SHORT STORIES: The Old Man And The Bell Tower

I had been working in the town for almost a year, but I had chosen not to renew my contract, as I missed the low hum of the big city. Scores of winter mornings had passed, and on each one I had rushed across the small central square towards my place of work, looking up, usually disappointed to see the mountains once again shrouded in a thick veil of grey. Then, mid-afternoon, I would stroll back exhaustedly, trying to delay the mountains of work which awaited me at home.

There were six bars on the square, all of which served more or less the same selections: House wine, aperitifs, small glasses of blonde beer and coffees. Most of these were well frequented, except for one, “Chez Julien”. The interior of “Chez Julien” was lit by metre long fluorescent strip lights, and was almost always empty, save for a figure hunched over the counter, usually reading a newspaper or gazing out into the square.

It did however have one regular, who would appear at some time in the early afternoon, and come rain or shine, would drive his electric wheelchair up to one of the bare, metal tables, order a small beer, and sit staring into space. I passed this man every day on my way back from work, but after an early pique of curiosity, I had just come to accept him as part of the scenery.

The day before I was due to leave the little town, I had assembled all of my trinkets, and the majority of my clothes into three large cardboard boxes, ready to be moved to my next abode. A friend of mine once said that our belongings say a great deal about us, and looking at the small pile I hoped it wasn’t true. I slept an uncomfortable night in the now desolate room, before my alarm woke me at seven for my final day’s work.

I skittered across the square, which had been covered with a late blanket of ice, and looked up towards the mountains. There were wisps of cloud, but I thought that the sun should burn them off by midday, and an afternoon of glorious sunshine was to be had. My predictions were correct, and as I left work for the final time, the gentle warmth of the spring sun trickled over me as I had willed it to for months. I was due to leave early the next morning, and did not want to return to my sterile quarters, so I decided to take a drink at one of the bars I had so rarely frequented during my stay.

I arrived in the square, looked around at the bustling bars, which were reaping the benefits of the heat. They all looked quite busy, and even “Chez Julien” had pulled a few customers onto its sun-drenched terrace. It was there I decided to go, as I assumed it would be slightly cheaper than the more successful enterprises, and as I would not be sitting inside, it made no difference.

The tired looking man from behind the counter shuffled over uncomfortably, before taking my order for a small glass of white wine and a measure of cassis. I looked around the square for a while, taking in the detail of the statue of De Gaulle which stood at its centre while taking sizeable sips of the astringent clear liquid. All of a sudden I noticed that the old man in the wheelchair had materialized at the table next to me. Always the same table, I thought. Why?

I do not know why I did this, but the power of my curiosity was such that I moved my glass onto his table and joined him. His large bespectacled eyes gazed warmly across the table at me, and he nodded a greeting.

“Pourquoi vous etes toujours ici?” I said in my embarrassingly still broken French.

“Allemand?” he questioned. “Deutsche?”

“Anglais”, I replied.

“Ahh. English.” He said in a deep gruff tone. “I here because I can no see tower.”

He gestured across the square towards the abbey on the far side, and I noticed he was right. From this exact position, the bell tower’s panopticon was broken by the square marble hat of the statue. He sat in silence as I marvelled at his ingenious escape. No sense of time, just man, wine and the fresh air. What bliss! We sat like this for a long while, and the sun gradually sunk below the row of houses on the opposite side of the square.

“Au revoir.” He said, slowly reversing his wheelchair.

“Attend monsieur! Pourquoi vous ne voulez pas voir l’heure?”

“Doctor say I….die…in one year. Time. No good.”

At this he trundled off in his little machine, and I sat for a while longer until the chill of the April evening became uncomfortable, and I headed home.

I returned to the little town two years later, and the old man remained, sipping at a glass of red wine, as heavy drops of August rain filled the gutters around him.