The Rose Café Read Free Page A

Vincenzo that slowed the service, it was the lack of plates and silverware. I had to wash, dry, and return settings as soon as they came in or there would be nothing for the guests to eat from. It was not so bad on ordinary nights, but sometimes on weekends, in the rush, the flood of plates and the swirl of dirty water and the outcry from Chrétien and Micheline for more plates came on relentlessly. No one was proud at the Rose Café. When a backlog built up and the main courses were served, Jean-Pierre himself would wander back and wash a few of his pots; so would Vincenzo.
    In due time, as the departure hour for the ferry grew nearer, the incoming stream dwindled, as it always did. Chrétien sat in the corner for a few minutes, drinking a coffee and gossiping about the diners, his long legs stretched halfway across the narrow kitchen. Micheline brushed back her hair and goosed Jean-Pierre as she slipped by him with a tray of desserts, and then Vincenzo loomed behind me in the scullery door with a small glass of marc, which he set on the stone sink.
    â€œDrink up, old man. It’s over for the day,” he said.
    Now, in the quiet darkness of the terrace, the geckos emerged and waited in the little pools of lamplight on the white stucco walls, snapping at insects. The few lingering guests sat with their chairs pushed back, enjoying a coffee or a glass of marc and the night air coming in off the harbor. Herr Komandante stepped out from the warm interior of the dining room and stood at the edge of the terrace, gazing outward at the black wall of the mountains beyond the harbor, his hands jammed into the side pockets of his blazer. A fishing boat came in, its lights fragile against the vast darkness of the water, and slowly, one by one, the guests disappeared, and we were alone with the sharp perfume of salt air and the high black screen of the night.
    It was at these times, just as the quiet little village on the other side of the harbor was putting itself to bed and the lights began winking out in the bedrooms, that the life of the Rose Café would begin to stir. Now the night crowd began to collect.
    Max was the first to come in. He mounted the steps to the terrace slowly, favoring his right leg—an old war wound, they said. He extended his hand to me, limply.
    â€œIt goes?” he asked.
    He was an amiable sort who always asked after my well-being and spoke English, although he tended to translate literally and had such a thick accent it was necessary to know French to understand him. Max had a pencil-thin mustache and always dressed in loose gabardine slacks and sandals with socks and a white shirt, open at the neck. He was from Ajaccio and, like many on the island, claimed to be a descendant of Corsica’s most famous son, Napoléon. The rumor around the café was that Max had played an important role in one of the local resistance networks in the south and had been in charge of surreptitious arms shipments from North Africa. But maybe that was just another story.
    Max walked over and shook Vincenzo’s hand and then sat down heavily at a table at the edge of the terrace and stared out at the harbor.
    Two more figures materialized at the far end of the causeway, walking slowly, one with a coat draped over his shoulders. This was André, who was accompanied that evening by a man with a long, sad face named François, who sometimes joined the nightly card game. The two of them shook hands all around and took their places.
    André slapped a deck of cards on the table.
    They stared out at the harbor.
    André was fair, with blond hair and blue eyes and a slow, somewhat studied gait. In the hot light of the day he always wore sun-faded blue shorts and a sailor jersey. He was soft-spoken and smoked lazily, and would often sit at the edge of the verandah in the shade, nursing a coffee, his eyes ranging among the guests in search of newly arrived pretty women. I had heard that when he was