Chapter Text
Happy When It Rains
by Miry
♪•♫
«Don't know why, don't know why
Things vaporise and rise to the sky.»
Jesus and Mary Chain - Happy When It Rains
~ ♫♪•♫♪ ~
Chapter I - Lorsque les lumières se sont éteintes
The Café des Lilas occupies the corner of a quiet street in central Paris, located on the ground floor of an eclectic building with a façade that hints at an Art Nouveau influence. Among the curves of that unique artistic style, a Tiffany-colored wooden door immediately catches the eye, if you stroll along the sidewalk leading to the Place du Trocadéro and if your eyes aren't only on the Tour Eiffel, peeking out from between the buildings.
In the summer, a few iron tables are set up on the sidewalk, surrounded by crates of lavender and rosemary that perfume the air whenever it rains or when the wind decides to blow and carry with it scents and thoughts.
In contrast to autumn, as it is today, inside the Café, especially on less sunny days like this, time seems to flow differently. The parquet floors creak under the footsteps of regulars, the dark wood shelves hold old boxes of tea from around the world, and a neat row of cups, all different from each other, sits behind the counter. On the wall behind the counter, a blackboard displays the menu handwritten in white chalk, now worn at the edges.
The smells blend together: from that of powdered tea to that of freshly ground coffee and then the scent of freshly baked cakes.
Someone once told him it's hard to leave that place: you're happy to come in, but it's a tragedy to leave. Customers love to stay there, bring new people, read books while admiring the view from the large window overlooking the street; or write poetry for a loved one who doesn't reciprocate the affection and return the next day to be consoled by a pain au chocolat .
Gustave has heard so many stories since he's been working there, and while every job has its ups and downs, he likes to wake up in the morning with the thrilling thought that he'll have the honor of learning about other lives besides his own, and of treasuring what he observes, what he hears, and what passes and never returns.
He tightens his brown apron around his waist and adjusts his shirt collar; it's a long day, because there aren't many customers today due to the bad weather. Paris isn't shining that afternoon, quite the opposite. It's covered by dark clouds that threaten rain and wind, and so, who knows, many people probably don't feel like stopping there for something hot or something to eat before heading home.
“Bonsoir,” an elderly gentleman greets him, taking off his hat and smiling at him.
“Bonsoir Jacques! Is everything okay?” asks Gustave, wiping the counter with a cloth.
The man shrugs: “Worse than yesterday, better than tomorrow.” They both laugh and then Jaques walks away, takes a seat in a corner and begins to stare out the window.
A ristretto and a Florentine, that's what he usually orders. Gustave wastes no time, loading the coffee maker and heating the cake on a griddle. Jacques doesn't like it too hot.
Fifty regulars could come in and he'd remember every order; it's not a matter of good memory, it's about caring; or at least that's what his neighbor Sciel always tells him.
He sets everything up on a tray and brings it to Jacques, who immediately thanks him with another smile of pure gratitude. "It's about to rain, huh?" Gustave asks.
The man sighs: "I think so. The air outside feels like it's about to explode. Don't tell me you're leaving late tonight too!"
Now it's Gustave who huffs and puffs, tired: "Unfortunately, yes, I'm closing but tomorrow is my day off."
"Good for you! I've had my day off for years now!"
"And you spend them all here with me, if you think about it," he quips, and Jacques laughs. Then that sound is broken by a loud rumble of thunder that rattles the windows. Silence descends again, and then, as if someone had turned on a faucet, it begins to pour. Both he and Jacques stare mechanically out the window.
"Mon dieu, is it raining by any chance?" the old man jokes.
Gustave grimaces, annoyed. He came to work without an umbrella, because when he left the house the sky was clear and the temperature was perfect. He never would have imagined such a turn of events. As soon as he finishes that thought, two customers stand up and hastily say goodbye, then open their umbrellas to escape.
"Perfect timing to leave," he comments ironically, and as they leave, another customer enters. He's holding an umbrella, which he tries unsuccessfully to close. Gustave can't help but watch the floor, which he'd just mopped, get wet and dirty again. His shoulders slump, dejected by this, and yet another sigh escapes his lips, uncontrollably.
Both he and Jacques continue to watch the new customer, who has finally managed to close his umbrella and leans it against the wall; he catches it several times, as it slips on the wet floor. Finally, when the umbrella seems to remain upright, the stranger looks up at them.
"Je suis désolé," he says alone, motionless like a statue.
