I imagine slipping out of my dress and into the tub, lying in the gentle light from the window, my eyes closed against the insistence of the mid-summer heat. I allow my body to remember the rhythms of the water, and I dream of the green spring which first drew people to this city and centuries later still bubbles up between the stones and the sand. I can hear those first horses and men snort as they drink, so near death and then saved by a crevice in the earth that sings of a cool darkness and a hundred thousand rains.   

But the heat of this August night pulls me back.  Reality is a street café in Nimes, where Cam is nursing his last cup of coffee. As I struggle to let go of the daydream, a young dark haired girl with chubby arms and tired eyes places a card and a small, stuffed blue bear beside my cup. After looking for a moment into our faces, a moment when no one’s expression changes, the child quietly makes her way to the next table. When all the tables have been served, she rags her feet to go stand by her brothers and father who wait on the sidewalk. At the sound of the father’s mandolin and a nod of his head, the brothers join in on a rough rendition of an old Spanish folk song.  

The café’s patrons, in deference to the little girl or in a desire for the music to stop, begin to lay money down on the cards, and after a few moments of voiceless scuffling with her brothers, the young girl is pushed toward the tables. Once again wearing a blank but intense face, she gathers the bills and coins into her hands, then quickly walks back and hands them to her father. He nods at his inattentive audience, touches his hat, and without a word, he and his family drift down the street to the next café.

I reach for the bear, study its polka dot bow tie and swing it on my finger by its gaudy golden thread while smiling at Cam. He tears it out of my hand to throw it after the family, but I hold on to his wrist, and still smiling, open his palm, take the bear back and drop it into my pack. Cam places a hand on either side of his cup and studies a crack in the handle, tracing it with his thumb as he speaks:

"It’s not right, what they do.  You shouldn’t encourage them."

He looks up, beyond my shoulder at the arches of the Roman arena, and then continues:

"This city has a history. It deserves better."  

I open my mouth slowly to reply and then close it and look down at the sweat trickling across the bare curve of my calf. I want to look up at him. I want to tell him we all deserve better. We all carry a history. I move my head slightly and notice his socks don’t match. His hand touches my shoulder, and I raise my face to his and, as when the little girl placed her bear between us, no one’s expression changes.  I smell the sweet, dark coffee on his breath, hear his fingers rattle the paper from the sugar cubes.  

Still I can’t respond with words. I gaze around the tables beside us and listen to the river of language flowing over the clatter of plates and glasses.  Languages I do not yet know or perhaps know by a few words but have no understanding of the content. Some words are accompanied with a wild gesture of the hands or a shuffling of the feet or maybe a lift of the eyebrow. Only one table is like ours. Silent. They sit beside us, an elderly couple. The woman is comfortably settled in her chair while the gentleman leans to the side with one leg crossed over the other, his hands relaxed as he smokes a cigarette. They have finished their meal and, like us, are enjoying a coffee along with a brandy.  Curious, I watch them, trying not to stare.  

The man is looking up at the smoke as he blows it against the darkening sky. There is no breeze and the smoke mingles and swirls with the heat vapors from the street. After a moment, he turns to his companion and raises his eyebrows as if in the smoke he has blown a message, and she blushes and looks down at her cup, her cheeks red from a secret smile. He turns and slowly, smoothly blows out another cloud of smoke, his lips pursed and strong under a white moustache, as if he were whistling. After a moment of watching his gift, he turns towards her again. She looks up into his face, then picks up the card left by the girl and uses it as a fan, tilting her chin to her shoulder and hiding her lips, leaving only her eyes visible--old eyes, yes, but eyes that speak so clearly that her partner laughs with an abandon that spreads over the couples around him until they smile as they chat, without knowing why. The old gentleman turns, his eyes still engaged with those of his love, and signals the waiter for the bill.  He quickly pays, and as they pass by Cam, I turn to watch his reaction, but he has seen nothing of them and is looking instead at the card, which reads:  

"I am a deaf-mute and my family is poor. We ask only that you make a contribution in exchange for the bear and our humble attempts at music so that we may earn our way. Thank you."  

He turns it over and then back again and finally tosses it on the table and finishes the last of his coffee.

He looks at our bill, lays down the money, and then begins to walk down the street without seeing if I follow. I stand, close my lips in a soft line and walk quickly to catch up to him. My sandal slides off, and as I turn and reach down for the shoe, I see the old couple stopping beside the little girl.   

The old gentleman places both hands over his heart, and then, with great elegance, pulls the rose from his lapel and presents it to the child, bending down in a mocking, yet serious bow. The girl’s eyes grow darker as she reaches hesitantly for the flower.  The gentleman raises his head and tilts it to one side, slides the rose delicately through her hair to rest over her ear, and then caresses her cheek before turning to escort his wife into the hotel.   

The child is still for a moment, then reaches up and takes the flower in both hands and holds it to her chest. After a time, she carefully tucks it inside her shirt. With one hand pressed against the rose, and the other against her cheek, she stares at the hotel doors, and then meets my gaze as she turns to join her father and brothers who continue to work their way down the street.   

There are no tears, there is no ancient sadness, no innocent giggle--just a moment in the future when she and I will drink from this spring and remember how simple love can be.

Author's Biography

She writes to find her way home. The words know the way. Her journey often begins at The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where the snow has finally melted...[mostly].

Read or write reviews on this essay!

We are still working on the "read reviews" section. We need your input!

Read or write reviews on this site!

We'd like to know from our readers if they enjoyed this issue of Seven Seas! Do you have praises or complaints? Suggestions or ideas? Would you like to read other people's reviews? Please check out our Site Reviews Page

Get notified!

Would you like to get notified as soon as new Seven Seas issues are published on the Web?
Get notified!

Tell a friend!

Do you enjoy the Seven Seas site? 
Please tell a friend to stop by!
Tell a friend!

Go back to the table of contents
 of the current issue.

You just read essay # 1.  Read essay #

1    2    3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   13  14