Bistro “Cockade”

Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

A book had captured Marcel’s interest so much that he read it until the late evening, only interrupted to prepare the odd cup of espresso. It was one of those Sunday evenings in Paris soaked with loneliness, intensified by the darkness and decline of his quarter.

Marcel put the book aside and made up his mind to visit a bistro in the vicinity.

He left his house. A waxy, fat rat scurried under a pile of bulky waste on which lay the head of a mannequin- with wide open eyes. He crossed Place de Grève which was described in the book as the scene of bloody executions and agonizing deaths of thousands during the French Revolution. Marcel imagined luminous blood flowing down the gutters and between the crevices of the cobble stones, only to realize it was the reflection of the traffic lights that coloured the rainwater blood-red.

Three blocks away was a bistro named Cockade, which he had never visited before. He proceeded to the counter to order a drink. A middle-aged man with missing front teeth and a malicious smile came out of the kitchen with a tea towel over his shoulder. His appearance made Marcel shiver.

 A minute later, the man placed a glass of absinth before him.

“How did you know I wanted absinth?”

“Drink is on the house. I am the new owner, Charles-Henri Sanson.” He gave Marcel a clammy handshake.

Sanson? Wasn’t that the name of the Executioner during the Revolution?

Marcel sipped on his absinth. The guests looked like extras, dressed in funny costumes. There was not one known face among them. A woman dressed in black sat in the corner. She wept and held a bundle pressed to her chest. Two couples danced a Carmagnole to the sound of a bandoneon. Marcel was surprised to hear this Republican song and dance originating from 1792.

The bistro exhaled a strange, unreal atmosphere. He craved fresh air. When the owner noticed that he was about to leave, he pointed to a man at a nearby table who had two empty wine bottles in front of him. He wore a kind of Phrygian cap.

 “He is off his head”, the owner said. “He is a poet. Can you accompany him home?

 The man at the table looked up. "Betrayed by a whore," he slurred...

 ”Where does he live?” Marcel asked over the counter.

“Rue Quincampoix 34, ring at André Chénier.“ 

Not far from Marcel’s place.

Weird, he thought. A writer Chénier, whose head fell under the guillotine, was mentioned in the book he had read.

Marcel took his arm. The man staggered along, his legs giving up from time to time. They stood in front of a house which had been declared uninhabitable and was about to be demolished. Next to the official notice, graffiti was emblazoned on the wall: Revolution devours its own children. Marcel rang a makeshift doorbell hanging on two wires.

The creaking staircase was narrow, littered with fallen plaster. The walls dirty. Rats everywhere. Light was provided by a lantern from the street. A doorless squat toilet was yawning on one landing next to an apartment. A woman stood in the doorframe. She pulled André into the room and waved Marcel in and offered him a glass of wine. Along the walls stood paintings. “Do you like my paintings?” asked the woman, who was dressed in quaint cut clothes. They showed scenes of executions, decapitations. Their dominant colour was red. A hangman pulling a head from a basket to show it to the crowd. At the bottom of a painting what looked like a puddle of blood. Somebody must have stepped on a paint tube and squeezed the red colour onto the carpet.

Suddenly the man shouted: “You handed me over, squealer.”

“Same litany every evening”, she said.

She had long, sharp fingernails. When Marcel looked up again he was frightened: She had no face. Panic stricken, he made his way down the staircase. When he stood on the pavement he took a deep breath and lit a cigarette.

On his way to his apartment he passed the heap of rubbish again. The mannequin head was still on top. He stopped and had a close look. He saw the eyelids slowly lift, such as happens with people awaking or torn from their thoughts or when the head falls under the guillotine. After seconds, the eyelids closed again. Once more, the eyelids lifted and finally the eyes took on the gaze of the dead.

