Dominika Visy

                                                                                             The Miracle of Love

~ Paris, 1887 ~

Old Henri Rollande, once the respected professor of history at the Sorbonne, was sitting in the salon of his draughty flat, and watched the world rush by under his window. Christmas was already lurking behind the corner, the air was filled with the hints of cinnamon, chocolate and hazelnut. Snowflakes danced merrily in the piercing wind, and the million festive lights of the balustrades put the moon to shame. But the excitement didn’t reach up to Monsieur Rollande’s flat. He didn’t celebrate Christmas since the death of his beloved wife, Hortense. Five years have passed since she became a forever beautiful, forever warm memory, but time has stood frozen ever since for Monsieur Rollande. His whole life took up the habit of mourning, and from that moment on, all light, warmth, joy, the soft ring of laughter were absent from the little apartment on the Boulevard Saint Marcel. Old Rollande passed his days sitting in an armchair, reminiscing about the happy days that fled him, and his night-time dreams brought dear Hortense back to him, young and vivid as she once was, the orange blossoms of her bridal veil still sitting on her dark hair. He needed no companion besides his memories, the ghosts of beloved souls visiting him from time to time. After 55 years with his dearest, Christmas became a celebration of love and family ties, and now that these ties were irreparably broken and love robbed from him, Rollande needed no Christmas either.
 

But this year all was different. One day an old colleague, the eminent Professor Lefebvre wrote to him and recounted the tale of a bright but impoverished student of law, who was in desperate need of cheap lodgings after his landlady increased his rent on the room he inhabited in the slums of the Montmartre. Lefebvre knew very well that his retired colleague lived on a modest pension from the university, and that he had an unoccupied bedroom in his flat. Taking his student as a lodger would, Lefebvre argued, bring benefits to both. Rollande hesitated a great deal. He has grown accustomed to a solitary life. He was content with his memories, and did not wish to be disturbed by a lodger. But he often worried that his pension would not suffice for his living costs. Therefore, he consented at last.
The arrangements did indeed prove beneficial to both parties. Rollande realised that he very much enjoyed having a fellow human by his side. And Paul Leclair was worthy of living with the excellent professor. He was modest, dutiful, hardworking and full of promise, and gave the respect that Rollande deserved. Buried in his heavy books during the day, he let the professor reminisce on the glory of the past. But when the evening came, the old teacher and the young student sat together in the salon, and kept each other company. Sometimes, Rollande told stories of his life, while at other times he let the student talk, and he listened with real interest. This is how he learnt that Leclair had tender feelings for the local grocer’s daughter, a pretty red-haired girl. Leclair’s passionate declarations of love brought this long-gone emotion back to the little flat.

Still, Rollande had no intentions whatsoever to celebrate Christmas. He may have liked Leclair, but he could never feel the sentiments that he once felt for Hortense. Long, long ago Christmas was the time when heated embraces protected the two lovers against the cruel cold. This year, the winter that raged outside and which crept slowly inside through the windowsills was vicious and merciless as ever, but the promise of an all-conquering warmth strayed far from the professor’s house. He expected Leclair to spent the holidays with his beloved, and he was perfectly content in his armchair, surrounded by his memories.
But Rollande was wrong. However much he lived in the shadowland of the past, even he couldn’t help noticing that his young companion’s lively red cheeks were covered by the sickly, greyish mask of sorrow, and the wrinkes of worry gathered on his smooth forehead. His soft, gentle smile that greeted every morning with enthusiasm, faded into a barely concealed frown. One evening as they conversed over a stimulating glass of port, the professor ventured to ask:

“How are your studies going? I assume you are quite overloaded with coursework.”

“Oh, on the contrary. My studies are going well, and I am enjoying my rest over the winter break.”

“Why, then, this gloomy mood? A young soul such as yourself should rejoice and celebrate in this season of festivities.”

Leclair emitted a sigh so pathetic that Rollande unwittingly found himself in the grip of melancholy.

