famous.”

“Depends on what your definition of famous.” He let the air run through his gritted teeth. “Let me ask you are you famous?”

“I have received decorations from The Fuehrer.” He held his Iron Cross in his hand.

“What does that prove?”

“It means valor in the line of duty.” He sneered.

“You are a courageous soldier.” The stranger nodded.

“I have been known as a brave man in uniform.” He shook his head, “But famous? We do our duty and do not wish any notoriety beyond that.”

“I am known in this city, major. I know these men sitting here. Is that famous enough?” He shrugged.

“These men are Frenchmen. They ran in the face of the enemy. They aren’t worth mentioning.”

“Oh, I disagree.” He shook his head, “This man here…”

Bannock would not make eye contact with him. 

“Is an excellent tailor.” He smiled.

“Bahh.” Major Schnieder stuck out his tongue in disgust.

“Don’t cast him away. One day you may need someone to sew a hole in your uniform.” The stranger bowed his head as his eyes peaked from just below his eyelids.

“You French mongrel.” Major Schnieder brought his fist down on the wooden table almost unending it.

“I am Spanish, not French, but that is a small matter.” He laced his fingers together and put his chin on his hands.

“Spanish?” Major Schnieder appeared perplexed. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it is.” He nodded slowly.

Major Schnieder tilted his head as if to get a better view of the man sitting across from him. He squinted for a moment and then snapped his finger with a snap even though he was wearing gloves. “I know who you are.  Hans, come here.”

The other Gestapo officer clicked the heels of his boots and strode over to his superior officer.

“Jawohl, mein herr.” He stood at attention in next to Major Schnieder.

“I know who this man is, Hans. I do.” He nearly giggled as he rubbed his hands together. Major Schnieder came to his feet, “He is famous, ja.”

The stranger appeared to be amused by the theater he was being presented with by the major. Walking over to the postcards, Major Schnieder yanked out one of the postcards. With a smile glued on his face, he tossed the postcard on the table in front of the stranger. He picked up the postcard. The picture on it was a replica of Guernica, a painting by Pablo Picaso.

“You. You did this.” He said with glee.

“No Major Schnieder, you did this.” The artist glared at him in revulsion. “Stuka bombers killed over a hundred civilians that day. I did not see it, but I read about it in the newspapers in Paris. I saw the photographs.”

Major Schnieder’s smile faded into a frown as he looked down at the postcard in front of Pablo Picaso. Picaso picked it up and returned it to the display next to an awestruck Françoise. There was an uneasy silence as the Gestapo officers left the salon in disgrace.

“Are you really Pablo Picaso?” Bannock asked.

“Oui.” He let go of the breath he had been holding since the Gestapo officers walked into the salon. 

Françoise removed the napkin he had stuffed in his pocket.  It was a freehand sketch of the streets outside the window of the salon.

“My tip to you, mes ami.” He clasped Françoise shoulder, “Is it enough to cover my tab?”

“Oui, oui, monsieur.” Françoise was trembling once more as Picaso left the salon disappearing into the crowds walking the streets on a sunny spring morning.