grounded...
May 5, 2008
Feet on the ground. Loads of work to do. I have so much to learn. The sweetness is inside silence. The joy can be silent. It’s okay. Not everyone gets it. Not a win; but recognition. Winning has nothing to do with this. Story-telling, yes. Winning? No. Feet on the ground. So much to learn...about humility, ego, silence...
Emile
“I have no doubt in my mind, addled by wine as it is, that god is a human invention.” Emile gives his glass another swirl on the wooden bar, watches the legs wash up the inside of the bowl, then looks up to meet Martina’s eyes. “We invented god, and now he’s got to go. It’s time we grew up.”
“I have no doubt in my mind that you are too much with the wine,” she says.
“I’m drunk only on your beauty,” he says. He stops. Finds her eyes. “Tired lines like that do you a disservice, Martina. I apologize. Perhaps I am too much with the wine.” It’s the kindness in her face that has kept him coming back to this café for the past few years. There seems to be a built-in compassion – an acceptance of anything he might have to say. Her eyes are hazel. Her eyes seem to listen – as if they can follow the words in the air. Emile shakes his head – watches her pour beer at the end of the bar. Her hair is pulled into a thick chestnut ponytail. She has a grey sweater under her white apron. The sweater is unraveling a bit at the back, along the bottom. It must be a favourite sweater, he thinks. He has no idea what the landscape under that sweater might look like and this is part of Marina’s beauty. The sweater makes a mystery. Or in the heat of summer, a baggy T-shirt makes a mystery. More than once, he has heard other customers use the phrase; Avoir du monde au balcon in reference to Martina’s breasts. But he does not really care how crowded her balcony is. Emile does not know if, in fact, she is kind. Any appearance of kindness is untested. She has been a good listener though, and there is kindness in this.
If only I had a euro for every proposition, proclamation of beauty, or pass, Martina thinks. But this guy…has a damaged charm she finds interesting. And he’s tall. He’s taller than she is, which makes him rare, and attractive in her eyes. She’s six-feet. He must be six-two. It’s not much but she will not be with a man shorter than herself. This is one of her rules. He is not wearing a wedding ring but for Martina, it would not matter if he was. In fact, he would be more attractive if he was. She does not acknowledge it, but she is attracted to unavailable men. There is safety in this condition. He has never mentioned a woman. Occasionally, he has spoken about love. Or asked pointedly, what it was women wanted, to which Martina had no answer. She barely knows what she wants. Half the time she has no idea why she moves toward a particular man. In her 35 years, she’d not kept anyone around for longer than ten months.
Martina does not care about hair. However, men who attempt to cover it up, disguise it, or solve it, she finds annoying. Men who lose their hair with grace – this, she finds very sexy. Emile is such a man. He’s thinning but seems not to care. His hair at the front, is wistful. He wears glasses that seem a throw-back to the 30s of 40s, gold-coloured wire-rimmed glasses that hook around his ears. She remembers seeing his glasses sitting on a pile of papers, him rubbing his eyes. She remembers thinking the guy must work hard. She has no idea what he does. Though, she thought she saw a gun once, behind his hip on the left. She dismissed it as wild imagination – it was probably a cell phone clipped to his waist.
“We’re alone,” Emile says. He sighs. “We look up into the sky at night, and we feel terribly alone. This is the reason we invented god. At least, it’s the reason our gods are still around. In the beginning, I’m sure we were trying to explain the weather, or why volcanoes erupted, or why hunting expeditions failed. But now? Now, religion only holds us back. If we are to evolve as a species, religion must be punted to the wayside. It explains nothing – is based in nothing but fear and loneliness.”
“But what about faith?” she says. “What about ritual and holiness?” She deftly removes his wine glass and slides a clean glass into place – then half-fills the new glass with red. This wine is my blood, she thinks, then smiles.
“We do not need religion to have rituals. We can be holy about all the things that place us in a state of awe or wonder. Things like beauty. Art. Poetry. Music. A child’s laughter. Love. These are the things we should find holy. This is where holiness lives.”
“And faith?”
“We should have faith in each other.”
“Not always an easy thing.”
“Well, I have faith in your kindness, in your compassion, in the way you listen with your eyes.”
“Faith?”
“Yes, though I have never witnessed an overt act of kindness, or compassion, I have faith that you possess these qualities, based on nothing but my observations of you.”
“Sometimes faith is misplaced, misguided, wrong – is it not?”
“Oh, now you’re turning me on.”
Oh my. There’s the line, she thinks. It’s dangerous because she’s engaged and enjoying herself. They have danced toward the line, and now it’s there, in plain view – easy enough to cross. She’s very interested in pushing across this line with Emile but she hesitates. He must recognize this because he pulls back from it. He stands up, places too much money on the bar and gathers his bag.
“Until next time, Martina. I will continue to hold my faith in you.” And then he’s on the street; Emile, thick with wine, part of the human landscape of Paris at night.
“Bonsoir, Emile,” she whispers to the nearly empty café.
1 Comment
1. dolly varden had this to say: May 08, 2008 ~ 13:03 ~ #
YIPPPEEEEE!!!!