"No problem, I'll have to clean up before I leave anyway." Gustave smiles, because after all, it's the truth and a little water never killed anyone, least of all him. "If you want, take a seat." He gestures toward the table area, with a mechanical gesture.
“Thank you,” he replies and, still feeling the weight of that downpour that must have hit him suddenly, he approaches a table not too far from the window, not far from Jacques.
"Young man, you took it all in, ah?" the old man quips, and while Gustave goes back to the counter to put down the tray and get an order pad, the old man shakes his head, shocked.
"Yeah. I don't think I've ever seen so much water in my entire life, all at once." He takes off his jacket, also wet, and drapes it over the back of the chair. Gustave watches the water drip from his garment onto the floor and feels like screaming. "Luckily, I came in right away."
"Oh, oui, you did well! Gustave will be happy to take care of you while you wait for the rain to pass." Jacques always gives him great publicity with new clients and appreciates that he has taken him so much to heart. After all, he is a man who became a widower as soon as he retired; he has a daughter who takes care of him but she works, and so, when he is alone, Jacques spends time there, at the Café des Lilas, observing, listening, and thinking, in silence, about life passing by. Gustave knows this is true, because he has told him so many times that he loves watching people live their lives and unknowingly telling them a story. He finds it very sweet and that is why he appreciates his job so much more, since that old man is his regular customer.
He approaches the stranger's table and, ready to write down the order in his notebook, purses his lips. "Gustave, who will be happy to take care of you, it's me. What can I bring you?" he asks, sounding as if he's just asked him if he's willing to take the fate of the entire planet into his own hands.
«I… I don't know, What good things do you have here?»
It's clear that he only went in there to get out of the rain and that ordering something wasn't really on his agenda, but after all, how rude is it to stay there without at least a drink?
"Well, a little bit of everything. From classic drinks like tea and coffee, to alcoholic beverages and fruit juices. For food, we have a wide selection of sweets and pastries, as well as first and second courses, but only after seven o'clock."
«No, okay, then a tea and a small plate of madeleines, please.»
"We don't have tea bags; we brew the tea on the spot with loose-leaf tea. Do you have any preferences, or do you want me to do it?"
"Let him do it, boy! Gustave knows how to create dessert and tea pairings that the rest of the world can only dream of," Jacques chimes in, and Gustave bites his lip to keep from laughing. He continues to talk about him as if he were the best barista in Paris.
"I trust that gentleman, and I'll leave it to you!" replies the stranger, finally faintly smiling himself, and at that moment Gustave realizes how blue his eyes are. They're almost unnaturally blue, they seem made of ice.
"Perfect, I'll be back shortly with everything," he announces and heads back to the counter to prepare the order, occasionally glancing at the only two customers left in the entire bar. The rain continues to pour down heavily outside the bar, and the street has emptied. Every now and then, someone passes quickly by to find shelter or go home, but it's getting rarer and rarer to see anyone through the window.
"Were you going somewhere and your plans were ruined by the rain?" asks Jacques, who, as always, is looking for someone to chat with; new clients are his favorite prey, and when he finds someone who will listen to him, he's always delighted.
"Luckily, I was just coming back from work, so I'm in no rush to go out again in this weather, or even to get home," he smiles, then takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his forehead, where his black hair is stuck together: he wears a small ponytail halfway down his neck, and the remaining strands reach his neck. The strange thing Gustave notices is a white lock of hair, completely white, falling on the right side of his face.
"So it's an ill-fated blessing, then! What do you do for a living, if I may ask?" Jacques continues, growing increasingly curious.
Gustave watches them as he searches behind the counter for the right infusion to prepare; there are many types of tea that pair well with madeleines , but he has to decide which of his own inspires him the most.
«Me? These days I'm working at the Palais Garnier.»
“Oh, what are you, a musician?”
“Yes, I play the piano with the Orchestre Lumière,” he replies, and Gustave can’t help but notice a hint of pride in breaking the news, and he might even say he did it a little snobbishly, but the truth is that he felt more like a sort of revenge, though he doesn’t know against what or against whom.
"Mon amie, how wonderful! Playing the piano for the Lumière Orchestra is a real source of pride, I know it well. But, if you play the piano... you're not Renoir Dessendre's son, are you?"
At that moment, time seems to stand still, and Gustave stops searching for the right tea to get a sense of what's happening on the other side of the counter. The stranger has stopped for a moment, staring at Jacques, his expression unreadable for now. He doesn't know if he's embarrassed, shocked, or surprised. Jacques, on the other hand, has eyes filled with admiration.
