A quiet morning park. Only the faint echoes of birds flying south could be heard. A yellow carpet of fallen leaves covered the sidewalk. The autumn leaves crunched under Eric’s measured steps as he walked his usual path toward the daily grind. But instead of turning left toward the “BrainGap” office, he headed straight for the bakery.
The gloomy, wet days had passed. Now, cold glints of sunlight broke through a veil of fluffy clouds in the azure sky. Today was a special day for him. And perhaps, the sun was a sign that luck was on his side.
The bakery opens at half-past eight.
“Sigh, still three minutes until opening,” Eric sighed heavily.
Tucking his gold-plated watch back into his inner pocket, he began to study his reflection in the shop window.
“Right. Hair is fine, smile is pearly white...” After breathing into his palm and sniffing it, Eric concluded that there was no unpleasant odor. “Everything is perfect. The coat fits elegantly. But wait, what’s that hanging out from under it? Is it the watch? I didn’t actually put it away; I just tucked it between my blazer and my coat. Alright then, let’s put it back properly.”
After struggling to find the pocket, he discovered a handful of scraps of paper. There was no money among them. Everything went straight into the trash can.
The door creaked open. The head of Monsieur Baker appeared from the doorway. That was what the guests of “Puff Pastry” liked to call him. The baker imitated the French, though he wasn’t one. According to unconfirmed reports, he was a native of the Bavarian Alps. The Monsieur’s thin mustache with its curled ends on a massive face and his good-natured smile always drew guests in. To him, everyone was like family. It felt as though you could trust him with all your secrets, knowing they would remain as securely protected as a Swiss bank account.
“Oh, Mr. Eric. Were you looking to buy a ‘blueberry pie’?” Monsieur placed a distinct emphasis on the last words. “Ooh-la-la! You would do better to wait until noon. You will be surprised by it yourself. At that hour, it will turn out to be something truly special.”
Eric went to speak, but just as he opened his mouth, Monsieur cut him off and, with a wink, added:
“It will come to you on its own.”
“Monsieur, it’s not for me,” Eric blurted out in a single breath.
“Mmm, for a lovely lady with lovely wheat-colored hair? Whose childlike smile brightens your heart?” The baker looked upward soulfully, as if thanking the heavens for some great mercy. “Finally, you have blossomed. Unfold your petal of love. I assure you, she is your kindred spirit. You are two of a kind.”
A monologue followed about how much they had in common and how he had drawn the winning ticket. A shared love for blueberry pie wasn’t the only coincidence. More than anything in the world, Eric feared never finding his soulmate. He had met many “suitable candidates” for the role of his dream girl, but each time, the feeling turned out to be unrequited. Either they found him odd and clumsy, or they were simply different types of people altogether.
Having decided he’d had enough, he began his search for “the one and only.” The Baker knew all about this, as Eric often ate lunch at “Puff Pastry.” Because of Monsieur’s good-natured spirit and his brilliant way with guests, Eric had unburdened his heart during a time when he truly needed to. Eventually, Monsieur announced that he had found something special for him.
If Monsieur Baker was to be believed, Elana was indeed the one. They even thought alike. But knowing the Baker, one could suspect he was simply “dressing up the merchandise” to make a sale. So, Eric decided to see for himself if they were truly similar. Hope dies last.
The first step of their introduction—a delivery consisting of the favorite treat—was a bridge of sorts. A bridge connecting two halves of a single city across a river shrouded in thick fog. Only by crossing it could you see the other half.
“I want to sen...” Eric didn’t get to finish.
“Let me guess: you want to send a gift to Elana? And it will be a fragrant pie made of airy dough with a soft crust and berries the color of the night sky?”
“You certainly know how to sell it. But wait! Can you read minds?” Eric joked.
Despite the joke, he was genuinely surprised. How could Monsieur possibly know? Apparently, this was standard practice here: an introduction made not through the door, but through the dough.
“Oh, how could it be any other way? I must know what weighs on my guests’ hearts so that I can help them. And right now, you want to give me her address, but I already know where to take it.” A pause; the Baker winked. “And I know your address. But as for that…” Placing a finger to his lips, he fell silent.
“I like that you can read minds. It means I can just come here and stay silent. By the way, could you write this on the box?” Eric fumbled through his pockets, only to realize that the slip of paper with his verses was gone—lying among the trash and receipts.
“Well, never mind. I’ll save the poetry for the next gift.”
He had imagined Elana reading the lines as she took each bite of the pie:
“A whole pie is waiting, it lies in your view, Take the slice where the clock strikes the twelve and the true. Take a bite of the harvest, but do not you rush, Remember the summer, the wind, and the hush.
Recall the long nights ’ere the darkness had fell, When the vault of the heavens was cast in a spell— Draped in a veil of the deepest of blue, When the world was still radiant, open, and new.
But the night is now black and the sky has been swept, The secrets of heaven no longer are kept. The firmament’s gone; there is only the ice... Reach out your hand for a second slice..”