“I have no reason to rejoice this Christmas. I am a great deal unhappy.”

Rollande recalled the passionate days of his youth, and nodded in understanding.

“By my experience, it has to be a person of the fairer sex to make one so unhappy as you seem to be.”

Leclair buried his head behind his trembling hands to hide his nascent tears.

“It’s not the fairer sex, but the wretchedness of impossible love.” he exclaimed in agitation.

“And why would that love be impossible? You have always spoken hopefully about Mademoiselle Delacoeur’s interest in you.”

“Oh yes, I still believe that she also fancies me at least a little. I wished to ask for her hand in marriage at Christmas. But I have heard rumours that a fellow student, the son of a baron, also intends to marry her. What chances have I got against someone who can satisfy all her desires? I can’t even give her a ring as a token of my love! But if she doesn’t become mine, I will have nothing to live for. I shall die of sorrow.”

Rollande shook his head with all the vigour left in him.

“Do not speak thus, my young friend. True love is the greatest treasure a man can give and a woman can desire. Do not be rash in dismissing yourself. Christmas is a miraculous time, you may well be surprised!”

“Oh, I cannot celebrate this year. I’m too miserable.”

Rollande, all of a sudden, felt his lonely heart enlarge and fill with the warmth of sympathy. He himself was far beyond the light-hearted pleasures of life, but he couldn’t bear to see a young boy already given up and resigned to the cruel turns of fate. He couldn’t give material assistance to Paul, because the student was proud in his poverty and would never accept something that he didn’t work for. And what valuables could he give? He was poor himself!
But he couldn’t accept to see Leclair have a joyless Christmas.

“Oh, let us not subject ourselves to foolish talk! Christmas is a rare occasion when joy is permitted even to the most miserable. We ought to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ with all our heart, because through him there is hope for all of us.” he declared with the tone of someone who would not accept opposition.

Leclair consented, though more to show his gratitude to the old professor than out of real conviction. But the spirit of celebration soon seized him. They joined what little means they possessed to prepare for the festive day. On the afternoon of the 23rd, Leclair was to go out in pursuit of a handsome piece of turkey, while Rollande, suddenly regaining some of his youthful vigour, dressed the house in festive ornaments he once used abundantly in happier times.
Leclair dutifully arrived, with the desired meat in one hand and a finely wrapped Christmas present in the other.

“On my way home, I couldn’t help stopping at the celebrations on the Champs Elysées. By my faith, they were delightful! A choir sang carols while children danced around a giant Christmas tree. There were gift boxes under the tree, and the people picked them up rapidly. However, I succeeded in rescuing one for ourselves. I say, if we cannot have gifts, let us have a gift box to deceive us under the tree!

“Very well, very well.” Rollande nodded approvingly, but he seemed to be miles away and lost deep in thought.

A cruel gust of wind blew in through the window left ajar, and a shiver ran through Rollande. Leclair leapt to the window and closed it promptly.

“Would you like a cup of hot milk to warm you up?” he asked with genuine concern.

Hot milk was the favourite beverage of Monsieur Rollande, and he was grateful for the proposition. Leclair walked out to the kitchen, and when he returned to the salon a few minutes later, he found Rollande in the same pensive position, almost becoming part of his favourite armchair. Leclair gave him his cup. Rollande was silent for a minute, while he sipped his milk with delight. Leclair busied himself with the decorations. He presently took hold of the gift box. As he lifted it up, he stopped and pondered in confusion before he shook the box tentatively.

“By my faith, it seems that there is something in this box.”

“Now that is an interesting idea. Why would there be anything in a decorative object?”

“Maybe it is a game set up by the government to reward the lucky ones who pick the right box.” Leclair replied, refusing to let the disbelief of the professor destroy his enthusiasm. “It can’t hurt if I take a look inside…”

He removed the thick layers of paper with care, until a plain cardboard box became visible. He shook it. There came a rattling sound that was hitherto muted by the rattling of the wrapping paper. With awakened curiosity, he lifted the lid and peeked inside.
He froze as he reached in and pulled out a small object that lit up the dim room.