Gustave, meanwhile, wonders who the hell Renoir Dessendre is.
"Yes, it's me. How do you know my fath-"
"I'm a huge art enthusiast and I haven't missed a single exhibition of your parents and sister's… Clea, right? You must be Verso," Jacques smiles, looking so proud of having gotten everything right, and Gustave hopes the stranger doesn't feel pressured by that fact.
"Exactly. So you're a fan of my family, from what I understand. The painters' part, at least," Verso, the new client, jokes now seeming a little more relaxed.
Jacques sighs, as if he's just traveled back to the good old days: "I've taught art history all my life; I met your father artistically midway through my career, and his works have always fascinated me. It was wonderful to discover he'd found a partner worthy of his name. You have an important surname, and I admit it's strange to hear it associated with an art form other than painting."
Verso smiles a little bitterly and lowers his gaze for the first time since entering the bar. "Are you telling me that? It took them a lifetime to come to terms with the fact that I didn't want to be a painter, but a pianist. My father only stopped trying to change my mind when I joined the Lumière Orchestra."
Jacques laughs heartily, and it's clear he's happy about it, and Gustave knows it well, because when they first met, they had a similar conversation; something about the future and choices: his own and those of others, still too tied to expectations and roles he didn't want to fill just to make his family happy.
«I always tell Gustave too: life is one and must be lived by conducting the orchestra of our existence, and not letting others lead the dance of our song.»
"Wow," Verso begins, relaxing in his chair, and you can see he's impressed by that pearl of wisdom. "I absolutely have to sell this to my little sister. I'll make a great impression."
All three laugh. Gustave doesn't know Verso well enough to know the true meaning behind that choice. Maybe it was rebellion. Maybe a necessity. Maybe both, who knows. But he likes to think that, one way or another, he found the courage to pursue something he truly felt was his.
He looks down again at the wooden boxes containing his teas and enjoys the silence that has fallen after that laugh: Jacques has gotten the information he wanted about the stranger, told an anecdote of his own, and, as always, has changed the atmosphere in the room, making it less formal. Finally, Gustave chooses a Ceylon tea to accompany Verso's madeleines and begins weighing the leaves on a small brass scale. Once he's reached the ideal weight, he opens the steel infuser and inserts the leaves, then carefully closes it.
Verso and Jacques have stopped talking and both stare out the window at the rain that continues mercilessly, erasing the city from their eyes, but it's pleasant. Shut in there, sheltered, and with the gramophone accompanying the weather with low-volume music, it makes the moment seem magical.
Then a thunderclap, louder than the first, reverberates through the walls, and Gustave feels it even in his heart. The lights flicker for a moment and then, suddenly, go out. The record ends with a screech that hurts the ears.
"Well, all we needed was a blackout," he comments, annoyed, and, moving through the darkness, he immediately comes across a drawer from which he pulls out some candles and a box of matches. He lights one and glues it to a small plate with wax. With that light, he lights two more, which he carries to his customers' two tables.
“Don’t worry about the drinks, I’ll pay you for my trouble anyway,” Verso says, meanwhile Gustave leaves the candle on the table for him and Verso looks a little mortified by that fact.
"Oh no, luckily I can still make tea without the electric burners." Gustave smiles. Few customers worry about his work before even taking their order. It's always nice when that happens. "And I already heated up the madeleines, I'll be right there." Then he turns back to Jacques, still intent on looking out the window. "Are you okay?"
"Oh, yes. Faustine will be here to pick me up soon, it's almost five-thirty," he tells him, looking at the watch in his pocket.
“Faustine?” Verso asks in a low voice, and Gustave turns to him, unable to hold back a smile.
"She's his daughter. She picks him up every day and they go home together," he confides, and the other boy frowns, as if he's trying to process that information. "They're the nicest people I know," he blurts out, and Verso nods in agreement.
Then Gustave returns behind the counter and begins preparing the blessed tea he's been asked for, and this time he starts all over again. He places a teapot full of water on the stove—which he lights with the candle flame—then empties the infuser and picks up the scales again to weigh the leaves. Calmly, and regaining his breathing, he concentrates on not miscalculating the dose, and those gestures help him regain some mental harmony and order.
