“Come on, then.”
Our first stop is only three blocks from my pub. And it’s the most important one. Raf, who apparently knows everything that happens here, leads me down an alley and through a gate that hasn’t quite latched and there, lying in an interior courtyard, as if tossed to the cobblestones from a flat above, is a poor, sad lump of a pine tree, clothed in nothing but its needles.
“There it is.” He points at the poor, denuded tree. “All yours.”
“You’re sure they’re not coming back to get it?” I eye the darkened windows above.
“Non.” His head shake is categorical. “She moved out.” He grins. “And he’s a complete shit. Doesn’t deserve a tree.” He shrugs. “Or a wife.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask, hefting the thing and heading in the direction of the scooters we left at the entrance.
“Sound echoes in the night.” He points back toward the courtyard. “I watched her take the kids and run yesterday.” Even in the dark, I see the flash of his teeth. “I may or may not have blocked his pursuit.”
I bark out a surprised laugh, wondering if all this time, he hasn’t been the one watching out for me, instead of the other way around.
We run the tree back to the pub, where I use a red plastic bucket to set it upright, and then back out for more supplies. Bolstered by this first success, I send texts, calling in favors with people all over the city.
It takes ages to gather most of what we need and, on the scooters, the job is difficult, but there’s freedom to riding around with the wind in my face, no cars or honking or pedestrians in the way. Just the wet pavement and Raf and fairy lightseverywhere.
Hours later, I stand inside the pub and look around, stunned, at the decorations and festive atmosphere we’ve created in such a short time. The pilfered Christmas tree, now draped in tinsel, twinkles brightly in the window, which has been painted in the kind of cozy nordic snowscape that always annoyed me in the past, but somehow now just makes me feel like I’m in the right place.
No matter what happens.
For possibly the fiftieth time tonight—today?—Raf sing/shouts the chorus fromPetit Papa Noël, one of the better known French Christmas songs, joined by his friend Annette and her boyfriend, Hervé, who recently bought one of the old bouquiniste book stalls along the Seine, and then Rémy, who’s come in to watch Rugby a few times. He’s a florist on l’Île de la Cité, it turns out. And lucky for me, there’s always extra around Christmas.
Tonight’s been eye-opening, actually. Between Raf’s friends and a few of my customers—friends, too, I suppose—and other business owners whom I’d never have thought to contact for myself, we’ve brought together quite the network. I’d not considered these people anything more than acquaintances before, but they’ve helped, quite happily.
This generosity, along with everything that’s happened tonight, has blown me away.
I’ve changed.
Miracles, I reckon, looking at the crew now heading back out into the night, are real. Some we build with our own hands—and the help of others—and some are gifts from…providence? The world?
Fate?
After they’ve all gone off to their various dwellings, Raf and I step back and eye our handiwork one last time. Something like pride swells inside me and then I realize that it’s not pride at all. This is different. I’ve felt pride and it’s a cold, empty thing. This emotion is warm and so full, I’m overflowing with it.
“Merci,” I say to the man. He reaches out to shake my hand and, instead I step in and put my arms around him and hug him hard, my eyes shut tight to keep the feelings from overflowing. “Merci.”
When I pull away, there’s as much of a shine in his eyes as in mine. I turn and cough in my hand. I now smell of smoke and chestnuts and probably a healthy dose of car fumes.
“Come on up,” I say. “Have a wash. Sleep in a bed.” I cast a look at the quiet cobbled alley. “No one’s clamoring for chestnuts out here. Come. Let me thank you for all that you’ve done.”
“Where will you sleep?” he asks and the fact that this man whose struggles are harsh and real worries about me missing a single night in my bed…well, it hits me so hard it feels like pain.
And maybe it is pain, this rush of feeling. But I can take it. I’m strong enough now that I’ve gained this bit of perspective. Strength, I see after those hours with an angel in the dark, isn’t about being hard or tough or taking one for the team. Strength is letting everything in and giving it a home. The sadness, the loss, the aches and pains of lives lived and lost. All of it makes us who we are.
“This pub’s for my brother, you know,” I say, apropos of absolutely nothing.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” I point at the painted letters curving above the door. “Iorwerth. It’s Welsh for Edward.”
“That’s his name?”
Was, I almost correct him. “Yes,” I say instead. “Yes, that’s his name.”
“It’s a good name, Colin. Unlike yours.” He grins wide, shaking his head. “Who on earth names their kid after a fish? You English…”