“What have you found?” asked Rollande eagerly, leaning forward in excitement.

“Oh heavens, this is… this is a ring!”

And there it was, a ring with a heart-shaped amethyst stone. Rollande leapt to his feet.

“A miracle! You can see that the old saying about Christmas miracles is true!”

Leclair stood still in confusion, then, overcome with sentiments, rushed to Rollande, and gave him a warm embrace.

“Thank you!” he exclaimed.

“Thank the Lord, not me!” Rollande replied, himself full of emotions and not wishing to give in to them. “And now, go to her and ask for her hand.”

“But… what will you…”

“Do not worry about me. I will be perfectly at peace with my milk. But you must hurry and ask her before someone else does!”

It didn’t take long to persuade the young student. The magical fire of love heated him, and he couldn’t bear to stay still. He almost forgot to take a coat as he rushed away like a puppy bewildered by a ball.
Rollande watched him from his window and thought about his wife. He did have a lot to give: a happy marriage filled with love and joy. And he hoped that the ring, the token of their unbreakable love would pass on its magic to anyone who possessed it.

~ In memoriam Roland Guillaumel ~

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                                                                            The Milkman

The story below is the fictionalised account of a true event that happened to me in September 2013.

I was a black stroke of paint on the grey canvas of dawn, my heart pale and too afraid to beat, as I walked home after a late night shift. I was no stranger to late shifts, and so far navigated through night-time London without the smallest degree of fear, but now I found myself in a place frightening in its foreignness after a disastrous move executed with haste and without enough consideration, madly in love and blinded by the vain promise of hope. I regretted it as soon as I crossed the threshold of my new life. But there was no way back… so there I was, wandering down the faintly lit streets stretching before me like a sombre serpent, pursued by a merciless breeze, accompanied solely by the broken accords of music not loud enough to hide the silence reigning over the land. To fight my awakening fear, I quickened my steps and, keeping my eyes on the road ahead, I dashed forward with firm determination towards the bleak comfort of my new home. My feet pushed away the pavement harshly, and the end drew ever nearer. Only ten minutes more, and I’ll be at home. Only two more songs…
But all of a sudden a curious creak cut through the silence, and my blood froze in my veins. I did not dare to look around, just marched ahead coolly, but my anxious legs drove me on at a frantic pace, and my heart pumped in my chest as though it wanted to break through and run away. The creak grew louder and louder until it was almost screaming into my ears. I threw a nervous sideways glance towards the source of the noise.
Then a curious and unexpected sight greeted me. There rode merrily a tiny white car, not bigger than the toys I used to play with in more carefree times. On the driver’s seat sat the milkman, the old-fashioned relic of more tranquil ages long bygone, a jovial, cheerfully plump figure with a sunny smile who made peace with the kingdom of night and thus laboured unafraid. He grinned at me and shouted an energetic “Good morning!” to me. I immediately felt my stomach-gripping fear dissolve, and my heart filled with a pleasant warmth. In his brief presence, I knew, I was safe.
I saw him three more times that week before I left my job. Whenever I braved the frightful journey, he was there, comforting me with his mere presence, forever cheerful and benign, his beaming “Good morning” crushing the overwhelming power of the night. It was only during our last meeting that a puzzling thought hit me. I always finished work at different times, and yet, I could be sure of his company no matter the time. I looked at him with an unintentional hint of confusion sitting on my face, and he winked at me as though he read my mind. I understood the truth immediately: this jolly chap was none other than our Heavenly Father himself.

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                                                         Tales from the Restaurant 1.

