The concert of glances is a mystery
La Patache is a cafe a few meters off the Canal Saint-Martin. It’s Tuesday, half past seven in the afternoon, “happy hour”. Wine or beer for three bucks.
I sat down to drink a glass of white wine and sketch a description of the moment. What do I see?
A pretty typical Parisian wine bar. Bottles and cold cuts are displayed behind the counter. Rustic furniture. Dominant reddish tone. Half-light.
Tables of thirty-somethings and forty-somethings. A couple of families. Or rather a father or a mother with children. Not much of a black tie. More of multicolored scarf. Motorcycle helmets.
It’s starting to get pretty cold in Paris. Smokers put on their coats and go light a cigarette out at the door. A girl asks for a cigarette. Has that girl anticipated or not her desire to smoke?
A British friend once explained me he is a “social smoker”. Standing at the entrance of pubs in London he talks to interesting people. That kind of social behavior is probably less common in Paris.
Many times, I have seen in bars like this one a guy standing at the counter. Alone. Observing the others in silence. I see one of those here today. The waiter comes to propose another drink, happy hour will be over. No, thanks.
I wonder what the talks are about. A boy and a girl smile at each other while having a beer. Minutes before at that same table, two Italians chatted with worried faces.
The concert of glances is still a mystery to me.
Now I read Orwell’s essay “Why I Write” and I think of the twentieth century, of the obstinacy of certain creators. I think about how we got to meet on this last line.
- Tuesday, October 13, 2015
