Promise me you won't be left alone, locked up at home…
He enters the restaurant around noon, dressed in a large beige raincoat and large green corduroy trousers. Under his arm, a specimen of the Chained Duck survived a torrential downpour with difficulty. The man struggles to close his umbrella, whose frail bone structure seems to have been abused by a rather violent winter gust. The young boys who wait behind the bar greet him by shaking his hand, he is a regular, a regular customer, a face that has become familiar.
The old man shyly walks into the small room with postcards, old posters, photos, t-shirts and a few slates that list the beers of the month and desserts of the day. He shows the waiter the table he has chosen, places his diary, removes his wet overcoat and sits on the bench. Without delay, he orders the dish of the day and a big bottle of sparkling water. He likes to come to the Estaminet, it is one of his favourite places because the atmosphere is relaxed and the clientele is rather young, there are many high school students, students and families who come to honour, with greed, the great classics of Savoyard gastronomy. And then, contrary to the rather too chic restaurants, it is a place where one can eat alone without feeling the pity or suspicion of other clients who consider solitude "de table" as a redhibitory defect, the privilege of the asocials and perverts.
He unfolds his duck carefully to avoid tearing the wettest pages. He does not pay attention to the people around him, he immerses himself in the reading of an article, glasses screwed on his nose, waiting for his plate to be brought to him. In spite of his seventies, Georges is still a handsome man, tall and slender, his hair greyish but full, his looks proud, his posture straight. He is not soft and invaded on the leather of the bench, contrary to these kids who frenetically touch the screen of their smartphone with a few tables of him... His face, soft and smiling, breathes sincerity and good humor, is a man who loves life and the places where she concentrates.
Even if he always comes alone to the restaurant, the hubbub and disorder of public places calm him down, reassure him, make him feel alive.
The waiter brings him his dish and a small basket of bread. The crackling of crumpled newsprint is compounded by the rattling of knocking cutlery. Nothing seems to disturb George's concentration, he is absorbed by his reading. From time to time, he pauses, pulls out an old moleskin notebook with the corneal cover and deposits a few words, probably reflections or quotations that he wants to keep for later. He takes the opportunity to lift his head a little and sweep the room with a benevolent look. He tells himself that he would like to share his thoughts with another person rather than with his notebook, but he is alone, as he has been doing every day for a year, since that cursed day when Lucienne's heart suddenly died out, just after lunch, without any cry or pain: his head suddenly turned to one side, dragging the rest of the body which fell heavily from the chair. He was talking to him about his next novel, the famous book he had wanted to write for so long, this book that would be the last of his life, but also the best. The firemen arrived in less than a quarter of an hour to rescue Lucienne, in vain.
Infarction. This little note had just taken George's most precious thing in life. They had been married for 46 years, since their meeting in this bookshop in the 3rd arrondissement of Paris where she worked and where he came to get inspiration. Love at first sight, love immediately, as if it were obvious.
And throughout all these years, despite some inevitable arguments and the weight of routine, the passion for books and writing had nourished and cemented their story.
Following this cruel and unexpected death, Georges tries to survive, not give in to loneliness, to continue the way without her. Lucienne was a woman open to the world and to others, much less shy than him, with an innate sense of contact and conversation. She had made him promise, in case she left before him, not to stay home alone, locked up all day, walled in silence. She said that a man alone was always badly accompanied. Georges then chose to move away from the hustle and bustle of Parisian life and buy a small apartment in the Old Annecy, a city on a human scale, calmer, more in tune with his personality.
Since his move in and faithful to Lucienne's good advice, every day, he has now established himself as one of Lucienne's best friends.
I hope you enjoyed the moments…