Night Café
Rain poured down in sheets and soaked the people of Paris as they hurried along the crowded street. Gutters already swamped, the water puddled on the road, which, combined with the early evening glow of streetlights, seemed to change into a river of color. It was as if this street, this ordinary avenue, had suddenly become a Van Gogh masterpiece, a blur of movement and paint.
As Sayid hurried alongside the others, the downpour pounded against him. The sight of a dimly lit café beckoned and he ducked inside. Too early for dinner, it was mostly empty, save for a pretty blonde who sat by the window, and a rather bored looking waiter who loitered near the bar. The Iraqi quietly moved to a table across from the girl and rid himself of his sopping coat. Water dripped from his hair onto his once-dry shirt, and he grimaced with frustration. It had done nothing but rain for the three days he had been in Paris; did the sun ever shine here? So far, the city had not impressed him in the least.
"Some onion soup if you have it. And a coffee," he stated to the waiter when he came over.
"Pardon, monsieur?"
Un café et ummm…Onion soup? He struggled for a moment. "I'm sorry, I don't speak French."
"Monsieur?"
Sayid grabbed the menu in front of him and tried to make sense out of the foreign words. He tried to ignore the waiter's obvious impatience. Yes, tapping his foot and rolling his eyes certainly would help the situation, wouldn't it? He thought wryly. Why did this have to be so difficult?
"Cup or bowl?" a soft voice asked.
Sayid turned and found the pretty blonde looking at him quizzically.
"Excuse me?"
"Cup or bowl?" she repeated.
"Oh, um, bowl, please."
"Il prendra un café et un bol de potage d'oignon." she offered to the waiter.
Sayid glanced up at the waiter to see if he understood. Without a word, the man jotted something on his pad and left.
"Thank you," he said gratefully as he turned to face the girl once more.
But she was no longer paying attention; instead, she was talking loudly into her cell phone
"I can't believe you couldn't get me on an earlier flight. What in hell am I going to do in Paris for two more days?"
The waiter set a steaming bowl of soup in front of him, along with his café. Grateful for the distraction, Sayid still couldn't help but overhear the girl's conversation. The room was small, he was nearby, and, well, she wasn't exactly being very quiet.
"This is ridiculous, Boone…yes, yes, I know I made a mistake. Trust me, no one knows that better than I do."
She leaned across her table now, her voice rose as her irritation grew. As he ate, Sayid watched her, startled at her tone, so different from the one she had used to translate his order for him. What had set her off, he wondered? Was she talking to a boyfriend? Or possibly a brother? He dipped his spoon back into his soup again and wondered what mistake she may have made that caused her to look so hurt.
"Yes, he was a jerk…yes, I know, I should have listened. Hey, Boone, I'm done with this. Let me know if you can move the flight up. Gotta go."
Sayid watched as she threw her phone down on the table. It spun, flipped once and hurtled over the edge. As it fell, Sayid instinctively reached out, grabbed it in mid-air and returned it to her table.
"Thank you for translating," he tried again.
The blonde turned, surprised, like she had already forgotten about him.
"Oh. Yeah. No problem."
"Are you alright?" He asked quietly. Obviously, she was not, he thought, noting the catch in her voice.
She glanced back at him briefly. "Yeah. Sure. I'm fine."
"Just a bad day?" He pushed further. There was something about the sadness in her eyes that made him want to help her. Nobody that young should look so sad, he thought.
"Make that a bad week." she laughed humorlessly.
"Would you like to talk about it? I don't want to intrude, but if you want to talk, I am happy to listen." He gestured to the window and the storm still raging outside. "It doesn't look like we are going anywhere anytime soon."
She stared at him for a second, then smiled. "Sure. Why not."
Sayid left the now empty soup bowl but gathered his coffee and rucksack and settled into the chair she pushed out for him with her foot.
"So have you been in Paris long?" she asked in a let's-just-make-small-talk voice.
"No, not long," he answered
"What brings you here?" she prompted. "Business or pleasure?"
"Neither, really," he replied. "I'm looking for a friend of mine. Someone I haven't seen in years. I had thought she might be here in Paris."
Sayid watched her as he spoke. She looked like she hadn't heard anything he had said. Instead, she seemed to be staring at him intently. He glanced over her shoulder and caught his own reflection in the mirrored wall. He looked like a drowned rat, no wonder she stared.
He noticed her shake her head slightly. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" she asked, a faint flush tinted her cheeks.
"Just that I'm here looking for someone. An old friend."
"Ohhh…let me guess, a girl, right?" She smirked. "And are you two…"
"No." Sayid chuckled a little. "No, nothing like that. She's just an old friend. What about you? Have you been here long?"
Her face clouded over, and for a minute, he thought she might not answer.
"I've been here for nearly a year. Well, here and St. Tropez." she finally offered, looking down at the table.
He remained silent, hoping she might elaborate. She looked up at him again and sighed, rolling her eyes slightly as she did so.
"I originally came as part of a study abroad program. I ended up meeting someone and getting married, so I stayed." She shrugged. "It didn't work out. We're getting divorced."
"I'm sorry," he said softly. So that was her mistake, he thought. He hoped his face didn't show the surprise he felt. She looked too young to be married, let alone divorced.
"Don't be." she muttered. "I just made a mistake."
"Well, I'm sure it is his loss. He's obviously the one who had made a big mistake."
She brightened a bit. "Thanks for that."
"For what?"
"For saying something nice. I needed that," she smiled.
Sayid couldn't help but think she should do that more often.
"Can I ask you something?" she looked curiously at him. "Do you believe in fate?"
"In fate?" he asked, doubtfully.
"Yeah. I know it sounds silly, but when I was a little girl I always dreamed about Paris." She paused for a second, then sheepishly added, "I always dreamed I would meet my husband here. Stupid, huh?"
"No, not stupid." Sayid replied.
"I just figured when I met him, Christophe, that it had to be fate."
Sayid was silent for a moment, considering what she said and how best to respond to her.
"I don't know about fate, but I do believe life is what we make it, what we create for ourselves. It's hard sometimes, but we cannot let others try to take our dreams away from us. Maybe this Christophe wasn't your fate, as you call it." He smiled at her, "Maybe you will still meet the man of your dreams here someday."
Sayid watched her face as she considered that possibility. She seemed lost in thought again as she stared out the window.
He considered asking her to meet him the next day, maybe for lunch or just to talk. She had said she was in town for a few more days when she was on the phone earlier. Would it be inappropriate?
As he weighed the proposition, he noticed her expression had changed, grown more peaceful rather than troubled. Sayid glanced toward the window again and noted that the rain had finally stopped. Before he could make a decision, she stood and gathered her belongings.
"Hey, thanks again, I've got to run." she said.
Sayid stood and reached for her hand. Instead of shaking it, as she seemed to expect, he bent slightly and kissed it.
"Goodbye. And thank you."
She blushed slightly at his old-fashioned gesture and said, "good-luck to you, I hope you find your friend."
He watched her as she walked down the rain-dampened street. It was only after she had rounded the corner and he could no longer see her that he realized, he never even caught her name.