 

Eduard Schmidt-Zorner is an artist and a translator and writer of poetry, crime novels and short stories. He writes haibun, tanka, haiku and poetry in four languages: English, French, Spanish and German and holds workshops on Japanese and Chinese style poetry and prose. He is a member of four writer groups in Ireland and has lived in County Kerry, Ireland, for more than 25 years and is a proud Irish citizen, born in Germany. His work has been published in 60 anthologies, literary journals and broadsheets in UK, Ireland, Canada and USA.

 

Bob in the Crosshairs

Damian Dressick

 

 Cheryl

 Our first date was a humid Friday night in late spring and he took me to see his uncle’s band play the Polish Falcon’s Nest. The weather was warm for that time of year and we sweat through our clothes moving around the high-ceilinged room to songs like the “Beer Barrel Polka” and “That’ll Be the Day.” I liked how his muscles bulged his tight collar and tapered sleeves, the way his big hands held me through the damp, clinging cotton of my blouse as we spun on the sawdusted wooden floor. During the slow numbers, I let him pull me in close. I stared up into his coffee-colored eyes, watched the curve of his thick lips. I adored the way his pomade-darkened hair stayed shellacked in place, except for an inky squiggle that dangled over his forehead like it was taking a dare.

Outside, I noticed the welding scars on his wrists and forearms when he leaned in to kiss me. His chest felt solid against my splayed palm, reassuring, but his tongue was too big for my mouth and I could smell the sweat souring on his shirt in the night air. I told him my dad needed me home before eleven and started for the passenger door of his Dodge, leaving him standing with his thick arm on the yellow brick wall of the Falcon’s, cigarette burning away to nothing.

 

Lois

I could tell right away he didn’t belong in Principles of Modern Accounting any more than a golden retriever belongs in command of missile defense for the European Theatre—but there he sat, hunched in the second row, coveralls stained black, cigarette behind his ear, gnawed pencil between his fingers week after week, look of confusion on his face so intent we all assumed his first language was something quite unrelated to English, at least until the soggy afternoon around midterms when he cocked his hip and asked me for a light.

He told me he owned a garage out on the highway and had taken the class to get up to speed on the billing since his wife left him high and dry the year before. The first night he drove me out there, he put the moves on me right away, throwing his arm around my shoulder as we drove, his hand brushing at the swell of my breast.

We only ever slept together in his garage nights after class when my sister thought I was mastering the intricacies of monetary unit assumption with the ladies’ study group. Each time we did it, he bent me over the quarter panel of a car in for repairs, a Pontiac or a Chevy. He’d call me a “dirty bitch” and worse the whole time we were screwing. It excited me that he actually seemed very angry when we did it, like I was a stand-in for everything that was wrong with the world. It was flattering to be focused on so intently. It kept me coming back for a while. After the semester break, when we didn’t see each other for a few weeks, I thought I might need some kind of therapy and when I saw his number on the caller ID, I let the phone ring and ring.

 

Jo

No matter what you’ve heard, nothing much happened between us. Not, at least, until the middle of his divorce proceedings. Even then it wasn’t much. Twice. Maybe, three times. He’d toy with the hem of my skirt as I sat on the edge of my desk while we went over the testimony he’d give the judge. He’d grouse about how unhappy he’d been with his wife, talk up his experiences with other women. He’d compliment the smell of my dark hair, the cut of my dresses, the curve of my ass. Some nights he’d rest his hand on my knee. One night when I was pissed at Karl for not paying me enough attention, I let it stay there.

I’m well aware, however, small towns never offer generous allowances of discretion for outsiders. It isn’t a long journey—maybe only from the corner bar to the coffee shop—before lawyers, especially married ones, who don’t have their own trove of secrets to raise as a bulwark against rumor, become the butt of sexual appetite jokes, at least for the few trying months that precede the rigors of a disbarment hearing.

 

Martha

Thursdays were my nights. I’d press the buzzer for his apartment over the Tipple Tavern and he’d let me in. We’d sit on the bed and swig Budweiser from cold brown bottles, watch television till Leno, then screw standing up. The first time I found panties two sizes too small bunched under the bed, I told him I wouldn’t be back. The second time, I learned I might be the kind of woman who puts up with that sort of thing and he was the sort of man who would let me.

