ce matin-là
The red-striped awning fluttered silently over Casa do Douro, casting a delicate shadow for two men, father and son, as they shared a moment’s refuge from the Mediterranean heat.
Alors voilà, on est là.
Oui, on est là.
The man shrugged.
Well, as much as we are anywhere. I am on a hotel balcony in Cuba inhaling a last cigarette. I am in my bed tossing and turning from another sleepless night. And I am here.
You were always a restless child. Trop sensible, je t’ai toujours dit.
Yes, trop sensible.
The faceless waiter set two identical drinks in front of the customers. They were the only ones there.
What is it you would like to do?
Well, we’re here, aren’t we? I suppose I’d like to share a drink with my father before we embark on our Camino.
Oui, bien sûr — mais tu sais ce que je veux dire. What do you want, my sensitive child?
He smiled at the quip, slowly sucking in the remnants of his drink.
I wish I could stay here, papa. It all goes so quickly, you know. Oh, I’ve made so many mistakes…
The silhouette of ancient mountains seemed to dance in the foreground, twinkling lights reflecting over the river’s gentle stream.
Ça va passer, tout ça.
J’en peux plus. I can’t anymore. It all goes forward, forward, forward, but all that has ever been good is back, back, back!
I’ll tell you something. Your mother, she’s a wonderful woman, yes. Parfois pénible, mais on ne peut pas tout avoir. Well, you know, La Nostalgie, that radio channel she loves so much. It plays all these old French songs like Charles Aznavour et Madame Piaf. Mais tu sais, she never actually listened to these songs when we were young! Pénible, je te jure.
He guffawed, pleased with himself, and momentarily lapsed into an extended cough before collecting himself again.
You remember Claudia? What a nice young lady she was. I wonder how she is doing.
Dad, we haven’t met her yet — we only meet her in five days’ time.
Mea culpa. Forgive an old man.
Do you remember those two travellers we met afterwards? God, you spoke to them for ages, and I would just be trailing behind with my rucksack whilst you were there faithfully retelling your entire life story. What a historian you would have made.
Pas besoin d’être jaloux…
But in fairness, you had a story to tell. I mean, who hitchhikes to Afghanistan at the age of thirteen! But you never really talk about that. I’ll never know the details. I suppose there’s a small tragedy in that.
The waiter returned with the bill. The bar fills up, slowly heaving with the clattering of dishes, amorphous conversations, and soft jazz scales dabbing the atmosphere. The sky starts to blush orange — the day confesses its mortality.
Entre chien et loup.
Between dog and wolf?
That’s what your mother used to call it. The space in-between. Day and night. Past and future. Something caught in between. Humans, you see, we’re cursed to always be stuck somewhere in the middle. Mais c’est le présent. You must use all that’s happened to position yourself for what is to come. Et ensuite…
Yes?
Ben c’est simple, le chien devient le loup!
With those words, the sun set on its final dive behind the serrated cliffs. The carbonated bubbles from the bottle of sparkling water sat stoically in suspended animation. The bar was empty once more, just me and him.
Tu sais ce que ça veut dire?
Yes, we’re almost out of time.
Let me get this one —
No, please, c’est moi.
On se voit bientôt?
Toujours.