Gaëlle woke Rodolphe from his reverie and pointed towards the courtyard, visible now between the trees. Christophe was turned towards the arriving group. It was too late to turn back. The old man stood in front of an empty chair at the center of the courtyard. Sabine and Marc were sitting in front of him on the ground. Gaëlle waved the children onwards and they soon reached the end of the hedgerow and turned onto the path. Marc and Sabine were watching them now. Rodolphe searched the older boy’s face but there was no particular expression there. The old man smiled as he walked towards the incoming group.
Now the storeowners had arrived. Unlike Isabela’s relatives, Christophe knew how to speak to them. They had the neighborhood in common. Even if Christophe did not always participate in the conversations, he still enjoyed hearing about rotten stock, belated deliveries, and other work-related business. What he liked most about these men and women is that they were not in the habit of gossiping. When they discussed situations, they usually stuck to quantifiable facts. They would not, for example, refer to someone as a deadbeat. Instead they might state the size of that person’s debts and how many weeks it had been since their last payment. Even when they passed judgment, it was bereft of malice. One of them might say, for example, so and so is not in the habit of paying his tab at the brasserie, and the others would nod solemnly. This Christophe admired. He hated people whose eyes would dance with glee as they described the local drunkards or told the story of a domestic row they had overheard a few nights prior. This only spelled discord for the neighborhood, which already had its fair share of problems. People were being forced to sell their storefronts and move elsewhere. Communal gardens were under threat of being shut down. Pickpockets roamed the boulevard stealing from café tables. On one side were the damn sharks, and on the other the petty thieves. Both were bad for business.
But Belleville would survive them all. Honest work endured, and these were honest workers. There was Monsieur Karam from Les Délices du Liban. His rectangular glasses were filthy as usual and he carried a bag of purple olives. Walking alongside him was the young Monsieur Chen from Chen Fruits & Légumes. He wore a fitted vest over a white shirt. His wife was with him. She was an older chinese woman who did not speak any french and seemed to scowl at Christophe. He knew about their marital quarrels and hoped she would not cause a scene today. Behind them walked Madame Delacour from the boulangerie at the corner of Simon Bolivar. She had brought her eldest son Jacques, a heavy-set boy with ruddy cheeks. He looked uncomfortable in an old-fashioned suit, no doubt his father’s. Christophe had attended the man’s funeral not two years ago. He greeted them with a kiss on each cheek and shook Jacques’ hand. The boy’s hand was limp and sweaty. His pupils were larger than most. Christophe turned back towards the pavilion and his dead neighborhood followed him.
Christophe took his seat at the head of the table. Nobody spoke. They looked exhausted. All of these working people had a long week behind and a long week ahead. This is my wedding, but for them it is just another weekend function, Christophe thought. They are dressed in rags. Look at their tired faces. Look at their…
Christophe rose from the table and walked back to the doorway, peering into the main room. It was empty. Closed to the public. Very little light made it through the long glass panes. The trees had moved closer to the pavilion and they stood blocking his view of the path on which Isabela would arrive. But they were not trees. They were people pressed to the windows, breathing little jets of fog, the children below with their eyes wide, the adults hovering above, turning to one another and discussing some detail of the interior. Why have they not opened this area to the public. These people only want to eat their Saturday meal, thought Christophe. Somebody should open the place. He wandered from room to room but could find no waiter. His guests sat silently at the table. They watched him come and go. When he returned to the main room there were more people pressed to the windows. Some of the teenagers were standing in tightly bound groups and pulling apart each other’s clothes. Younger children gnawed at their bleeding legs, mouths open and screaming, but silent through the double-glazed windows. The adults could not see these goings-on. Only Christophe stood witness. How was Isabela to pass through this crowd. He could not think of any solution. He called out to the waiters, to the owner.
Lea’s body went cold when she heard Christophe yelling. Marc is attacking the old man, she thought. He is killing the old man. Florian wanted to continue playing but Lea opened her outstretched palm and stopped the boy in his tracks. He tried to understand the source of her distress by observing the girl’s face. Her head was tilted back and her eyes fixed the sky with empty intent. She tucked her hair behind her ears to better listen. When the sounds came again, Lea pressed her hair to her nose, breathed deeply, and looked at Florian. He too could hear the old man’s cries. With her spare hand Lea reached for Florian’s. Together they began walking cautiously towards the farmhouse, crouching low among the wheat stalks.
Of course the owner never showed, nor did his waiters. They had failed miserably at the simple task allotted them. He would remember to raise the matter when it came time to pay the bill. After a while Christophe ceased calling for the staff. Anyways it mattered little; the crowds had begun thinning around the pavilion. They went elsewhere for their Saturday meal, taking their teenagers and children and prams with them. Some were bloody, missing pant legs, some half of their faces, some being wheeled on stretchers, some wearing burned clothes or mutilated even.
Already Christophe felt calmer. He returned to his guests. A few were standing impatiently. They scrambled to sit down as they saw Christophe approach. Some had even swapped seats. He would allow this. There was no point insisting. Already they wore bitter and confused expressions.
They do not trust me to provide a meal after the ceremony, he thought. But a meal has been promised and a meal will be provided. They do not need to worry.
Of course it all hinged on the staff, but Christophe felt confident they would reappear in time for the meal. It was the ceremony that worried Christophe. He should have insisted on the church. Saint Jean-Baptiste de Belleville would have been a more appropriate setting.
That is the look on their faces, he thought.
What wretched man cannot convince his future wife to exchange vows in the neighborhood church?
During her absence the store has suffered.
Children call him Stone-face because he never smiles.
Yes he is organized, but does he enjoy his life?
Look at him scowl as he paces from room to room.
Is that the face of a man on his wedding day?
Christophe could no longer look at his guests. He walked into the main room and found the park mostly empty. Stray groups of late picnickers.
When Isabela appeared, it was with the priest at her side. They stood for a moment next to a large maidenhead tree, its green branches overlapping like wave trains in a turbulent sea. The two figures were small in its shadow, her in a simple white gown, him in a black cassock. Seeing her like this from a distance, Christophe was overwhelmed with pity. She was fierce and restless and would always live alone. He could marry her, yes, and even share a home with Isabela, but this meant nothing. Christophe watched her lift the hem of her dress to walk through the grass. She was wearing sneakers. The priest spoke to her, but Christophe could not hear them through the silence of the closed pavilion.