 

Caroline

My father’s kidney problems aren’t the root of his meanness, but I’m hoping they become the root of my forgiveness. The winding, meditative drive to Dave’s Dialysis grants us the dubious blessing of proximity. His rheumy eyes twitch in their dark sockets taking in the coal country landscape like a punishment.

In the waiting room, I read Family Circle or Redbook, think about what to make for dinner, imagine my mother in her patterned apron and bouffant pulling a tray of steaming haluski from the oven as we wait at the Formica table in the kitchen of our frame house on Sixth Street, sour look on her broad face suggesting tolerance pushed hours too far into the night and faltering. I picture my father reclined on the chilly table inside, shriveled body badged with the titanium intake valve that saves his life every week. I try to decide if my mother were still alive, would she be grateful?

Sometimes on the way back to my father’s ranch house off the highway we’ll stop at the Valley Dairy on Dark Shade Drive. He’ll order an egg white omelet with turkey bacon, slash his eyes sideways and joke with the waitress about the weather, the football team. On these mornings when he’s full of clean blood, I’ll want to ask him about the women that took him away from us, ask him if they were worth breaking our hearts, but instead I sit quietly in the booth, watch him chew his eggs like they’re beefsteak.

 

Damian Dressick is the author of the story collection Fables of the Deconstruction (forthcoming CLASH Books 2020). His stories and essays have appeared in more than fifty literary journals and anthologies, including W.W. Norton’s New Micro, failbetter.com, Post Road Cutbank, New Orleans Review, Hippocampus, Smokelong Quarterly and New World Writing. A Blue Mountain Residency Fellow, he holds a PhD in Creative Writing from the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi. Damian teaches at Clarion University.

 

The Houses on Dunbar Street

Tom Patterson

The long black SUV backed in toward the curb behind Phil’s car. He was watching from a chair by the front window—his usual outpost at this time of morning. He put down his coffee mug and stood up for a better view. The SUV rolled forward, just tapping the rear bumper of Phil’s Toyota. Then it backed again several feet and stopped.

Why does GM have to make a family vehicle that big? he wondered. Parking was an issue on Dunbar Street. Many of the houses had attached garages in the rear, reachable by a service alley. But these were too small for the cars most people drove now, and it was so much easier to pull up in front and park at the curb.

He stood at the window long enough to see four persons get out: the man who drove, a woman and two small children. The woman was already calling sharply to the kids to keep close.

Well, here it comes, Phil thought as he picked up the mug and headed back toward the kitchen. He was a lean silver-haired man in his late sixties, living alone in the house since the death of his wife a couple of years earlier. He’d been in a state of anxiety ever since the Duffields—Art and Marie—had moved from the house next door. They were settling in now at Mulberry Manor, a retirement community not far away. He missed them more than he’d expected to, and almost dreaded the arrival of new neighbors in their place.

Returning to the window he saw that the visitors had been joined by a man in a plaid sport coat. He remembered seeing that coat. It was easy to imagine the conversation they were having.

Well, the place ought to go to a young family, Phil thought. These houses on Dunbar Street were still reasonable—relatively. And the elementary school just a couple of blocks away was a major draw. If you had kids it would be a no-brainer. His own kids had gone through that school twenty-five years ago. He leaned to follow the progress of the visitors across the yard. The three adults soon disappeared inside the house, the woman calling in the children as she went through the door.

Phil sat down again and returned to the paper. But paused a moment to wonder if the newcomers might subscribe. It would be good not to be the last one on the block getting a paper. He found the sports section and busied himself with yesterday’s developments.

*  *  *

Less than a week had passed when he heard that the house had been sold. And sure enough, it turned out to be the family with the giant SUV. His long-time neighbor on the other side, Frank Lennox, had found out somehow.

The new owners didn’t appear again for several more days. In that time Phil prepared himself to be open-minded, as his wife used to urge. Be patient, she would say. Let things play out before you make a judgement. But he was still trying to learn.

