The Decoy
In Charlottesville, Virginia, when they talk about the mall, they don’t mean the suburban shopping mall, vacant and partly demolished. They mean the eight-block section of Main Street that was paved with brick, planted with trees, and turned into a pedestrian zone. The mall has a hotel, about a hundred restaurants, and boutiques up the wazoo.
In sport coat, open neck shirt, and khaki pants, the costume of a retired gent, I stroll the mall in mid-afternoon. The lunch crowd is gone, and it’s too early to think about dinner. People are about, but nobody sits in the outdoor cafes, of which there are a dozen, fenced like corrals and decked with umbrellas and potted plants. Some have heaters to ward off an evening chill, and some have fountains splashing nearby.
On Monday, I noticed a new café. Six little round tables with spindly chairs, all vacant, lined the front. In the door stood a man in a white shirt, black vest, and long white apron, like a waiter in Paris. He was short and thin, with dark hair and a mustache. When he caught me staring at him, his face lit up with a broad smile. He rushed forward like a long-lost friend, and burst into a torrent of French and English.
“Cher monsieur! Allow me to present you with the compliments of the house! Please install yourself wherever you wish, any table at all. I am called Giscard, at your service.”
Giscard seized my hand. With the least encouragement, he would have embraced me and kissed me on the cheek. The warm welcome made me venture a reply in the same patois.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Is your establishment new?”
“I come to open this very day! One has not yet hung the sign which is being fabricated as we speak.”
“And what name will the sign bear?” At Giscard’s urging, I sat in the chair at the nearest table, facing the street.
“Naturally I thought of La Promenade, since that is where we find ourselves. In the end, I prefer the personal touch, et voilà, Café Giscard.”
“An excellent name tout de même.”
“The license for alcohol has not yet arrived, I regret to say. May I offer monsieur another beverage, such as tea, coffee, or sparkling water?”
“A cup of coffee, please.”
“Immédiatement!”
Giscard rushed inside, where a stream of French implied orders to an assistant. I gazed in idleness at passersby. I usually carry a book, but happened not to have one. In retirement, I never carry a telephone. Giscard returned in a few minutes with a steaming cup of black coffee and a tiny spoon on a tray.
“Merci, monsieur.” I inhaled the aroma.
“Do you require milk or sugar?”
“Non, c’est parfait. Would you by chance have a newspaper?”
“What is a café without a newspaper? The Daily Progress,” his nose twitched, “or New York, Washington, or Paris.”
“The choice astonishes me. Le Figaro, if possible.”
“That is all I read myself. One moment, please.”
Giscard returned with the newspaper on the tray. It was a week old and neatly refolded. Who else provided such service? Charlottesville had a French bakery and a restaurant, pale imitations, but this café was the real thing! I sipped the coffee, opened the newspaper, and scanned the front page. Giscard stood in the door and beamed with contentment.
Strollers paused to admire our tableau and murmur approval. A couple entered, took another table, and then a single woman. If not exactly chic, she was acceptable for mid-afternoon in central Virginia. By the time I finished the coffee, all but one of the tables were full. Giscard was in his element, darting here and there, exclaiming over a silk scarf or a little dog. I caught his eye as he passed.
“Monsieur, may I trouble you for the check?”
“Mais non, monsieur, it is my pleasure.”
A few words of protest, but he would not hear of payment, so I went on my way.
The next day the weather was fine, and I strolled again on the mall. The new café was empty and still lacked its sign. Giscard hailed me as before and insisted that I take a cup of coffee as his guest. As before, the picture we two made drew attention, the tables filled, and I departed a busy scene without spending a cent. We repeated this performance the day after.
When I passed the Café Giscard on Thursday, the sign was hung over the door, my table was already occupied by a smart young couple, and the agile figure in black and white attended to them. He nodded in my direction instead of rushing to embrace me. I hesitated, then took a table at the end. Giscard was as polite as ever. Again, when I stood to leave, the tables were full, and again my cup of coffee was on the house.
The next day, as the lovely autumn weather held, the café held six or seven people. No doubt on a Friday, some were starting the weekend early. I took the one remaining table and waited patiently. Giscard arrived at last with my coffee on his tray.
“Monsieur, my apologies for the delay.”
“Pas du tout. It seems you no longer have need of my service.”
“It is true, my friend,” he sighed. “For the last time, you are free as a bird.”
“Never fear. I will return, comme une hirondelle.”
“Alors, à bientôt.”
© Robert Boucheron
Robert Boucheron is an architect in Charlottesville, Virginia. His stories, essays, book reviews, poems, and translations have appeared in Alabama Literary Review, Bellingham Review, Fiction International, Literary Heist, and Saturday Evening Post. He won a fellowship to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts in January 2025. His essay, “Belmont Sketches,” published last year in The Loch Raven Review, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
The Loch Raven Review 