VICHY
Jordan looked at the old Frenchman incredulously. “You speak English?”
“Of course,” he said, still idly turning the absinthe bottle over in his hands.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“Why would I? I think you had much that you wanted to say and maybe would have had difficulty saying if you knew you were understood.”
Jordan shook his head. “And what were you talking about? Did you think I understood you?”
Gitanes smiled and turned to face Jordan. “No, I was quite sure you did not. I, too, had things I wanted to...how would you say, uncarry. That’s not right, but you know what I mean, I think.”
“You have me at quite a disadvantage apparently,” Jordan said. “You understand, the things I told you, they could get you killed.”
“I suppose so,” the old man said. “But I promise you, there are far worse things. My name is Michel, by the way. I gather that you are Jordan, who is called Justin sometimes even though it is not your name.”
“Nice to meet you, Michel.” Jordan laughed, extending his hand. The Frenchman’s grip was surprisingly strong and Jordan winced, imagining he could feel the tiny transmitter in his palm grinding against muscle and bone.
“Sorry,” Michel said, “I forget about your hand. Does it hurt?”
“Not really, usually I forget it’s there,” Jordan said. “Do you live in the neighborhood? You seem to be here a lot.”
“You are generous. I am here all of the time. You think it must be a sad and lonely existence, no? No, it’s true.” He went on when Jordan tried to object, “I live upstairs. I own the building so they are very good to me. I come down here because to sit upstairs and listen to life going on below is infinitely more depressing than hovering on its fringes.”
“I get that,” Jordan said. “I definitely get that. No family?”
Michel pursed his lips and said nothing for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “I have no one. And you, what will you do now that the bottle is thrown into the sea as you say? Things are in motion. Where will you go?”
Jordan looked down without speaking.
They sat in silence for several minutes, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally Michel said, “When I was a young man, there were terrible student riots in Paris. The ’60s. It was a very confusing time. At any rate, I did things, things that I knew were wrong. I betrayed many of my closest friends. In the end I came to own this building, and another besides, but at a great price. I think other men who did as I did during that time turned to the church afterward but for me there was no forgiveness. I found only hypocrisy.” He wrote quickly on the back of a napkin and pushed it across the table. “If it ever should come to pass that I can be a help to you, I would be grateful.”
Jordan slid the napkin in his pocket and unsteadily stood. “Thank you, goodbye.”
“À bientôt,” the Frenchman returned.
As he pulled his coat close against the cold night air, Jordan glanced back over his shoulder and saw Michel sitting in the empty restaurant, lost in his own memories as the two Algerian barbacks stacked the cane chairs and mopped the floor around him.