L (and Things Come Apart) Read Free Page A

and were it not for the neglected pipes, he would have only the withered remains of dead plants to keep him company. If customers leaned back in their chairs sighing, pointing out the droplets of water slowly filling their cups, or shook a wet newspaper, he would gently lift their table, slide it to a drier place and set a small potted plant there instead. Then he would place a complimentary glass of wine or scotch or port on the customer’s table and thank them for suggesting a new place for the plants. It was an inconvenience, and it suited people just fine.
    When she appeared on the third morning, L’s stride was slow but rid of the weight with which she had arrived. Her black hair, wet and knotted on her arrival, was now straight, tied back around her shoulders.
    â€œI thought you might be hibernating,” said Henry. “Take some coffee. It’ll warm you up.”
    â€œThank you,” she said. “Can I have something to eat also? I have money upstairs.”
    â€œNo need,” Henry waved his hand and reached for a cup. “Covered in the rent.”
    As Henry warmed bread in a small oven and prepared a dish with butter, cured meat and cheese, the old man at the far end of the counter shook his head and waved the newspaper at Henry. “Those pigs are only out to handcuff the city, crippling the economy to get what they want.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” asked Henry, slowly passing a knife through the meat.
    â€œDon’t be blind, Henry,” the old man rasped. “You know what’s going on. A transit strike. Again. Again! There’s no point having a public transit system if the public can’t even use it! And now look at this. Nurses are talking about a strike too.”
    Henry took the bread from the oven and placed it on the plate in front of L. “What do you think?” She turned her eyes to Henry. “The transit workers went on strike yesterday.”
    She was silent. Henry assumed it had probably been some time since anyone asked her what she was thinking. So he asked again.
    â€œWell,” she said, after a pause. “I suppose if they are fighting for something they feel they deserve, I see no harm in that.”
    â€œVraie communiste,” uttered the old man.
    â€œI’m not communiste,” she said. “I’m not anything.”

7
    WHEN IT WAS QUIET, HENRY WOULD LEAN ON HIS ELBOW, sip on something warm, run wide fingers through thinning hair and watch old cartoons on the old television. A small block of grainy black and white images. A way to pass the time on days that never ended. Another place to be. Some place animated.
    Occasionally he would hear the echo of the iron staircase in the alley as footsteps ascended to the upstairs flat. Other times, he’d hear sounds from the flat above. Rapping against a wall, misplaced thumps, running water. And when he heard those sounds, he turned up the volume on the television or record player. The pipes that ran along the café ceiling rattled when the upstairs toilet flushed, a sound usually followed by the low iron echo of the outside stairs.
    At times, late at night, when Henry decided to keep the place open on account of nice weather, lingering customers or a desire not to return home, L would come down for a drink. Always alone. He never knew what she was going to talk about but he enjoyed this uncertainty. Sometimes they would watch strangers pass by the window and guess who they were and where they were going. Another artist on their way to the square, or a Spanish spy carrying secret documents. “No,” she would insist, “the Spanish talk too much to be able to keep secrets. If those are secrets, then he is going to the square to show everyone.”
    One of L’s favourite games was to turn down the volume on the old television and speak for the characters on the screen. One afternoon, while the rich autumn hues dominated the streets outside, the