emperor.
But it wasnât entertaining, not really. Out in the larger world, a war was on the way, and the carbine slung across his ceremonious chest was straightforward, ugly business, and every day the protests chewed another grim bite out of the city. I could feel tensionâs grip tightening, even in the apostasy of my distraction, even in my luxurious isolation, even in my sumptuous hotel suite or in pretty neighborhood bistros, when the news came over the television. The news was of arrests and injuries as the street
manifestations
multiplied, and I never heard bulletins of these encounters without thinking of a spinning, tumbling body and red hair lank with rain. The brown bandanna was still in my purse.
On another day my favored route to Sèvres-Babylone was obstructed by barricades and sentries, and I detoured around to an alternate route and was scanning the corner for street signs when I encountered a familiar name scrawled across a window in chipped black and gilt. It hadnât been on my mind to seek Café Portbou out, but here it was, and I thought,
Why not
, and went in.
The only people in evidence inside were two customers standing at the zinc. I set my purse on a table by the window and eased into a chair. A waiter materialized in good time, a gaunt, middle-aged man who struck me as being almost as rigid, but not nearly as polite, as my Ãlysée soldier. His tunic was a black apron.
âMadame,â he said with disapproval, staring off somewhere else as though I were an impediment to his destiny soon to be circumvented, and I felt more an interloper than I had on the palace lawn. I asked him for a black tea, and managed to get in
âet aussiâ
before he fled, for heâd sprung from my side as though jettisoned by a shock, and when he turned around, I asked if anyone here might know a manâat this the waiter backed up a dismissive step and his head began to shakeânamed Byron Manifort Saxe. That stopped the headshaking, all right, but I got no response; instead, he sped off as heâd tried to do before, and the hand that brought my tea, and with it a piece of cake, was very sweet and generous and slow, but it wasnât the hand of the waiter. It belonged to another man, young enough that his face was fresh and still unlined, though his sandy hair was thinning, who sat down across from me and introduced himself with a handshake as Passim.
He wore a tan suit without a coat, the vest buttoned across a starched white shirt. The jacket would be hanging behind a door in a back office somewhere; that would make him the manager. He pushed the plate with the cake in front of me. âThis is our grande torte Portbou,â he said. âWe are famous for it. In truth we order it from a bakery in the
banlieue
like everyone else, but the truck arrives early, and our wonderful customers are kind enough not to notice.â He pushed a napkin next to the plate and set a fork on the napkin. âYou are searching for someone.â
I allowed that I was.
âTell me, who might you be to this individual?â
Good question
, I thought to myself, and responded, âI understand he may have owed you some money, and I would like to settle the debt.â This had not been, in fact, remotely my mission in entering, for the reason that Iâd had no mission at all, only a chance opportunity. On the spur of the moment, though, the phone charges seemed a plausible bandage to cover my raw curiosity.
âAhh,â Passim said with relief. âI was worried I would have to inform you of the news.â He placed his hands flat on the table. âByron was a regular here, yes. He was also a friend of ours. Cafés have friends, just as people do, and he and this room enjoyed quite a history. In truth, he doesnât owe us anything. He could have used the phone for free, of course; it was not a problem. He paid for his meals, which is more than some people do; he came
But it wasnât entertaining, not really. Out in the larger world, a war was on the way, and the carbine slung across his ceremonious chest was straightforward, ugly business, and every day the protests chewed another grim bite out of the city. I could feel tensionâs grip tightening, even in the apostasy of my distraction, even in my luxurious isolation, even in my sumptuous hotel suite or in pretty neighborhood bistros, when the news came over the television. The news was of arrests and injuries as the street
manifestations
multiplied, and I never heard bulletins of these encounters without thinking of a spinning, tumbling body and red hair lank with rain. The brown bandanna was still in my purse.
On another day my favored route to Sèvres-Babylone was obstructed by barricades and sentries, and I detoured around to an alternate route and was scanning the corner for street signs when I encountered a familiar name scrawled across a window in chipped black and gilt. It hadnât been on my mind to seek Café Portbou out, but here it was, and I thought,
Why not
, and went in.
The only people in evidence inside were two customers standing at the zinc. I set my purse on a table by the window and eased into a chair. A waiter materialized in good time, a gaunt, middle-aged man who struck me as being almost as rigid, but not nearly as polite, as my Ãlysée soldier. His tunic was a black apron.
âMadame,â he said with disapproval, staring off somewhere else as though I were an impediment to his destiny soon to be circumvented, and I felt more an interloper than I had on the palace lawn. I asked him for a black tea, and managed to get in
âet aussiâ
before he fled, for heâd sprung from my side as though jettisoned by a shock, and when he turned around, I asked if anyone here might know a manâat this the waiter backed up a dismissive step and his head began to shakeânamed Byron Manifort Saxe. That stopped the headshaking, all right, but I got no response; instead, he sped off as heâd tried to do before, and the hand that brought my tea, and with it a piece of cake, was very sweet and generous and slow, but it wasnât the hand of the waiter. It belonged to another man, young enough that his face was fresh and still unlined, though his sandy hair was thinning, who sat down across from me and introduced himself with a handshake as Passim.
He wore a tan suit without a coat, the vest buttoned across a starched white shirt. The jacket would be hanging behind a door in a back office somewhere; that would make him the manager. He pushed the plate with the cake in front of me. âThis is our grande torte Portbou,â he said. âWe are famous for it. In truth we order it from a bakery in the
banlieue
like everyone else, but the truck arrives early, and our wonderful customers are kind enough not to notice.â He pushed a napkin next to the plate and set a fork on the napkin. âYou are searching for someone.â
I allowed that I was.
âTell me, who might you be to this individual?â
Good question
, I thought to myself, and responded, âI understand he may have owed you some money, and I would like to settle the debt.â This had not been, in fact, remotely my mission in entering, for the reason that Iâd had no mission at all, only a chance opportunity. On the spur of the moment, though, the phone charges seemed a plausible bandage to cover my raw curiosity.
âAhh,â Passim said with relief. âI was worried I would have to inform you of the news.â He placed his hands flat on the table. âByron was a regular here, yes. He was also a friend of ours. Cafés have friends, just as people do, and he and this room enjoyed quite a history. In truth, he doesnât owe us anything. He could have used the phone for free, of course; it was not a problem. He paid for his meals, which is more than some people do; he came
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