“You’re the best barista in Paris, but you’re also the slowest at making tea.” Jacques breaks the silence, and Gustave doesn’t look up at him, not wanting to lose track of what he’s doing. As he slowly puts the tea leaves on the scales, he lets out a laugh.
"Tea is an art, it takes its time. It's not like the strong coffee you drink." He responds to the provocation and hears Verso laugh at that brief exchange.
"My ristretto is also an art form. Have you ever been to Italy, Gustave?" Jacques asks again.
“No, I’ve never had the pleasure,” he admits.
"And you, Verso? Have you ever been?"
"Yes, a couple of times. Do you think they consider coffee an art form, rather than tea?" Verso asks instead, and Jacques points at him proudly, realizing he immediately understood where he was going with this.
"For them, coffee is a ritual. They let it air out so it tastes better, they use a certain type of water, and they rarely mix it with anything else," Jacques continues, in one of his life lessons, which he loves to extol, having been fortunate enough to travel almost all over the world in his youth.
Gustave goes back to weighing the tea on the scales and, without looking at them, begins: "I guess they're not as slow as me, though, right?"
"Exactly. You're a golden boy, but you have this tiny flaw."
“I told you, tea takes time!”
"And you, Verso? Do you agree with me that slowness ruins everything?" he then asks, turning to the other boy, and Gustave rolls his eyes, also waiting for an answer. Verso shrugs, fiddling with the saucer holding the candle. The light begins to flicker indistinctly across his face.
"No, I think that haste ruins everything. Especially when you're drinking or eating something for the pleasure of it. The wait is part of the experience," he says, and Gustave is happy that for once someone is defending him from Jacques' affectionate bullying, whom he can consider a resourceful uncle.
"Absurd! Usually, we older people are the ones who love waiting. The world has really turned upside down." Jacques shakes his head, feigning disappointment at this situation where he hasn't had any allies, and Gustave glances at Verso, who returns his glance and smiles only with his eyes, clearly intent on not offending Jacques. "I won't complain about you being slow anymore, Gustave. You've found someone who appreciates the care you put into things," he says, and gives him a look Gustave can't quite define, before returning to look out the window.
"It's always appreciated when someone takes such care of food. It's probably because, in my opinion, it's the salvation of the soul," Verso commented, then added: "Where did you learn to make tea like this? You look like some kind of alchemist!"
Gustave laughs, because Jacques sometimes calls him out like this: "I lived in England for three years and worked in a tea room on Portobello Road. I had to learn how to do it this way from people who have passed the technique down from generation to generation. When I came to work here, I saw that the customers appreciated it, and so I never went back to tea bags."
"Wow, so it's like they've passed on a family secret to you. They must have trusted you a lot."
"I think so," he says, shrugging. "Tea brought me luck, I owe it everything I am today. I'm not playing at the Palais Garnier, but that's a small satisfaction too," he says, aware that the comparison isn't even remotely feasible, but he's pleased to see Verso laugh at that joke.
"You know a method and you're good at it. I'd say it's on par with knowing how to read music and playing an instrument," the other concedes, and, indeed, it's not a bad motivational quote at all.
Gustave lowers his gaze to the teapot to hide a smile. He can't remember the last time anyone compared his tea-making skills to an art. He feels flattered after such a long time since anyone had heard from him.
“Did you go to England to learn English?” Verso then suddenly asks.
"Yes, and it's helped quite a bit, even though I can't shake the French accent when I speak it. Every time a tourist comes in and speaks English, I try to sound less French, but to no avail." He laughs, then stirs the tea leaves into the infusion and pours it into the water, which is still simmering on the stove.
Verso smiles: "I understand you. Even though I'm at the Palais Garnier now, closer to home, I was in Glasgow until a week ago, and at the end of the concert we had a talk with the audience. I remembered that my English was less French than that." They both burst out laughing, and Gustave feels the tension between him and the stranger have eased, so much so that he's no longer afraid of being intrusive.
"After Palais Garnier, will you go somewhere else?"
"For now, we're here for another fortnight, and then I'll leave for Rhodes, Greece. Then there's another destination, but I don't remember where," Verso informs him, already looking exhausted at the thought. It's clear that this Paris date is giving him a bit of a break. "I don't know if you're interested in classical music..." he pauses briefly. "But... if you'd like, we still have a few nights at the Palais Garnier, and there are still some seats available," he suggests. Gustave, who has meanwhile turned off the stove since the water is hot, grabs the handle of the teapot with a cloth and holds it in mid-air, remaining motionless, looking at Verso.
