alphonse

by jean-claude etranger

alphonse, a young man from the provinces whose most distinguishing feature was that he looked about fifteen yeas older than he was, arrived in paris with the aim of achieving renown as a poet, and he initially pursued this path with the same tenacity and singleness of purpose with which his peasant ancestors had tilled the soil. once settled in a little room in the old city - not indeed in a garret but on the third floor of an ancient and decaying five story building - alphonse followed a strict routine. every morning he arrived at a small cafe just before dawn, and before the cafe was open for business. when the door of the establishment opened, either the proprietress herself or sometimes a waiter or waitress would appear and take the orders of alphonse and any other early arrivals. alphonse would take a seat outside on the street, unless the weather absolutely precluded his doing so. alphonse always ordered black coffee, which he replenished at regular intervals until noon, when he switched to gin or absinthe. for nourishment, he ordered a croissant just after the sun came up, and another just before he retired for the evening, usually about an hour before midnight. alphonse carried with him a series of small black notebooks, such as schoolchildren and commercial travelers use. during his long day, when not staring into the distance, he would slowly fill the notebooks with poems, and with his thoughts on life, love, history, and immortality. his hope was that somebody - a famous poet, a distinguished literary critic, a beautiful woman, an urchin with a shoeshine kit, anyone at all - would notice his occupying himself in this way, and enquire about it. he resolved that, if, after a year, or after filling forty notebooks, whichever came first, not a single person approached him, he would return to his native town and marry the healthy and moderately dowered young woman his family had selected for him. the end approached. the last night of the year’s term he had allowed himself was coming to an end and alphonse was staring at a blank page in his thirty-ninth notebook when he was suddenly startled by the appearance of a beautiful and well-dressed young woman, who had emerged soundlessly out of the fog. “excuse me, monsieur,” the vision addressed alphonse, “but can you tell me the quickest way to the rue de h—————?” “why, of course.” by this time alphonse was very well acquainted with the geography of the area around his lodging and the cafe, and he quickly gave the young woman the precise directions she required. “thank you, monsieur.” the young woman turned to go, but alphonse stopped her. “excuse me, mademoiselle, but might i request a small favor of you?” “a small favor?” the slightest of frowns showed on her perfect forehead. “but what might that be?” “to read one of my verses, if you please.” “read one of your verses?” the young woman replied politely. “but why should i do that? i have my own business to attend to.” and with that she was gone, as silently as she had come. alphonse was left alone… with the sound of the shutters of the cafe closing for the night… with a single star in the sky overhead… and the dim light of a cab coming up the street… in the mist… with his glass of absinthe…