Remember summer nights, before the darkness fell— When the vault of heaven was draped In a veil of deepest blue.
The night is black, yet the sky has vanished. Take a second slice…”
Bit by bit, she was supposed to learn why the berry bears a name for “blackness” even though its heart is deep blue. Eric’s mind drifted to the string of dates that would surely follow, where they would get to know each other properly. For now, it was all just a dream. If the poem isn’t meant for today, he thought, then I’ll give it to her on our first date. Better that way.
“Si, Mister Eric. By the way, we open at eight now. Au revoir, and have a wonderful day!”
It seemed Monsieur really ought to have brushed up on his French. However, it wasn’t his manner of speaking that made him famous, but rather his magnificent pastries and his tireless work ethic. The same could not be said for his son, who had decided to follow in his father’s footsteps. He was the polar opposite: it was incredibly easy to tell the son’s baking apart from the father’s. While Monsieur strictly followed the standards of the family recipe, Hans took a much more careless approach. Consequently, for the time being, his job was limited to making deliveries. For convenience, all the boxes were color-coded based on the filling. It was a common occurrence for Hans to mix them up, delivering a cherry pie instead of an apple one.
Inside the “BrandGap” office, things were dreary. Eric was counting down the hours until the end of the day: evening, night, morning, “Puff Pastry,” and then—finally—a response from Elana. Meanwhile, it was only the middle of the workday, and five colleagues were having lunch in the office. Paul, holding a slice of Salami pizza, was speaking ill of Monsieur Baker to a friend.
“He’s not even French; he’s just a pure hustler looking for a profit,” Paul said. “He’d sell his own mother if it meant making a dime.”
His companion continued eating a pastry from “Puff Pastry” in silence. Paul took a bite of his pizza and continued talking with his mouth full:
“Did you know the meat pies are made from local strays?”
His silent listener only shot him a sidelong glance.
“He’s very strange, and that sly grin of his... it’s like something out of a villain movie. By the way, did you hear about the prank he played on George?” a colleague standing nearby chimed in, joining the conversation.
This was Monsieur’s most talked-about and profitable prank. George was a greedy man. He went to great lengths to win the Mayor’s favor, hoping to use that influence to buy the park and build a new branch of his pizzeria there. One day, Monsieur Baker shared a “secret”: he claimed the city’s governor was a regular at “Puff Pastry” and absolutely adored anchovy pies. But, he added, he didn’t much care for such a guest.
George thought he’d found the key to the Mayor’s good graces. Without a second thought, he bought up every single pie and brought them to the Mayor as a gift “from the heart”—and as promotional material.
It turned out to be a complete fiasco. Not only did the Mayor refuse the gift because of the pie’s unpleasant odor, but they also spoiled rapidly. George was far too stingy to throw them away; to him, wasting money felt like a physical pain in his chest. For a week, George choked down his failed gift. Because of the foul smell, he had to live with his windows wide open in the dead of winter. The Baker had managed to dispose of a failed flavor experiment and punish a scoundrel all at once.
“Eric, there’s a courier for you. He’s waiting at the front doors,” the secretary’s voice drifted in from the lobby.
Standing on the threshold was the younger Monsieur Baker, wearing a forced smile. In his hands was a blueberry pie box. Rejections are brought back to the sender, Eric thought grimly.
“You haven’t made a mistake, have you?” Eric asked, feeling lost.
“Not at all!” Hans’s smile didn’t waver.
“But... did you deliver the package?” Eric’s voice weakened as a lump formed in his throat.
“I certainly did! This one is for you. You two are a strange pair.”
Opening the box, he found a completely untouched pie. It was as if he’d been struck by lightning; the ground seemed to give way beneath his feet. He realized she hadn’t even laid a finger on his gift.
All that talk about soulmates had been nothing but the Baker’s empty words. She had become an enigma to him, and the unknown terrified him—it dragged him right back to his old heartaches. Eric handed the box back and said flatly:
“We are nothing alike.”
But this only made the courier laugh.
How could I have fallen for it? Eric thought. The Baker was just riding high. He knew he’d get to play a prank on some loser today and break another soft heart in the process. Maybe I had it coming. Eric slammed the door shut.
Hans left the office and headed home. The smile wouldn’t leave his face. He felt like a smoke, but as it turned out, he was fresh out of cigarettes. He had to ask an old man sitting on a park bench.
“Hey, Grandpa, got a cigarette? I’ll give you a pie in exchange,” Hans offered cheerfully.
“Well, aren’t you a kind soul. You could have just asked,” the old man said, squinting up at him.
“That’s just how I was raised,” Hans replied modestly.
“Well, here you go. But why are you so happy?” the old man asked, curious.
“I met two total weirdos at work today. Both of them ordered a blueberry pie for each other, and both of them told me, ‘We’re not alike.’ They were playing a prank on me!”