"Really?"
"Of course. You'd obviously be my guest; I mean, after the mess I made on the floor, it seems like the least I could do," Verso quips. "Think of a suitable day, and I'll have you sign up at the ticket office. Just give your name."
“I… I would really like that,” he admits, a little embarrassed, because he expected anything but an invitation to see an orchestra play, especially at the Palais Garnier, where he has never been, even though he has lived and worked in Paris all his life.
Verso smiles at him, and you can see that he is satisfied with the answer he received: "Good."
“Ahem.”
Both he and Verso turn in the direction the voice is coming from and Gustave suddenly remembers that Jacques is still there and that, apparently, they have both forgotten about him.
"For a moment, I felt like I'd become invisible," Jacques begins; Verso and Gustave exchange a fleeting, guilty glance, which they quickly break away. Gustave feels like his ears are about to burst into flames.
“Excuse me, when I start talking about music…” Verso tries to justify himself, slapping a hand over his face, mortified.
"Don’t worry." Jacques gestures with his hand. "There are conversations that, when they go in the right direction, manage to isolate the outside world and create a small space in which only the people involved exist."
“Obviously the invitation is also extended to you and your daughter,” Verso hastens to add.
"Maybe. If only my daughter would be willing to accompany a curious old man like me to such a high-class event."
“You can always come with me,” Gustave offers, smiling, and in the meantime he has retrieved a cup from the cupboard and placed it on the tray, along with the teapots and the madeleines.
"Oh, no. I think you should go alone, Gustave. I wouldn't want to risk ruining such an interesting evening by acting as an old chaperone," he says, with a slightly mischievous tone that Gustave hopes Verso hasn't caught.
Then the doorbell rings just at that moment and Gustave turns toward the entrance and for a moment almost feels like he's been brought back to reality; he feels as if he's just woken up from a lucid dream.
From the glass door, fogged up by the rain, a woman appears with a closed umbrella in her hand and a mouse-gray raincoat.
She looks exhausted, as always, but also in good spirits: "Papa!"
Jacques smiles. "Punctual as always."
“Bonsoir, Faustine,” Gustave greets her, and she immediately goes to retrieve her father’s coat from the coat rack.
“Bonsoir, Gustave! How much damage did the boy do today?” she asks, like every day, and he shrugs.
«The same as always!», he smiles, even if he would like to tell her that today, in particular, Jacques felt more legitimized than usual to tell a story according to his own rules, dictating the law and conducting the orchestra himself .
Verso nods to the girl, who returns the gesture shyly, then Jacques slowly gets up from his chair and approaches the counter to greet Gustave.
“You’re the one who hasn’t done enough damage yet,” jacques stops, leans closer to him, and lowers his voice. “If I were you, I’d get an extra cup for that tea,” he recommends, then winks at him and adds, raising his voice in a clear attempt to make himself heard: “See you tomorrow, or rather, tomorrow is your day off… see you the day after tomorrow, then.”
Gustave shakes his head, laughing slightly, because Jacques is uninhibited, shameless, and unrestrained; a man of over eighty who truly has nothing to lose and who, time and again, reminds him that everyone should live their lives with such freedom and without fear.
He raises a hand in greeting: "See you the day after tomorrow, Jacques. Have a safe trip, Faustine. Be careful with this rain."
“You too!” the girl recommends, and shortly after, they disappear behind the door and the Café des Lilas becomes silent again, as it was before Jacques arrived.
Gustave looks at the tray he's just filled with the teapot and porcelain cup, where the infuser floats, creating tiny bubbles on the surface of the boiling water. Looking closely at the tray he's chosen, he realizes there's room for an extra cup; there's even more water in the teapot for two more cups of tea, and he's filled the saucer with madeleines.
He looks up at Verso, still sitting at his table, intent once again on gazing out the window, immersed in who knows what thoughts, or what melodies, and Gustave has the impression that he's too absorbed to have noticed they're alone. His hair, a little wet from the rain earlier, has dried completely, and in the candlelight, he notices that his blue eyes seem less cold than the first time he looked into them.
Gustave might pretend not to have noticed that Verso is a boy of a beauty beyond time and space, but in truth, it is a lie he cannot tell himself very intently.
