Gâteau d’Amour

Gâteau d’Amour

By

Peter Alexander James

The fire cast shadows dancing around the room. Kate watched them flicker and spring from wall to wall and tried to guess where they would appear next. As her eyes followed them, her gaze landed on Ernest asleep in his chair. His breathing was heavy and each exhale was light enough not to form an audible snore. His checkered blanket had slid off his lap and was folded in a heap by his feet. Though the room was warm from the fireplace, she pulled herself up by pressing hard on the arms of her chair.

Her walk was slowed by her stiff limbs. She held onto his chair as she bent down and pulled the blanket from the floor and draped it over him. His head moved as the blanket landed and his sleeping face turned towards her. When his face was relaxed, she could find traces of the man she had married all those years ago, when his hair had been thicker and golden. She caressed his cheek.

“Nothing gold can stay,” she whispered.

Behind his chair stood a bookcase on which their shadows were dancing. Her limbs had loosened, so she made the journey over to them with ease. Her finger traced along the spines of all the stories and poems she had collected over the years. On nights like these, she would close her eyes and pull her finger across the books and stop at random. The book she landed on would be that night’s read.

Tonight, Kate’s finger landed on a collection of poems by W.B. Yeats. She pulled it down and made her way back to the chair.

The book was old, its cover marred by years of sun and dust. She stroked the book and opened it with care. Her finger ran down the index, but midway down, she found a round symbol by one of the poems. The poem was titled First Love.

She turned to the page, intrigued by the symbol.

On the page, a loose piece of paper slid from the book onto her lap. The paper, folded in half, had turned dark with age.

Ernest snorted and startled her; she watched to see if he was waking, but he fell back into stillness.

Her fingers opened the paper and her eyes ran down the handwritten note. With each line, her heart beat quicker, and halfway she was forced to put the paper down, as she had not taken a breath since reading the title.

She looked into the fire and allowed a memory she had locked away to surface for the first time in many years.

Kate watched as the green fields and woodland rushed past, as if the window was a canvas and the painting was ever changing before her eyes. She wanted to enjoy the view, but she had something in her bag she was excited to begin.

She plunged her hand into her bag and pulled a brown paper parcel onto her lap. She pulled at the strings and the paper loosened its grip. She pushed the paper aside to reveal the gleaming cover of her newest book. A collection of W.B. Yeats poems.

She opened the book, feeling the stiffness of the spine; it creaked as she broke the seal that contained the poetry within.

It wasn’t until she had the feeling that someone was watching her that she glazed up from the page. Her eyes met his gaze, which shot to the window. Embarrassed, she turned back to her book.

Their eyes began a game of cat and mouse until she grew tired of his interruptions and she put the book down and stared right at him. Starting from the top, she noticed his dark hair was messy and stuck up in all directions. He wore a blue wool jacket, which was worn thin in some places.

She pulled the book up in front of her and waited for him to look, and when he did—

“Got you,” she exclaimed.

“I’m caught.” A smile formed under his two-day-old stubble before he turned back to the view. “She walked awhile and blushed awhile and on my pathway stood,” he said, glancing from the window to her.

She lowered her book, to which he nodded and repeated the line. “W.B. Yeats,” he added.

“I haven’t read that one yet.” She smiled.

“It’s a good one, you’ll like it.”

“Do you enjoy poetry?”

From his pocket he drew a small, weathered book titled Poems and Stories.

“May I?” she asked.

They swapped books.

Kate read the index aloud. “Whitman, Wilde, Guest, Poe.”

He leaned forward. “Between us, I feel Poe is depressing.”

Kate smiled. “I feel the same. What are these symbols by the titles?”

“The ones that are special to me.” They swapped back. “Was the book a gift?” he asked.

Kate put her hand on the paper. “Yes, a birthday gift.”

“Oh well, many happy returns.” His eyes flickered a moment and he produced a small paper bag from his pocket and held it towards her. “It’s not much, but here.”

Kate leaned; it was full of multicoloured sweets. She hesitated, which he noticed. He pulled a sweet out and popped it into his mouth. She smiled and stuck her hand in and drew out a green one.

“Thank you.”

“Who gifted it? They must have a good taste in poetry,” he asked through the sweet.

