Monsieur Cuivert

A sharply dressed gentleman of means satchel in gloved hand, he walked along the clean, well lit, deserted train platform as an heavy snow renewed its fall. It crunched frozen where the cover allowed it to collect, and blanketed the city.

"Winter in Ghent is better than winter in Bruges, oui Monsieur Cuivert?"

"Robert, I will know when I get to Bruges, eh?", coins tinkling in exchange for the morning paper, "The train is still running?"

"Ah, we will know when it gets to Ghent, eh", Robert laughingly replied. As the seasons changed, so did this familiar conversation between gentleman and stationer, in temperature, if not in comfort. Cuivert glanced at the front page which told of the death of some Archduke in Sarajevo, folded the paper and began to walk to the end of the platform so he could board the train in the first car, usually the warmest. The large clock overhead read 5:30, behind it the dawn began as a thin blue line beyond where Bruges lie to the north. The train was late. The snow seemed to fall with passion, but thankfully there was no wind.

He took but a few steps when he saw a well kempt handsome boy, what you could see by his eyes, which alone could be distinguished wrapped as he was, sitting under the lamp next to the stationers fire. The stationer was burning yesterday's papers and some scrap wood for a token of warmth, the aroma of hot coffee hissing over it. The boy's bench was under the cover, the boy yet sprinkled with snow, unmoving as if not to dispel a layer of warmth hovering about him. Cuivert stepped over and stood before him.

"May I sit?"

The boy looked up expressionless, and after a moment realizing this man was speaking to him, nodded, returning his glassy stare to the quickly disappearing tracks. Cuivert looked at the stationer, the man replying with a smile as he poured a coffee. Cuivert sat familiarly against the boy. One could hear only the snow, the crackling fire, and soft breathing as steam rose from behind the boys collar. He was wrapped warmly, a knitted hat beneath a woolen cap, his scarf pulled up snug outside his collar, a brown shabby velvet coat buttoned over a thick sweater such that it seemed he could not move if he wanted to.

"You missed your train?", Cuivert asked to the same tracks. The stationer now stood before the boy, holding out the coffee. The boy hesitated, then reached with a grateful nod to the stationer, who smiled and walking back to the warmth of his booth, rubbing his half gloved hands together.

"I know your father died... I'm sorry to hear of that." The boy sipped the coffee, Cuivert shook out his paper. He continued his soliloquy as he read.

"I suppose that puts you in a bit of a pickle, no?" The boy continued to sip, his bare hands drawing the warmth from the porcelain, warming him inside and out. "Did you know I too am an orphan? Funny thing that, once an orphan, always an orphan, so one day you too will still be an orphan." He turned the page, and after a moment continued, "Monsieur your father was a good man, and one of my best friends. He worked for me for 22 years, Claude." Cuivert paused, turning the page. "I saw Madame Evereau at the funeral. She told me you were going on the train last night to somewhere in Serbia... I think I would miss that train too, given what I read in this paper."

"I do not want to go to Serbia, Monsieur Cuivert", the first pensive wisp of a voice escaping the scarf.

"Hmm... and what is there for you here?"

"It is more that there is nothing for me there. My mother and my father are buried here, at the cathedral. There is nothing for me there. Perhaps despair, I hear they are morose."

Cuivert, smiling, did not gaze up from his paper. Distantly the light from the locomotive of his late train struggled to make an appearance.

"Your cousins?"

"Yes.... they are Islamists, they are morose"

"Ah... I think you have them confused with Papists.", Cuivert replied, followed under his breath, "They seem always concerned someone, somewhere might be happy..."

"Go to my house, Claude", the gentleman speaking gently to his paper. The train whstled, its light burning through the snow competing with its own distant cacophony for attention. "My carriage is waiting out front of the station to take you to my house. Miss Vivian is expecting you, and my children will keep you company. We will talk when I come home tomorrow from Bruges." The train was now forcing its way into the station, all light and noise, it would not be ignored

The boy remained still, his coffee becoming cold. Slowly, he stood, picked up his suitcase, and walked wordlessly, exhausted, towards the station house. Without changing pace, his hand held out as he left the cup on the stationers counter. A few steps more and he stopped with tears beginning to brim, turning wordlessly back to Cuivert still reading his paper.

"Go Claude. There is always hope, as long as you do not eat more than one of my pain du chocolat. They are my favorite." The boy watched as the train stopped and Monsieur Cuivert stood gracefully, gathering his satchel, tossing his paper into the fire and without a glance at the boy boarded the train with a private smile and a shake of his head saying to himself, "I do love my pain du chocolat".