They were there again soon enough. He’d not seen them pull up, but heard the kids out in the yard. They squealed and laughed, darting in every direction. “Carlos—you come out from those bushes! Right now!” The mother’s voice, flute-like but clear and firm. Phil reached the window in time to see her grab the boy’s hand and lead him in through the front door.

It was just past ten in the morning. He went to the kitchen for a coffee refill. He was aware of a sense of gloom, but couldn’t explain to himself why it should be. What if the place had been rented after all? To a gang of college kids, or such? You can’t just live in a desert, he told himself. And no matter what the new family is like, you still have Frank and Madge on the other side. For now, anyway . . . .

He glanced at the calendar beside the fridge. June 17th. They should be moving in soon—well before September and the start of school.

It was almost three weeks later when he saw a long box truck pulling up next door. He wondered for a moment if this was going to be a brother-in-law job. But the workers who got out of the truck, and a second smaller van a few minutes later, were definitely professional. They were getting ramps and roll paper in place within minutes, moving with a minimum of noise. He watched a while from the living room, fascinated in spite of himself. Then, to his surprise, he felt the impulse to walk over and speak to the new neighbors. His wife would have been there well before now, he thought with a smile.

He checked himself in the hall mirror as he headed to the door. Nothing amiss. Just an ordinary old white guy with wrinkles—knobby knees beneath the walking shorts. He turned and hurried out the door.

“Hi there,” he said as he walked up behind the man and woman.

“Hello,” the man said as they both turned to face him. “It’s Mr. Sheppard, isn’t it?”

“Yes—Phil Sheppard.”

“I’m Maderos . . . Raymond,” the man said as they shook hands. “And this is my wife, Alicia.”

The woman offered her hand, and they shook as well. “We’re here, at last,” she said in an excited voice.”

“Yes,” Phil replied warmly. “Welcome . . . welcome to the neighborhood.”

He was still processing his impressions. The man, Raymond, was shorter than he’d realized, but solidly built, with bronzed leathery skin. He seemed to maintain a look of seriousness, but his smile came quickly. Alicia was at least an inch taller. Shapely, Phil noticed with a touch of embarrassment. The pale red blouse she wore set off her dark eyes well, and her black hair was pulled back and fastened . . . did they still call that a ponytail?

“You have children, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes—a boy and a girl,” Alicia responded. “Six years and nine years. The girl is older. We thought they might be in the way today. They’re with some friends who have children their age.”

Phil nodded approvingly. They watched the movers in silence for a moment. Then, wanting to say something, he made a polite offer of help. They both thanked him, but showed no sign of taking him up on it. The movers were working with impressive energy and skill.

Suddenly the head of the crew appeared at the door and called. Raymond yelled back and started off to join him. “Nice to meet you!” he said over his shoulder.

Alicia said, “I’d better go too,” and started away. “We’ll see you again soon, I hope,” she called over her shoulder.   

“Yes, I’m sure,” he answered. “And be sure to ask if there’s anything I can help you with!”

The move was completed without mishap. When the trucks were gone, about two o’clock, Phil went over again to congratulate the new occupants. This time he brought a bottle of champagne he’d put in the fridge to chill. They insisted he come back later in the evening to share. Before leaving he went out with Raymond for a few minutes to look things over and assess the damage, if any, to the lawn.

“Not as bad as it might be,” Phil said as they examined a few tracks in the grass. “I’ve got some grass seed in the basement if you want to do a little patching up. And the hose—you’re welcome to borrow it anytime. It stays at the spigot on this side, over by the hydrangea.” He pointed toward the front corner of his house.

Raymond thanked him, but assured him he had his own hose.

That evening over champagne the neighbors chatted pleasantly. They enjoyed watching the children work with some coloring books Phil had brought. With some prodding from Alicia, they did their best to show enthusiasm. After a polite interval they turned again to their own toys and devices—Rosa with her phone, and Carlos with a Star Wars item that apparently let you hold the Apocalypse in the palm of your hand.

