His name was Henri. Dissimilar from the American “Henry” pronounced “Hen-rEE”, Henri maintained that his name was to be pronounced “AHN-rei,” with a slight roll of the “r” and adding a subtle “y”-sounding “i” at the end. I met Henri in the Autumn ’38 at the renowned and century old Cafés Verlet along the astonishing Rue Saint-Honoré. I had just come from an amazing show of follies at the equally impressive Comédie Française theatre, and I was in a rather breezy, perhaps jovial, mood.
“Your French eez very bad… what eez it that you are trying to ask for?”
“You speak English, thank god! Umm, Je veux du café?”
Henri was seated at a table, two tables away from mine. He yelled loud enough for the entire café to thus be informed of my poor, self-taught French.
“No, no, you do not WANT un café, you would like! You would like un café: ‘Je voudrais une tasse de café’!”
“Yes, thank you… merci” I said and turned back to the pretty red-lipped waitress, “Je voudrais une tasse de café !”
“Good!” he yelled.
I returned to my French language newspaper and pretended to read it as the people in the café stared at me and undoubtedly snickered. Henri, still leaning away from his table so as to view me, studied me for a minute or two. I pretended not to notice.
“You are American or English? Please, uh, don’t tell me you are an Irishman. I loath the Irish and their valise, uh, bag pipes.” Henri yelled.
“Yes, I believe you mean the Scotts; but no, I am neither. I am American, a New Yorker.”
“Yes? C'est merveilleux! Then you shall have to tell me of what you are knowing about ‘Fat Freddie’ Fitzsimons’ pitching and the great Babe Ruth… he is now the team’s first base coach, yes?”
Henri approached my tabled with his wine bottle and half-full glass. He pulled one of the only two chairs out, spun it around, and sat down snappishly.
“I don’t know anything about a ‘Fat Freddie’ and his pitching?”
“EH? NO? You are not a Brooklyn Dodgers fan? Babe Ruth?!”
“Of course, I’ve heard of babe Ruth. I simply don’t follow baseball I suppose.”
Henri eyed me as if I had insulted an entire community of French grandmothers. He was a young man, perhaps 25 or 30. He was skinny and tall and wore clothing unlike the attire within our surroundings: beige slack with cuffs, worn brown leather shoes, and a tired V-neck undershirt. His face was clear and ivory in color, and it was hidden behind a thick and rather untidy black beard. His hair, side-combed smooth with oily pomade, glistened in the autumn sun. He allowed a few long tassels to curl down his forehead and to his black eyebrows and amazingly blue eyes.
“It is okay,” he said at last, “American sports only, uh, good for ‘ice breaking’.”
“’Ice breaking’?” I asked.
“Commencer la conversation… uh, to start the conversation.”
“Oh yes, to ‘break the ice.’ I understand.”
“Yes! My name eez Henri….you will destroy this. ‘AHN-rei’… roll the ‘r.’ Say it with me: ‘AHN-rei’.”
“AHN-rei”
“très bon!”
Henri leaned forward, nearly knocking over his glass, and punched me in the arm. He was drunk, and I took note that it wasn’t even one o’clock yet. He leaned back in his chair, still smiling at me as I rubbed my arm, and reached for a pack of cigarettes from his trousers. He lit one with a copper lighter.
“So? Quel est votre nom?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your name? Or shall we name you ‘Fat Freddie’?!”
“Oh, I do apologize: Daniel, Daniel Montgomery”
“’Daniel’? ‘Daniel’ is rather biblique – uh, biblical – is it not?”
“I’m not sure I follow it’s just my…”
“MONTY!”
“Monty?”
“Oui, votre nom est MONTY”
“Well, okay”
The waitress returned with my coffee, a latte of some sort. Certainly something I wouldn’t have ordered. I picked up the saucer and cup and started for my mouth.
“Wait!” Henri yelled. He looked cautiously around him, “Wait... here!”
Henri straightened his legs and reached into his trousers. He pulled out a small shiny flask and uncorked the top. He waved my cup down and poured some of the flask’s contents into my coffee.
“Monty, let us speak of les femmes! Les filles! You do like women yes?”
“Women? Absolutely.”
“You are a married man?”
“No, I’m not married, and women do make me rather edgy, panicky really – more panicky I’d say.”
“Panicky?!” Henri yelled, Jésus, aider cet homme! This will not do. I, to be in fact, have two women, girl really – 20s, coming here shortly. I need you!”
“Me?”
“You! One of them, ma future épouse, eez bringing her compagnon, and you will be my ‘Partner in crime!’ so as to, uh, croon and swoon them! I cannot do this alone, you see.”
Seeing the uneasiness my eyes and my face flush in fear, Henri put his cigarette into his mouth, reached over the table, poured another heavy slug into my coffee, and punched me in the same arm yet again.
“Aimée! et Hélène belle, bonne journée! Bonne journée! Comment s'est passé votre voyage en train? Ce! C'est mon vieil ami Monty!”
Two young women approached the iron fence separating the café from the walkway. The first, Hélène I must assume, rushed to Henri, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, gently grabbed each of his ears, and kissed him for what seemed like 45 minutes. The rearmost girl turned away from the café and pretended to consider the passing automobiles.
“Aimée, c'est Monty ... il a été en attente pour vous!” Said Henri, directing the girl my way.
“Ello” she said shyly.
“Bonjour, Je suis Daniel. N'est-ce pas Monty. restez-vous assis?” I replied in the most haphazard and jumbled French ever constructed by a visiting American.
“Your French eez very poor” She said.
She smiled at me over her white sunglasses and stole a chair from an adjacent table. She sat down, crossed her legs, placed her hands upon her knee, one over the over, and studied me from behind the smoked lenses.
“J'ai beaucoup entendu parler de vous… I have heard much about you.” She said.
To Be Continued...
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