“A friend,” she answered, glancing out the window.

Ernest had given her the book. She had pointed it out to him in the bookstore. When she had tried to read for him, he had said, “I don’t see the point in immersing yourself into fictitious problems or reading about heart ache, Kate. Life has enough of that already.”

In mid-thought, the train jerked to a halt.

The man walked to the carriage door and peeked out.

“That’s odd,” he said, looking down the hall. “We haven’t reached the station yet.”

“What’s the problem, sir?” the man inquired as the conductor walked by.

“Cows. A lot of them. They’ve broken through a fence and have gathered on the line.”

“Can you move them?”

“Of course, sir. Let me just go down and ask them one by one to please step aside. Should I ask them for a pint of milk whilst I’m down there, or are you all stocked up?” The conductor tutted and continued through the train.

The man peered out of the window. “We’re not far from town, I could walk it from here.” He turned. “Well, I suppose this is my stop.” He moved towards the door. “I didn’t get your name?”

“Kate.”

“I’m Charlie, nice to meet you, Kate. I hope to have the pleasure again.”

He lingered for a moment and slipped out the door, closing it behind him.

She sat back, looking out the window for a last glance of the stranger with the sweets.

The door pulled open and she expected to hear the voice of the conductor.

“Birthday girl?”

Her face sprang to the door. “Yes?”

“I know a place in the town over there, a bakery. The baker and I have an understanding. He’s French, I don’t know why that’s important. What I’m trying to say is, could I possibly interest you in some birthday cake?”

“But I can’t leave the train?”

“These cows won’t be going anywhere soon. Besides, the train will stop at the station and the baker’s is across from the platform.” A smile spread across his face. “Fancy an adventure, Kate?”

It was late afternoon and the light was fading over the hills that surrounded the town; the baker’s windows shone a golden light into the twilight-draped street.

“Pierre is a sweet man, the best baker for miles.”

“What’s this understanding you mentioned?”

“Oh, it’s silly.” Charlie opened and held the door for Kate, smiling at her as she passed him. “Pierre? Mon Ami?”

A portly man with a comb over, sped through from the kitchen. “Charlie, sacré chenapan. Tu tombes bien.” He spread his arms wide and laughed. “J’ai besoin d’un nouveau poème, je suis tout près d’elle.”

“English, mon ami, we have company.”

“Ello, Mademoiselle. Charlie, who is dis?”

“My good friend, Kate. It’s her birthday.” He leaned into Pierre. “Could we make a deal?”

“Ah, appy Birthday, Mademoiselle.” Pierre leaned too. “Oui, Charlie mon ami, oui.” He blinked and disappeared into the back.

Charlie pulled out a chair and gestured to her to sit; she followed his lead and sat at the little round table. As Charlie had sat down, Pierre came out with a tray. He placed the tray on the table and served two plates with big slices of cake in front of them, along with two cups of tea.

“Gâteau d’amour, Mademoiselle,” Pierre said, with a smile. He pulled up a chair to the table, turned it around, and sat leaning forward on the chair’s back.

“Love cake?” Kate asked.

Pierre spun round to Charlie. “Charlie! Elle parle français.”

“Oui, elle n’est pas magnifique?” Charlie smiled, gesturing to her.

Pierre turned back to Kate. “Oui, Mademoiselle. Love cake. Lemon cake. Lemon is ze fruit of love. Especially when in cake. For love, or how do you zay, true love? Tis bitter sweet. If you only ave sweet love, tis boring. Only sour love, tis painful. The greatest love tis balanced.” He stood, winked to Charlie, and put his chair back. “Bon appétit,” Pierre said, and left them.

“The understanding between you?” Kate said, digging into her cake.

“I write love letters for him and he feeds me.”

“Why love letters?”

Charlie was digging into his cake too. “Because I’m a poet.”

Kate’s eyes widened. “Have I heard anything of yours?”

“I wrote the lemon cake thing,” he smirked with a mouth full of cake. “Other than that, no.” He washed down the cake with tea.

The door to the bakery opened. Kate, who had her back to the door, turned to see the conductor walking up the counter. Pierre came in from the kitchen.

The conductor and Pierre chatted for a moment and the conductor left the bakery, and Pierre went back into the kitchen.

