Overheard in a Paris Cafe: The Negotiation
from the notebooks, July 2020
When lockdown ended in Paris, the drilling resumed in the apartment directly above ours. Workmen were breaking up the concrete that had inexplicably been poured over the parquet floors, and the noise was deafening. Our apartment shook from eight a.m to 4:30 p.m., with a break for lunch. To maintain sanity, I went out every morning and stayed out as long as possible. I was scatterbrained during that time, unable to focus, which in hindsight is not surprising. On this day, I found myself sitting next to an unhappy and confusing couple at a crowded cafe in the 17th Arrondissement. Because I could not get my head together to write, the overheard drama felt like a small, unexpected gift that Paris had dropped in my lap, un paquet cadeau.
Saturday morning again, the drilling had begun upstairs, so I packed my bag and walked to Pret, which was supposed to open at 8:30. It was 9:05 when I arrived but the man behind the door told me I could not come in. The sign on the door said ouvert. They always opened at 9:00. But today for some reason he insisted they would not open until 11:00.
I decided to walk to Dose. It was just over a mile but by the time I arrived the city had already done me in. It is always this way with Paris. You begin each day with ambition, but by the time you are able to sit down somewhere, you have lost your way. You cannot think much less write.
At Dose I made the mistake of sitting, even though it was crowded. I sat on a bench at a table for two. The tables are arranged on the sidewalk in a row, in such a way that separate tables share a bench. I took out my laptop and began to write. Immediately, the woman to my left began coughing.
What have I done? How stupid it would be to get the virus this way, in pursuit of a coffee. I am thinking of leaving when Paris brings me a gift. At the table to the right, a man is sitting alone. Moments later a woman arrives with two glasses of water. “Thank you, Madame,” he says, “what kind of water is it?” He speaks to her as if she is the server, but then she sits down across the table from him, on the bench next to me.
He is French but he speaks to her in English. She is Asian. They do not seem to know each other well. He pulls out his phone and says, “And then we can arrange a date to get married.”