The Rose Café Read Online Free PDF

mints and the rock roses, the wild carnations, a curry-scented plant called l’immortelle, and a flower whose French name translates as “claws of the mother-in-law” were blooming along the little path to my cottage. The heat waves shimmered on the causeway to the town, and Nikita and Figaro stretched out in the shade of the verandah, paws in the air.
    There were always two quiet periods at the Rose Café, mid-morning, when the visitors would disappear and there were no lunch guests, and midafternoon, before the real work of preparing the dinner began. Whenever I was free, I would take advantage of the time and hike out to the little islet beyond the café to swim, or alternatively, walk into town to take a drink at a shaded café. It was there, in the town one day, shortly after I arrived, that I first saw the man they called le Baron.
    Every day the older men of the village would gather in the square for their requisite game of boules. They wore newsboy caps and frayed suits in spite of the heat and stood in small groups, with their hands clasped behind their backs, chatting and arguing and rocking on their heels. The square was dusty and shaded by old plane trees with pale leaves that shuddered in the slightest breeze. On the north side, there was a marble statue of General Paoli, and north of the square, between a few ancient, sand-colored buildings with red-tiled roofs, you could see the dazzling jade of the harbor and an occasional gull slipping by, white against a deep cerulean sky.
    As was my custom, I had selected a table and was sitting with a glass of beer, watching the action in the square—such as it was. A dog, a brown, nondescript mongrel with bitten ears and a crooked tail, sauntered out across the plaza through the sun, nosed a fencepost, lifted his leg, passed on. At the west end, three mothers with baby carriages collected in the shade near an ice cream stand and a carousel. Down the alley where the pillared, temple-like market stalls were located, workers were clearing up the last of their goods, shouting and throwing cartons onto handcarts and stopping periodically to argue or gossip.
    As I watched the scene, I saw a tall man with silvery hair dressed in a light-colored suit emerge from the promenade at the eastern end of the plaza. Like a stately white yacht he sailed through the crowd of short, darkly dressed men, greeting people as he tacked through, stopping occasionally to chat, often resting a slender hand on the shoulder of his cohort. He carried with him an oblong leather wallet and entered a bank at the westernmost end of the square, pausing briefly to check the contents of the wallet before he went in.
    At the boule pitch, the old men collected in a line. Someone they called Henri, a short, balding fellow with a cigarette in the center of his mouth, prepared to throw toward the cochonnet (the little pig), the target. Henri squinted through the cigarette smoke, crouched, leaned forward, swung back his arm, and tossed. The ball arced across the sky with a backward spin and landed a foot away from the cochonnet—a bad throw.
    â€œ Ai yo ,” the old men called.
    Shortly after the game started, a little hunchbacked man came out of a barbershop on the north side of the square, locked the door, and crossed the open plaza, greeting people as he moved through the throng. He selected a table near me and ordered a pastis. The waiters knew him, and the old men called over to him as they played. House sparrows flew in and began pecking around his feet. He watched them, then fed them some crumbs.
    â€œEveryone likes to eat,” he called over to me.
    â€œEvidently,” I said.
    â€œYou are the American from the Rose Café, no?”
    â€œI am,” I said.
    â€œI am Claude, a friend of Jean-Pierre and his people. Sometimes I go out there to play brisca with that regular crowd. You will see me sometimes, but not often. Those blokes there, they have the time. But