“We’ve got to get our wi-fi in or they’ll go crazy,” Alicia said. “The people are supposed to be here tomorrow.”

It flicked through Phil’s mind to invite them over to use his PC, but he decided against it. Realizing they must have a million things to do, he took his leave after another few minutes.

In the days that followed he saw the new family only at fleeting intervals. Frank Leonard asked him more than once for his impressions, but he was hesitant. “They seem like a nice family, but I don’t see them much. They’re always on the go.”

“Do you hear them speaking Spanish sometimes?” Frank asked at one point. “I guess that’s their first language. I mean . . . you would think.”

“Well,” Phil said, “I think I’ve heard it once or twice. Especially when there’s some stress or excitement, you know.”

Frank smiled and nodded. Then Phil added, “But they all speak English well—no question.”

With that there was nothing more to be said about languages.

On the second weekend after the move Phil noticed Raymond out early, working among the shrubs in front of the house. He stepped outside and found that Raymond had cut down the large holly bush by the door. It had been there fifteen or twenty years. Phil walked over to say hello . . . and find out what other changes might be planned.

“You’re gonna put in something new here, I guess,” he said cautiously.

“Well,” Raymond answered, not taking his attention from the work, “Alicia wants some flowers—or more of them, here in the front. So we have to make room.”

“Yeah. Well, you always have to trade off. That holly tree was here a long time. Guess it was getting old anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s what we figured.” Raymond stepped back and turned to give Phil his whole attention.

“You plan leave the azaleas?” Phil asked hesitantly.

Raymond flashed a grin. “Oh yeah. She likes the azaleas. But the flowers are the main thing. She’ll have bulbs in by the truckload before next spring—tulips, daffodils and stuff.”

The holly bush went to the curb in sections, where it would be collected by the township. Meanwhile, the Maderoses pursued their renewal efforts all about the yard. Phil was gradually won over to the process. He declared that the pansies Alicia put in along the front added just the right touch of color.

Weeks went by and summer ended. As school began, the Maderos household settled into a new daily rhythm: Raymond going out to work early and coming home usually by five o’clock; Alicia seeing the children off on the school bus, then leaving for the day care center where she worked. Phil came to enjoy their presence more and more, especially the children at play in the afternoons or on weekends.

There had been a moment, early on, when he heard Alicia lecturing them about playing in their own yard. These directions related mainly to his property, since the border on the other side was lined by an overgrown privet hedge. At the next opportunity, when Alicia was busy setting out bulbs and the kids were inside, he walked over to visit. They had a pleasant exchange about perennials—spacing, fertilizing and so on. Then, finding an opening, he let her know that Rosa and Carlos were welcome to play in his yard whenever they liked. “These aren’t very big lots after all,” he said.

She smiled warmly. “Ah . . . thank you, Phil. You’re so generous. But I would hate for them to disturb you.”

“Oh, they never disturb me,” he responded. “Don’t worry about that.”

After this he would occasionally see them in his yard, or hear them tearing around the house. It was surprisingly gratifying. He thought how warmly they would have been welcomed by Louise, if she were still alive. On summer days she would have spoiled them to death with cool-aid and snacks. He would smile to see young Carlos flash by the kitchen window, destroying all in his path with a disintegrator ray. And he’d be listening unconsciously for the sounds of battle as he returned to his reading or paperwork.

* * *   

It was Monday morning, still early, when he heard unfamiliar voices outside. He went to the living room and looked out the front window. A large truck had pulled up in front of the Maderos house. The logo on the side was familiar—one of the hardware chains. Beside the truck he saw Raymond talking to a man in a work uniform. Another man was already opening the rear doors. Then there were others, and they began unloading a number of flat boxes from the truck. Raymond and the first man started walking farther into the yard.

