Roll of the Dice, Part III

Continued from Part II.

Stan and François went on, quiet at first, awkward from the induced proximity. Stan attempted to lighten the mood, but his ill-advised efforts fell flat upon François’s preoccupation. Instead they swapped life details. François was a schoolteacher of classics, Stan a draughtsman. Stan was single. François had met Matilda on a long train journey, met up with her later in Lyon and had decided, in his words, “to sing to her each morning”. François’s father was an accountant, Stan’s father had been in the military. Stan’s father had many tales of rescuing grievously injured comrades while under enemy fire. Stan commented that despite their current trial, perhaps he and François did not appreciate the true depths of existence possible, to this François readily agreed.

Thus while their mood stayed low and François’s intensity and anguish over the predicament only increased, a friendship was born. Stan praised François’s heroism, a sentiment from which the rescuer seemed to shrink. So Stan persisted with his descriptions, adding arguments and praise both judicious and ridiculous. With these comments, at last, François’s mood lifted slightly, and a smile cracked across his features at Stan’s comparison of himself to Achilles and François to Heracles. Yet the spectre of the missing Matilda stood tall and dark over both men’s hearts.

Over an hour later, painful for them both – physically so for Stan and emotionally for François – the town finally came into sight. Lights shone into the falling dusk and the bustle of angry voices buzzed up through the night towards them. Stan and François struggled on down, plunging into the commotion of ambulances and packs of rescue dogs.

To be continued…

In Comparison

Over in the café corner, in the sunlight, Tommy kissed Hannah and everybody saw him do it. Few were surprised, most did not care. But Jonathan saw, Jonathan was surprised, and Jonathan cared a great deal.

He felt his fists clenching. That was a new sensation, for sure. He tore his eyes from the courting couple and looked around the café. Arabella, seated a few tables away from him, was looking straight at him with pity in her eyes. He surreptitiously slid over to her table and sat down next to her.

“You don’t need to ask it, I already know what’s on your mind,” said Arabella.

“Go on, super-psychic,” he said. “What am I thinking?”

“You’re thinking, ‘What does Tommy have that I don’t?’,” she said. “And I’m trying to work out which answer you want – the comfortable one or the truth.”

“Comfortable,” said Jonathan.

“Nothing dear, nothing,” she replied in monotone. “Oh. It’s. So. Unfair.”

Jonathan sighed and closed his eyes. “Alright. Now the truth.”

“He’s more charming than you, he’s stronger than you, he’s smarter than you, he’s better looking and funnier than you, and she really digs him. You never had a chance.”

“Right.” His throat felt tight. He forced the words out. “So what do I do now?”

“Leave the café,” she replied. “The world is a much, much bigger place.”

“And somewhere out there is another Hannah?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Somewhere out there is the Jonathan that really matters.”

Baking Encouragement

Peli sat in her big wooden chair,
absorbed in a book, with nary a care
for the sounds that floated up from downstairs,
where her brother, Muse, was cooking with flare.
So skilled was he in the culinary arts,
that connoisseurs arrived from far-flung parts
to taste and praise his extraordinary creations
matched so skilfully to his brewed libations.

The reverie around Peli was gently peeled back
its encloaking diminished by the promise of a snack
cooked by a great as he practised his trade
who tested on her the delights he had made.
Today he was working a new kind of skill,
a crossing of art and flavour which filled
a sorrowful hole in every human breast,
the existence of which only few had guessed.

She leapt from her chair, placed the book to one side
and headed for the kitchen, where her family’s pride
removed from his oven what appeared to be bread
but with a colour of deep, pretty red.
With the loaf on a rack he stood back to admire
the result of his work with yeast and with fire.
She tore off some crust, just a corner to taste,
and was struck by the flavours that her mouth embraced.

Through her mind floated images, music and joy.
Memories and feelings and thoughts of boys.
Her mother, her father, her closest friends,
her dreams, her works, her whole life to the end.
“What is this?” she said. “It is more than just bread!”
She marvelled again at the dance in her head.
He replied, “Bread, yes, but with a greater rôle,
for my magnum opus can nourish your soul.”