Le Petite Cafe

My Visit competition entry; any comments, feedback welcome.

The reassuring aroma of strong coffee; the patron with a grubby white apron, the waitress dressed in black; tightly packed tables and chairs; faded posters on the dark wood panelled walls; small windows with blue and white checked curtains. A large painting of the white stone domes of the Sacre-Couer still hung behind the bar. It was just how she remembered it. Claudette’s eyes adjusted to the shadows from the bright sunlight outside. She sat down at an empty table next to a group of students discussing politics. A handsome young man was leading the debate, his face looked vaguely familiar. Dark brown shoulder length hair, his ocean blue eyes but mainly his smile.

She closed her eyes as her memory floated back to a sunny afternoon in 1968, trying to escape the madness of the city. The dimly lit café was full of students; the air was thick with the smell of Gauloises and rebellion.

‘Bonjour Mademoiselle.'

'Bonjour Monsieur,' she replied timidly.

A smartly dressed young man and a group of friends were deep in animated conversation. Pierre was stood up orchestrating the debate; a crumpled old street map of the city was spread out on the table held down by several beer glasses. Claudette studied the menu whilst listening to the student's talk of revolution.

'If we block off Rue St Jacques, we can stop the Police,' urged one of the students.

'What's wrong Pierre?' demanded the student with long black greasy hair and thick dark rimmed glasses.

Pierre seemed lost for words, his train of thought interrupted by Claudette’s appearance. Focusing on the map he tried to collect his thoughts and regain his composure. She couldn't stop staring back at him; he was so smartly dressed for a student. She hadn't seen him before; presumably he was studying at Nanterre. His long wavy hair was radical, his tone of voice confident and strong. The dark blue eyes and his seductive smile held her gaze as the menu became secondary to the debate at the next table. He eventually snapped out of his trance but the meeting dragged on. Claudette sat unobtrusively sipping her coffee, listening attentively. The students were too intent on anarchy to come up with a coherent plan.

‘We must storm the Sorbonne!’

‘They can’t close the University.’

‘This is about freedom, our right to choose how we live.’

‘Let’s attack the authoritarian Police.’

‘De Gaulle must go!’

Pierre finally shouted above the multitude of conflicting views.

'Tonight at ten, we'll meet at Place de la Concorde and go to the Sorbonne, before the Police get there.'

With a chorus of cheers and acceptance, the students stood up and began to disperse.

‘Pardon Mademoiselle.'

Pierre pulled up a chair and sat down next to her.

'You seemed very interested in our discussion, are you studying at the Sorbonne?

‘Yes, but it was closed today.'

'Did you hear about last night's demonstration?'

'Yes, but I thought that was about Nanterre.'

'It was, the Police went crazy. Many students were arrested, just because there was a counter demonstration.'

‘That's terrible,' she said.

‘The authorities are trying to break our will; we have to fight back; we are the future.’

‘Our education is important.’

'My friends are crazy, they want to attack the Police, but that is madness!'

'They will be arrested, or they will be hurt.'

'You should join us. Perhaps they would listen to a Sorbonne student.'

'I don't know your friends’, she said.

Pierre smiled.

'I'm listening, you could persuade me.’

She looked away; He reached across the table took hold of her hand. His hands were clean, long fingers with well-manicured nails. He gently stroked the back of her hand; her spine tingled.

'You have very persuasive eyes, they are beautiful.'

'But I've only just met you.’

‘I can tell, you believe in justice.'

She nodded slowly smiling back at him, and grasped his hand firmly. She felt secure, Pierre was strong, he would protect her; she was certain.

'We have to try and stop them.'

‘But I am just a young woman, they won’t listen to me.’

‘I believe in you, they need to hear a different voice.’

‘How can I make them change their minds?’

‘Together I'm sure we can. Meet me at ten o'clock at Place de la Concorde and we can show them.'

Claudette held his hand, looked into his beautiful eyes and nodded gently.

‘I’ll see you at ten.'

The memory still seemed real; yet again she sat listening to the student’s debate. No talk of revolution now, only the forthcoming presidential elections. They finished their drinks and began to leave.

‘Au revoir, Sebastien.’

‘A bientot, Jacques.’

‘Au revoir, Francois.’

'Pardon Monsieur.'

Sebastien turned round and smiled; she checked his hair, his eyes and his smile; it was like looking at a photograph.

'You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago, are you at the Sorbonne?'

'No, Nanterre,' he replied.

'I studied at the Sorbonne a long time ago, my daughter studies there now.'

'You've come to visit her?'

‘Yes, she has lectures this afternoon so I'm re-living my student days looking round my favourite places.'