Phil switched to a side window where he could keep them in view. Meanwhile other workers began to offload material from the truck: more large flat boxes, followed by regular lengths of wood or plastic that appeared to be posts. And all gleaming white.

Phil let go the curtain and turned from the window. A fence . . . that’s what it had to be. But why would anyone want to have a fence on Dunbar Street?

Back at the kitchen table, he returned to his task of weeding out files: statements and receipts needed for tax purposes and so on, but mostly dead paper for years.

He couldn’t concentrate on a single item.

A fence! Why would anyone . . . ? But he realized he was repeating himself.

He went back to the front window. Saw that the work was going forward quickly. The men had laid out a line coincident with the property line between his lot and the Maderos’s. And they were already digging. The cartons had been opened to yield giant squares of vinyl fence, all of the same blinding white. Each section solid—not slatted as with a picket fence.

The sight of all this stunned him, as if he’d been hit in the stomach.

He stood back from the window, debating with himself. Then he went to the closet for his hat, and headed out the front door.

As he crossed the grass toward the Maderos house he was careful to dodge the workers. He wanted no contact with them. Passing the pile of empty cartons he noticed the logo “Glo-Tex” on all of them, along with the words “Forever Fencing.” He was just in time to catch Raymond as he came down the steps.

Raymond saw Phil and smiled, but continued walking. “What do you think? Gonna be a great fence, huh?” He was already clicking the key to unlock his car.

Phil stopped, frozen. “Yeah, these guys sure know what they’re doing,” he replied lamely.

“Well, see you later,” Raymond said over his shoulder. “Don’t want this to make me late for work!”

Phil stood where he was, still trying to process his reaction. It was their yard after all. The Maderoses had a perfect right to build any kind of fence they wanted. Did they not?

The workers nodded politely as they went back and forth. He was careful to stay out of their way. He paced the property line, at a safe distance, to get a rough idea of the actual length. When he came back to his original position he saw Alicia coming from the front door. She nodded and smiled, but stayed on the porch.

Phil hesitated, then started toward her. Picking his spaces between the workers he crossed the yard to the porch, and stopped at the steps.

“A lot going on today,” he said, attempting a smile

“Yes,” she answered, returning a faint smile herself. “We thought it would be good to have a fence—you know, as the children get older. We don’t want them to ever bother you.”

“Oh . . .” he began, but realized that any protest would be double-edged. What could he say that wouldn’t betray some disappointment, or resentment? Finally he said, “Well, they never bother me.” And with a wan smile he added, “It’s a shame you decided to spend the money.”

She responded brightly: “Oh, don’t worry. Raymond is making good money now. And you know I work also at the day care center.” She paused a moment, then added, “We just didn’t want the children to be a nuisance.”

There was no answer to this. It was too late for remonstrance. She stood looking anxious, sensing his dissatisfaction.

Phil started to speak, then simply smiled and nodded.

He turned to watch the workers again. They continued in their task like limber robots—aligning, digging, inserting, connecting. Moment by moment the white barrier grew.

He turned back to Alicia, forcing another smile. “Well, it’s going to be a fine fence. Vinyl, I see, so you won’t ever need to paint it.”

She offered no answer. Only a faint smile of her own and a tilt of her head.

“Well, I’ll get out of the way,” he said. “When they’re gone I’ll come over for another look.”

“Oh, yes. Come and see how you like it!”

He decided to walk forward to the sidewalk and go around, rather than dodge through the men as the work progressed. And now it struck him that his own yard was no longer visible. When he reached the end of the fence and turned, he gave the post a tap with his fist. It was as hard and shiny as a piece of glass

 

Tom Patterson is a South Carolina native who has lived for several decades in the Philadelphia area. After college and an MA in English he served as a US Army artillery officer, then entered a career as high school teacher. A growing interest in performing arts led him to Temple University and a degree in opera. While pursuing these goals he was fortunate to find a position on the staff of a local law firm. Eventually the lure of the stage gave way to a long-standing love of writing, especially fiction. Now retired he is happily devoting full time to story writing.