He doesn't know if he extended that invitation to the Palais Garnier out of kindness, or if, who knows, he too felt a spark in his chest when the two of them began talking; just the two of them and no one else. And, who knows, perhaps Jacques saw that spark glowing outside, as he watched them discuss music, tea, and art, and that's why he advised him not to miss the opportunity. He retrieves the second cup and, with a habitual sprint, picks up the tray with both hands and heads to his latest customer's table; he sets everything down on the wooden surface and, without even asking permission, sits down across from him.
Verso starts and wakes up from the world he had immersed his mind in and looks at him, a little confused.
“This is the time when I indulge in le goûter.” Gustave doesn’t want to explain too much why he’s there, in front of him, with a plate of madeleines, two cups and a boiling teapot between them.
Verso smiles and points to the tray with a theatrical gesture: "Je t'en prie."
Gustave picks up a madeleine and breaks it in half with his fingers, while Verso pours tea into his cup; before taking a sip, he sniffs it, his face finally more relaxed, and tastes it. He emerges from it pursing his lips, as if to record the flavor.
“Is Jacques always like this?” he asks after a few seconds.
«Chatterbox and pushy?»
Verso laughs: “No, I meant… enterprising.”
“That’s a polite word for a nosy, unrestrained old man, but I’ll give you that,” he replies, and also takes a quick sip of tea, before adding, “I would have called him a busybody.”
«I admit that I thought so a little at first, then I changed my mind.»
Gustave shrugs and can't stop smiling, not knowing why. "Jacques is so many things, and I love him for each of them. The day he stops coming to this bar will be a tragedy for me."
"You obviously care about each other a lot, and that he's taken a liking to you," Verso says, and the fact that he's noticed the relationship between him and Jacques makes him feel a little safer. He can't explain why, but it's true. "I like him. He has a special way of talking to people."
"Yes. Sometimes he says things he shouldn't."
"And other times he says things no one else had the courage to say," Verso counters, then smiles and raises the cup to his lips. Gustave observes him for a moment, then forces himself to concentrate on his madeleine.
The silence that follows is no longer that of the early hours. There's nothing uncertain about it. It's that of two people enjoying a snack together, by candlelight, while it's still pouring outside and they seem to be the only humans left alive on earth.
And Gustave realizes he likes it. He likes it too much, even.
"Anyway, about the concert..." Verso begins, a little hesitant, and delicately sets the cup back on the saucer. Gustave immediately looks at him, almost fearful that he might have changed his mind about the invitation. "The invitation is valid, but don't feel obligated. Classical music isn't for everyone and is very boring, and I won't be offended if you—"
"No," he interrupts, perhaps a little too bluntly, "I'm interested, really. I have a vinyl collection ranging from Mahler to Puccini. My sister says this passion is a blessing, because every year on my birthday and at Christmas she knows what to give to me."
They both laugh at that fact and Gustave is happy to see the doubt leave Verso's eyebrows, which immediately relax.
“Great. Then, I don’t know, you could come tomorrow,” he suggests.
Gustave freezes with the cup in mid-air and immediately stops his attempt to drink because, after all, he hadn't placed that invitation anywhere yet and now, instead, Verso has already found a space for it.
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes," Verso confirms, tilting his head slightly to the side, thoughtful. "I think I heard Jacques say tomorrow is your day off, right?"
Oh, right! He actually said it a moment ago, in a voice so loud that all of Paris probably knows Gustave has the day off tomorrow. He snorts a laugh.
“I think Jacques has already decided in his mind what I’m going to do tomorrow.”
"And you think you're going to listen to him?" Verso asks, before hiding behind his teacup again. It's a question that comes with a lightness that almost makes his heart skip a beat. "Assuming you don't have other plans with... someone," he asks, when he resurfaces from his drink.
Gustave smiles and shakes his head: “No, no plans,” he confirms.
"Good." Verso laughs a little mockingly, and it's absurd how the tone of that conversation has changed since Jacques left, after having paved the way for them to gradually seek ever deeper intimacy. "Your tea is delicious, by the way," he says finally.
Gustave doesn't respond, simply thanks him with a smile and hides it behind his cup again when the other smiles back. They both turn to look out the large window; outside the Café des Lilas, the patter of rain is the only sound breaking the silence.
Inside, however, for the first time since the power went out, Gustave is in no hurry for the lights to come back on. He has the strange feeling of having left something behind without even realizing it.
He doesn't know what it is; he hasn't the faintest idea.
For once, though, he doesn't feel the need to understand everything; he just needs to stay there, sitting at that table, while the rain continues to play for them.
End of Chapter I