The weather had begun to clear and the Café was crowded. When Marchant saw me come in, he motioned for me to come back into the kitchen.
“You are early today, Mr. Bergman.”
“I am. The writing was not going well, and I felt the need for a warm meal to lift my spirits and help me find myself and the thread of my thoughts again.”
“I will make a place for you in here and there will be no better place than this to find yourself. I will bring a bowl of the potage Parmentier and a small baguette to start with. Will that be to your liking? And here is today’s Le Monde. What good news there is to find in this weary world you find in these pages.”
I thanked him for his friendship and kind thoughts. He is a good man. And sure enough, an article on the front page reported on the writer Virginie Despentes and over 130 other writers quitting Hachette Livre after the billionaire owner Bolloré fires the CEO, Olivier Nora.
Marchant brought the bowl of potage and bread over to me at a small table he had set up in a corner outside of the bustle of the kitchen.
“Tell me about your work if you would like to. I am always interested in the mysteries of a writer’s life. And yours especially. You are a fine writer and I admire your work. It’s honesty and your respect for the reader.”
I thanked him for his kind words, and he went to busy himself in the front. I read the article about the troubles at the publishing house. The French, I thought were so forthright in their defense of liberty. So much more so than we Americans had become.
In a few minutes, Marchant returned with a bottle of Alsace Pinot Gris and asked if I would like to have it with my meal. I agreed that would be perfect, and he sat down and poured a glass for me and a sip for himself.
The kitchen was pleasantly steamy and the meal and wine were perfection.
“I have not seen you in several months,” I said. “Franco told me that you were not well. I am so glad to see you back in the café. How are you feeling now?”
“Better, but not well as yet, Mr. Bergman.”
The kitchen was quieting, as the lunch rush seemed to be over and cleanup had begun.
“Do you feel up to telling me what has been happening?”
“I do,” he said. “There are very few people I feel comfortable speaking with about it, and you certainly are one.”
“Tell me.”
“Several months ago, almost a year now, the fatigue which I had been experiencing for years and which I was certain, was the result of stress and overwork, became worse. I needed to rest or leave early or even not come in on occasion, putting an undue burden on Franco and Peter. I finally went to the emergency room and blood tests showed signs of a bleeding ulcer and dangerously low hemoglobin.”
“I’m so sorry, “ I told him.
“Truthfully, I was relieved. There was a diagnosis and it was treatable. However, the next day, they did an endoscopy and found that the ulcer was caused by cancer of the stomach.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said to him.
“I have been on chemotherapy for a little over six months and, as you can see, my energy level is up, and the side effects are manageable. I do not ask about the prognosis, and they do not offer one other than to say they have a number of treatment options for me, should I need them. That is sufficient for me for now. Do you understand?”
“I do. I cannot begin to think of how I would feel should I be dealing with what you are. Though I suspect that I would feel much the same as you do.”
“Before the café, I thought that I would make a living on tour. I was that good. I was in the top one hundred racers, and I had sponsors and endorsements. Young men bought jerseys with my name on them and bought bicycles like the ones I used. There was no prognosis, if you will,” he said, gesturing quotes with his fingers, “only and an expectation of the future. And then a fall, and surgery and another, and it was clear that what I had expected was no longer to be. You may remember when I was a commentator on the racing tour and I had a column for a few years.”
“I do remember. I enjoyed your inside take on the circuit.”
“ I live each day now not, as they say, as if it were my last, but as I wish it to be. There is a freedom in that. Do you understand what I mean by that?”
“I believe I do, Marchant. Like you, I love the work I do. I do it because I love it. I am fortunate that I make enough to live in New York and enjoy the city. I love Lilly and what she brings to my life. We are happy together. And I am fortunate enough to make decisions about what I do and what I write that are consistent with my beliefs and principles. In that, I believe we are very much alike.”
Marchant poured a little more of the Pinot Gris for the two of us and we sat a few pleasant moments in quiet. I thought of how fortunate we both were to be alive and to be sitting together in a café on a spring day in Chelsea and to have spoken about what was most important to us. The table in the kitchen of the café was the world for us that afternoon. And the world in that place and at that time, at peace.
The Catfish Review 