I used to work in a trendy and popular restaurant in central London, which I do not wish to name. What’s more important is the range of remarkable people who frequent it. My job enabled me to be amongst the customers. I got to see them eating, socialising and enjoying themselves, and I often encountered striking characters who could be an entertaining addition to any novel or movie. I would like to share some of these experiences with you.
There were two different groups of customers between whom I established a virtual connection. One day there was a mother and a daughter sitting together. The mother seemed a gentle, dainty English lady, with ginger hair and freckled rosy skin, while her daughter was more heavy-built and lacked her mother’s elegance. I imagined them to be on some kind of day out –  my imagination running as wild as to picture the mother as a so-called ‘Sunday Mum’, not in charge of her children but seeing them occasionally. She was scrolling through the pictures of her camera, and a charming satisfaction radiated from her. But in a saddening contrast to her, her daughter was oblivious to her efforts. Buried in her smartphone, she had no interest in the world around her, let alone her eager mother.
Then, a few weeks later, these unpleasant roles were played out in reverse in front of my eyes. This time it was a father and his son, a sweet, fair little boy of 10. But his father took no notice of him. More interested in an online world than in reality, he did not spare one moment for his child. The boy laid his head down on the table in a gesture of hopeless boredom. I felt immensely sorry for him. But she was no more than just a representative of the tendency of our era, when most people need their gadgets more than oxygen to survive. And to be honest, I find this tendency not only sad, but disturbing and disgusting. Recently, many spectators of the London Fashion Week shows were more intent on taking photos than immersing themselves in the world of art. Even worse is that some parents become so glued to the tiny gadget screens that they let their children die! And I hate to see a large group of friends out together, but not actually communicating with each other but fiddling with their smartphones. Sometimes I think that phones should be banned during meals in company and group outings. Now that would lead to an apocalypse…

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                                                                       Tales from the Restaurant 2.

They were such a lovely couple, enamoured and innocent in their youthfulness, and the future laid ahead of them like a vast, pure canvas. But the present did not caress them with gentle, promising hands. Every night, they fled the sordid reality of their draughty and dark apartment, and sought refuge in the restaurant, which opened its arms to them with its warmth – and an enormous  bowl of peanuts on the bar that seemed to refill itself magically. They ordered nothing but the cheapest item on the menu, a glass of soda with unlimited top-ups, then stationed themselves by the bar and commenced their feast of nuts. They sat there for endless hours, until dawn’s first blush coloured the cool night sky, and ate and drank until their aching hunger was comfortably sated and they were armed against the coming day, relishing the unending amount of food and beverages available to them, and the kindness of the staff who permitted them to enjoy their meal in peace. Nevertheless, the sight of the miserable couple so deeply in love and yet so torn by destiny was painful and sad, and every single night I prayed that their luck changed for the better, and their deserved joy arrived very soon.

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                                                                Tales from the Restaurant 3. 

She looked like a sweet little old lady, albeit sadly lonely and abandoned, who, to escape solitude haunting her at her desolate home, came down to a busy restaurant so as to be surrounded by others. But the harsh reality was far from my archaic vision of a jovial granny…
Rather than settling for a small table for two, she opted for a large 6-seater, and whilst consuming her meal half-heartedly, she drew various documents from a thick folder and spread them all across the table. My curiosity was immediately roused, and every time I walked her way, I threw a quick glance at her papers. What I saw shocked and frightened me. For what the old lady was studying were a wide range of cut-outs from newspapers, as well as police reports and transcripts of interviews – all related to a murder case!
Due to taking frequent trips past her table that evening, I could finally figure out the gist of the story. A couple of years ago, a young woman (the lady’s daughter, I presume) was murdered near her home, and the police proved unable to shed a light on the identity of the murderer. So the charming, candy floss-haired grandma decided to take the matters into her own hands, and worked day and night on the painful puzzle.
To date, she has only visited the restaurant on one occasion, therefore I do not know whether she has succeeded in finding the man who took her daughter’s life – but I wish with all my heart that she did and thus achieved a certain sense of peace after experiencing such an unforgettable and unforgivable tragedy.