Literary Portrait #1: Alfred's Secret

I have decided to introduce a new feature to [the little spruce tree], it's called "Literary Portrait". One of life's simple pleasures is to sit and watch people, and I wanted to incorporate that experience of inquisitive observation into this space - to simulate the moment through words. I simply write what I am experiencing (thoughts, emotions, questions,etc) which is influenced by the interactions of the social space.

Let me know if you have any thoughts/reactions to it.



I have been here for nearly an hour. Sipping scalding Earl Grey, picking at a buttery croissant, and doing my best to absorb the information that my textbook dangles before me.

Then he enters.

A man of 80 years, perhaps. He looks like an "Alfred".

Alfred whistles along to the sad jazz music that plays as he takes of his snow covered boots and places on indoor shoes. He wears a gold watch and a ring on the right finger. There is something right about him. On his head sits a wool cap that is removed to reveal whispy white hair and a small bald area.

He is old, but seems joyful... and I am mesmerized by this.

Alfred speaks to me briefly in French, and I reply shyly with my limited skills, wishing that I could better honour his willingness to engage me. He tells me how lovely this space is; this cafe where funeral home and art gallery and library softly find a meeting point. Often there is death in the air, but Alfred seems to keep it at bay with unabashed life.

He walks to the back to speak with the girls who work here. The seem happy to humour him and exchange French words like free flowing traffic moving in opposite directions. He hovers there longer than socially appropriate, perhaps wanting to savour the interactions.

One of the girls brings a coffee to his seat, and he commences to hum again. The music from the stereo has stopped in the cafe and his quick tune fills the space. He sits, coffee sipping and flipping through his newspaper.

Alfred's face is long; time has pulled on his cheeks with indifference to any aspiration of maintaining youth.

The music recommences and Alfred adds more hot milk to his espresso. He sips and says, "C'est bon, le café". The newspaper rests at the crossword and he holds a pencil in his right hand while humming once more at the music.

I do my best not to stare, but I want to witness his moves. I want to soak in his ability to be alive. I want to ask him how he has maintained his spirit.

Alfred holds a secret.

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