Henri's story

Milo,
I know I always say that letters are more fun than e-mail, but they are also much too slow. You will probably get 20 e-mails from me before you get my last letter anyway. I have to make the switch because I need some advice.

Truly stopped for a moment, trying to figure out how she could summarize the whole story in an even shorter way than she had done in the letter.

Ok, so here is the super fast version of what was in my last letter. I got hit by a car, made friend with the girl who hit me and am now trying to learn about the French guy that saved me after the crash. If you want details, you are just going to have to wait. So the point is this, the French guys name is Henri, and I finally got him to talk about why he is so unhappy and it’s because he is somehow responsible for the death of his wife and he now wants to kill himself. Don’t you dare say anything about my run on sentence. What should I do?
~ Truly

She closed her lap top screen and yawned. Getting no sleep the night before was starting to get to her. She was never even good at pulling all nighters at school. She needed her beauty sleep. She looked at herself in the mirror in the bathroom. Her curls were all ratty and more tangled than they usually are. She had huge purple bags under her eyes and her skin was all blotchy. She looked like she was dying, and felt it. She had tried taking a nap after she had gotten out of bed and gone down for breakfast. Since she did not sleep she was the first and only one down in the café when it first opened. The staff had given her strange looks. Her nap was unsuccessful, so she had decided to e-mail Milo.
“Well I obviously have to go talk to him today since he thinks I won’t. How do you keep a perfect stranger from killing themselves? Ug, I thought I was on vacation.” She could not with a clean conscious just forget about Henri and what he had said. If she did, she would always regret not trying to help. She would always wonder if he had gone through with it, and if she ever found out that he had, she would feel guilty for the rest of her life. She did not need that kind of feeling in her life. She did not have time to wait for Milo’s response
Today her dress was a light blue sleeveless number. She thought it made her look professional, which is just the air she wanted to give off at this meeting. As sure as her hair was read, there was Henri at this normal spot. The waiter of the café walked in front of her and she stopped him with a gentle tap on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, what can you tell me about that man there, one who is in that same seat every day?” She wasted no time.
“Oh Mr._____? All I know is that he is here every day and is scaring away my customers,” replied the waiter, thankfully in English.
“Then why do you let him stay? Don’t you have the right to ask him to leave?”
“I would, but he always orders the most expensive food on our menu and the best wine we carry. He is putting my kids through college!” The waiter had to be exaggerating, but he had maid his point none the less. He walked away from her still laughing at his own joke. She proceeded to Henri’s table and sat down without invitation.
“You again, are you hear to make some sort of point about my judge of character?” He had a cup of coffee and a little plate of biscotti.
“No, but I guess that works too. You can think whatever you like. What kind of person would you think I was if I had not come back? Who walks away from someone who said they are going to kill themselves?”
“Normal people. Now I don’t have to tell you anything, I already did yesterday.”
“Nowhere in our deal permits me from coming back. Now I am back, and I want to hear more about your issue. You seem like you need a friend, and I am here to tell ya that so do I. I think we could help each other.”
Henri gave her a stern look straight into her eyes. His face lacked laugh lines from his obvious lack of laughing. “I do not have to tell you anything, it is none of your business.”
“You made it my business,” said Truly “when you told me you wanted to kill yourself.” She stared him down. “And I have all day,” she added, putting her hands behind her head and stretching her feet out in front of her under the table, getting comfortable.
“It will not do any good,” said Henri. He seemed to give up. His defenses were down as if he did not have the strength to keep them up any longer. She was excited to have gotten through his first line of defense, but made sure not to show it on her face. She did not want him to think she was making fun of him.
“How do you know? I mean, I am not physiatrist, but I hear talking things out is a much better alternative than killing yourself. Why don’t you just start by telling me a little about yourself, not counting all the things making you unhappy? Tell me about when you were happy.” Her blue dress ruffled a little in the cool breeze. People bustled this way and that around them, but neither noticed. They were in their own little world at that café table. Even when the waiter came by to give Truly a glass of wine they did not notice. They could have been anywhere on earth and it would not have mattered.


