PARIS, France—The old man, dressed in a light jacket and scarf on this mild spring day, scurries to an outdoor table at the cafe.
He carries with him an inexpensive bouquet of flowers, the sort one finds at a market, not a florist’s shop. He hides the flowers under the table next to him and sits down.
I’m seated two tables over from him. The café is on the right bank of the Seine, maybe a five-minute walk to the Notre Dame Cathedral.
A server hurries to his table. The old man waves him away, signaling that he is waiting for someone by holding up two fingers and pointing to the chair on the other side of the table.
The old man settles back, but his eyes roam left and right. He shifts in his seat and cranes his neck.
Then he smiles.
An old woman approaches, walking slowly with a cane.
The old man pushes himself out of his chair and moves to her side. They greet each other in the traditional French fashion—hurried air kisses on each cheek—then he pulls her chair out for her.
Once the old woman is seated comfortably, the old man signals to the waiter. They order drinks.
The old woman leans back in her chair. The old man leans forward, talking rapidly, gesturing jovially.
I do not know enough French to understand what he’s saying, but he seems to want to make her smile. The look on her face is pleasant, kind even, but it does not radiate happiness.
I try to discern the nature of their relationship.
Are they childhood sweethearts, reconnecting in the winter of life? Maybe. The old man’s energy seems to suggest a longstanding interest of some sort, but the old woman’s calm benevolence doesn’t show signs of passion, recent or from long ago.
Is the old woman the widow of one of the old man’s comrades? Is he meeting a responsibility to an old friend?
It’s possible.
The old man’s attention to the old woman is fervent without being passionate. He does not seem to want to seduce her, but rather just to make her happy.
Or is it something else?
Some dynamic or relationship no outsider—and certainly one who knows only a smattering of the language in which they speak—can possibly discern?
The mystery of it, though, transfixes me.
So much of what goes on in the world these days serves only to dishearten. We witness examples of people doing cruel, even unspeakable things to each other on a routine basis—so routine that they can sap the spirit if we let them.
In the United States right now, the political maneuverings of those in power are so malicious that they make us long for moments of plain, ordinary kindness.
As the old woman sips her drink, the old man reaches down to his hiding place beneath the other table to retrieve the bouquet of flowers.
When he offers them to her, he does so with a flourish, standing and bowing before her. If he had been wearing a cap, he would have swept it off his aged head and lowered it to the ground in homage.
The old woman accepts the flowers.
And she smiles—broadly, happily, radiantly.
The old man almost levitates back to his seat. He, too, is grinning. A smile as wide as the Seine splits his face.
I still have no idea what brought them together or why impressing the old woman was so important to the old man.
But it doesn’t matter.
On this mild day in an old and beautiful city that is part of an often hard, hard world, an old man brought flowers to an old woman just to make her smile.
And she smiled.
That’s enough.
Yes, that’s enough.
John Krull is director of Franklin College’s Pulliam School of Journalism and publisher of TheStatehouseFile.com, a news website powered by Franklin College journalism students. The views expressed are those of the author only and should not be attributed to Franklin College. Send comments to editorial@therepublic.com.