'My father studied at Nanterre, we have something in common. I'm meeting up with him later as well.'

'What are you studying?'

'Politics and history,' he replied.

'Do you want to be a politician?'

'Perhaps, my father works for the government, but not as a politician.'

'You must be very proud of him,' Claudette suggested.

The student looked at her thoughtfully, and with a cautious smile nodded.

'I'm sorry Madame; my friends are waiting, au revoir.'

'Au revoir,' she replied and returned to the past.

That evening she took the Metro to Concorde. Just before ten o'clock she emerged from the station. Across Place de la Concorde by the river she could see and hear the students gathering. More than a hundred had gathered there. Most of them scruffily dressed, agitated, shouting and chanting. Close to the site of the guillotine, revolution was in the air once again. So many police everywhere, anticipating trouble. At the front of the group she saw Pierre, he seemed to be organising the protesters.

'Claudette!' he shouted as he saw her approaching.

He kissed her gently on the cheek.

‘Just in time, they are so angry.’

‘But I can’t talk to all these people,’ she pleaded.

‘Listen to my friend Claudette, he shouted.

He was drowned out by the angry voices, it was too late the group had an inertia of its own. The clamour rose to a crescendo as the group set off across the Seine towards the Sorbonne. Along the river they marched, past the Gare d'Orsay, shouting as more students joined in along the way.

‘It’s no good, they won’t listen,’ she cried.

‘We have to try again,’ Pierre insisted.

Turning the corner a police cordon guarded the main University building; a larger group of students was already outside the front entrance. The two groups merged and Pierre was soon in conversation with the other ringleaders. More police re-enforcements lined up in front of the Sorbonne. Stood shoulder to shoulder in their dark blue uniforms and armed with their batons they faced the angry mob. Militant students shouted abuse at the police, gesticulating, threatening them. Pierre returned from his conference.

‘It’s no good they won’t listen, they want to storm the Sorbonne and re-take the building.’

‘But that is suicidal, there are too many police,’

Claudette struggled to make herself heard against the escalating tumult. More students arrived, the uproar grew louder as the protesters edged forward towards the police line. Out of the crowd a cobble stone flew towards the police, followed by another, and another. A gendarme fell, blood gushing from his head. Suddenly the police charged towards the students. Some extremist students rushed towards the police, ready for a fight. With her red mini skirt standing out like a beacon in the night Claudette was an obvious target. Too late she saw the gendarme heading towards her, he grabbed her arm as she tried to escape. Pierre lunged at him but he held firmly onto Claudette. Two more students leapt on the policeman, punching and kicking him wrestling him to the ground. Pierre managed to free Claudette from his grip.

'Quick this way,' he shouted pulling her away from the scene.

Sirens sounded, the air was full of shouting, screaming and panic. The police charged at the students with their batons flailing. Pierre led her quickly down dark, narrow back streets. Outside the Sorbonne the chaos continued. Through the Latin Quarter he guided her to his apartment near Notre Dame. They could still hear the screams and the shouts several streets away.

'You'll be safe here,' he assured her.

'You're not going back there!' Claudette gasped.

'I must, they're my friends. We’re all fighting the establishment,' he retorted.

'But you will be arrested, or hurt.'

'I’ll come back to you soon, I promise. Just stay here out of the way.'

He held her tightly; she could feel his heart pumping against her breast. They kissed passionately, but he pulled away.

‘No Pierre, stay with me,’ she pleaded.

'I must go. Just stay here,' he repeated.

The apartment was cold and dark, strange shadows on the wall. She laid on his unmade bed sobbing into his pillow. Wrapping herself in his blanket she cried herself to sleep, exhausted. She woke early as the sun streamed in through the small window; everything was quiet. Still half asleep she looked around, a strange bed, a strange room, then she remembered Pierre.

'Pierre, Pierre,' she called out, but she was alone.

The bells of Notre Dame tolled ten o’clock, but still Pierre had not returned. Outside she found an eerie quiet in the cool morning air walking along the Seine. Le Monde reported that the revolutionary ring leaders had all been arrested and imprisoned.

A warm tear slowly trickled down her cheek as she returned from her only night with Pierre. Her coffee had gone cold. An hour later and she would be meeting her daughter outside the Sorbonne; arousing more memories and emotions. Leaving the coffee, she placed three Euros on the table; stood up and straightened her skirt. As she walked towards the door a dignified, middle aged man came into the café. He politely held the door open for her. He was tall, attractive for his age with thinning grey hair; casually dressed with a dark leather jacket and faded blue jeans. Their eyes met; they smiled courteously at each other.

'Merci Monsieur.'

'Claudette?'