Henri’s Story

“I am from Paris. I was born there, went to school there and lived there all my life. I love the city; everywhere you go you are surrounded by art and music. Every day you see something new. I love everything about Paris. Rome is beautiful as well, but I would take one Eifel Tower any day to a million Coliseums.”
“I grew up with my mother, father and older brother. My brother was my best friend and constant companion. Our childhood days were filled with beautiful things. Our father made sure we had an appreciation for art and music at a young age. In a way, he forced it on us, but we were forever grateful. Our parents were not particularly rich, so when we were very young, Art was our nanny. Our father would drop us off at the Musée d'Art moderne. It was free, and we could amuse ourselves for hours in its corridors. We got to know the security guards who took a liking to us and never gave us up. With every new exhibit brought new parts of our education. It was not exactly the life of a normal child, but we loved it none the less.”
“Lycée[1] was normal. My brother and I were in the school symphony. He played the string bass and I played the piano. Music was an escape for me, something I could do to get away from the world for a while. I had my problems like any child did, and I had my great loves. However the only girl I really ever loved was Catherine. She had been in all my classes since elementary school, but we never spoke until Lycée. She had long, dark brown hair and the face of an angle. I had loved her my entire life and she had not even noticed me. Fortune smiled upon me one fateful day when we were partnered together to do a project on Claude-Achille Debussy. Not only had I been assigned to study one of my favorite composers, but I then had the opportunity to spend time with the girl of my heart.”
“The more we talked, the more we found we had in common. She said she had noticed me all those years we had school together, but had been too shy to talk to me. We were of the same mind. She loved music and had the most beautiful singing voice I have ever heard. We failed the project. We spent the time we should have been researching on going to concerts, museums and just being together.
We attended the same college, her for voice, me for music. I was a music major with a minor in Literature, for reading is another of the loves of my life. Our love grew with every passing year, and by our senior year we were engaged. Catherine was all I needed in life, my inspiration for living. I got a story published the year after we graduated and a month after we were married. She was my muse, the reason for its success. I made enough money from the book sales to make a dream of ours a reality. We started our own bakery, for we both loved to bake. It was the good life. We ran the bakery by day, entertaining our lively regulars, and I wrote by night. We wrote music together, she singing and me accompanying on the piano. We lived in a comfortable apartment above our bakery. It always smelled sweet I our home.”
“Four years after the success of my book and our bakery, we were expecting our first child. Nine months later Pascal came into our lives. He brought a whole new meaning to our happiness. He had dark hair like his mother and the most piercing green eyes. The next year brought us Rémy, and the year after that came Gabrielle. We were the happiest a family could be. Remy also took after his mother, with dark features like his brothers, but Gabrielle took after me. She had light brown hair and blue eyes. The whole neighborhood agreed that we had the most beautiful children. “
“One by one they all went to school, and one by one they all graduated. Pascal and Remy are both out of the University now. Remy just graduated. Gabrielle has one year left, and a bright future ahead of her. Like my father, I forced culture on my children, and like me they thanked me later of it. Pascal and Remy both graduated with business degrees and are not working in the family bakery. They have brought things to the business that Catherine and I had never dreamed of. It was great having them around, and Gabrielle planned to join us in a year.”
“That is where is stops being happy,” finished Henri. The whole time he had been telling his story he had a dreamy look on his face. He looked happier than she had ever seen him. Telling the story had clearly taken him back to that happy time in his life. Now that it was over he was the same old gloomy guy. Truly had not said a word to interrupt him, afraid that if she said anything he would stop. When be started to describe Catherine, it looked like he was going to stop a few times, but some how he powered through. She had sat there, with her chin resting on her hand, her elbow on the table, unconsciously taking sips of the wine that was brought to her. When he stopped, she continued to stair at him for a moment too long, in a daze. He waved a hand in front of her face to snap her out of it and she hurriedly apologized.
“Wow, you have had quite a life. I could really go for a pastry right now, all this talk of Bakeries. Where’s that waiter.” She did not really know what to say. She had gotten his story, like she wanted, but now that she had it she did not know what to do with it.
“I am leaving. I should not have told you all of that. I still do not understand hwy you care anyway.” Henri moved to get up.
“What? Oh I care because you saved my life, and I want to save yours. I mean, you just told me an amazing story of a life that some people dream of. I don’t know where the problem is. I know you said your wife died, but it’s not like you murdered her or anything.” There she went again, talking far too much than is appropriate. Sometimes she just wanted to tape her own mouth shut.
“I am leaving.” With that, he left his money and walked away. She had blown it, her and her big mouth. She sat there a while, wondering about the wine glass she was holding. She had not noticed it even appear. She got up to leave, taking out her purse. The waiter came by and collected the money Henri had left. Truly handed him her euros and he held up a hand.
“No, no Miss, the gentleman has already paid for your drink.” Feeling like a little kid she walked off. He had bought her a drink, which was un-characteristically nice of him. She wanted to think that was a thank-you-for-listening drink, but she knew better, but still did not know why.
“What an interesting story,” thought Truly. She sat back down and sipped at her free wine. He had a fairy tail life; however his wife had died must have been devastating. He had the kind of life that people dreamed of achieving. He had a successful business, a lovely wife that adored him, three great kids and a book published. She wanted to know more than anything what had happened to his wife. She sounded like someone Truly would have liked, a music lover that baked. Truly loved to eat and was feeling a little hungry thinking about it.
She walked over to the nearest Gelato stand. About ever ten steps in this city there was a different Gelato stand, all with their own unique flair about them. This one was her favorite. Not only was it really close to her hotel, but the guy who ran it was hilarious. He was always there, any time of day, sometimes accompanied by his daughter. He was about in his late 50s, early 60s, and just as lively as a teenager He always wore a red bandana on his head and an apron. He did not understand a word of English, but that was not important. Through a system of pointing and broken Italian, she asked for a cup with chocolate and frutti di bosco. He always asked the same thing after you picked your flavors, “cream?” and she always said si. He gave her a thumbs up and handed her the cup with a heaping amount of rich whipped cream on top with a thin round cookie stuck in the top. He handed her a tiny plastic gelato spoon and she was all set. She really liked this guy. He looked like he really liked his job, as if selling gelato was his lives ambition and could not be happy doing anything else. She imagined Henri at his bakery. She wondered if he had been that happy.
[1] French equivalent of high school