Charlie leaped over the counter and through to the kitchen.

Kate finished her cake whilst glancing back to look for Charlie. After a few minutes, he came back with a smile.

“I have some good and bad news. Bad news, the train won’t be leaving tonight. Good news, Pierre has a spare room upstairs with a bed and watercloset. It locks, and he doesn’t sleep here. He lives down the road.”

“I can’t stay here with you.”

“I wasn’t asking you to,” Charlie laughed. “I’ll stay with Pierre.”

“Isn’t there a hotel or something?”

“Yea, but they will be flooded with other passengers and their prices will soar due to the high demand.”

“I won’t be disturbed?”

“I promise. Pierre is a gentleman, a father to two young daughters.”

“What’s the catch?”

“Well, I’d love to show you his garden. I have wine?”

Charlie held out his hand. She hesitated, but was convinced by his smile. The sky was dark and the little garden was lit with small candles. On a table stood a bottle of wine and two glasses. They took a seat and Charlie poured a glass each.

“This cost me ten love letters, I hope it’s good,” he laughed.

Kate smiled. “Lucky woman.”

From the kitchen, music began to play from a record player.

“Pierre will be baking for a while. I hope you like Edith Piaf.”

“I don’t know her, but it sounds beautiful. What’s it about?”

“This song is about seeing life through rose-colored glasses. Like how everyday things can be beautiful. The smell of lemon cake, cows on a train track, or meeting new people, or dancing.”

Charlie stood and took her hand. She gravitated towards him. He held her hand and put his other between her shoulder blades. They swayed slowly as Charlie whispered the lyrics to her in English. She giggled as he gently spun her out and pulled her back in, their bodies coming closer with each spin.

As the song faded, their bodies stopped swaying, but Charlie didn’t let go. He held her, gazing into her face. His soft eyes seemed to be looking for something; he smiled, but not to her—to himself.

The music continued to spill into the garden; it washed over them as they took turns reading poetry out loud to each other.

“I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, Kate.”

“It’s been really nice. I should remember to thank the cows.”

“I might never eat beef again.” he grinned

Charlie fell silent for a moment, then he reached over and took Kate’s hand. “Kate?”

She nodded.

“I need poetry because poetry makes sense of things that don’t make sense at all.” He paused and gave her hand a light squeeze. “Like an instant spark.” He whispered, his eyes glistening in the candlelight. “I believe poetry gives us the light—the confidence—to find our way in the darkness of uncertainty.” Charlie rubbed his face and laughed. “I don’t know if that makes sense or it could be the wine talking.”

“It does, Charlie.”

“What I’m trying to say, Kate, is tonight is ending, but we could start again tomorrow? We could have another adventure. We could roam till the cows come home.”

“Charlie,” she blushed and sighed, “it’s been—”

“Say no more. I forgot, your friend.” He pulled her hand towards him and kissed it.

In the kitchen, their smiles and a small touch of hands said all that needed saying, and they parted ways.

Upstairs, the room was warm from the ovens and scented with the smell of fresh baked bread. In bed, the day replayed itself over and over again until she woke to a knock on the door.

“Mademoiselle, ze train will be leaving in alf an our,” Pierre said through the door.

She sat up. “Pierre, is Charlie down there?”

“He left zis morning, Mademoiselle.”

“Has he gone to the train?”

“I do not know. I just woke to ten letters and a thank you note.”

She scoured the platform for a blue wool coat, scanning everyone boarding the train, hoping to see a head of messy brown hair. She waited as long as she could, until the conductor yelled, “All aboard.” A whistle sounded and steam blew from the engine.

In the carriage, the door pulled open and Kate’s eyes shot to the door. The conductor entered. “Miss Kate?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been asked to give you this.” He handed her a note folded in half. “It’s from a gentleman. He insisted that his name wasn’t Poe, for some reason.”

She spun to the window, but the train was moving, picking up speed with every second. Soon the station was out of sight and buildings were replaced by trees and fields. The door to the carriage remained closed for the rest of the journey.

The fire had died down, but it was the rain tapping on the window that brought Kate back to her chair and the note on her lap.

The poem was titled Kate’s Song.

She had never read the poem aloud and was never going to. Like memories, some poems are best kept between their author and his muse.