Exquisite Loss

Interior of a Restaurant by Vincent van Gogh

Macaire was late. 

He opened the door of the carriage before the driver had a chance to fully stop and open the door for him. He didn’t like disappointing her but couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing so. He rushed up the stairs to the door that the Maître D’ opened to hurry him in. As he stepped through the threshold, hands took hold of his coat and hat. They knew who he was and his weekly routine, thus they didn’t bother with the niceties of shallow greetings out of fear of his verbal reprisals. 

Macaire was late and the look on his face expressed it. The staff knew better than to slow him. 

As he stepped past the coatroom and looked into the main dining room he still held a glimmer of hope that she, too, was also late. It was a hollow hope that was dashed when he saw her at their table, the table they ate at every week. She had a glass of wine, a Pinot from his own vineyard, but it was barely touched. He knew he couldn’t judge how long she had been waiting from the amount of wine gone from the glass. 

He rushed to the table and feebly thought of explanations to tell her. He could explain to her the issues with the vineyard, the slow progress the workers were making removing vines infected with black rot. His quick anger was known and showed itself today in an argument with his eldest son. He didn’t have time to micromanage every aspect of the business, but his son needed to show a heavier hand with the workers. 

He could try to explain to her the problems he was having distributing the wine. The buyers from across the border into Germany were not purchasing in the quantities they used to. With the new leader and constantly changing laws it was difficult to maintain the profits he had seen in the past. 

In his focus to get across the restaurant to her a waiter almost ran into him. The waiter excused himself and Macaire could hear the English accent in his voice. A flash of anger rose inside Macaire at the thought of the finest restaurant in Hettange employing an uncouth Englishman, regardless of his ability to speak French. He didn’t slow his pace or respond to the waiter as he continued to walk. He simply kept an eye on him until her reached his table. He couldn’t mask the anger that was clearly visible on his face.

When he reached the table he glanced down to his wife. He could try to explain a dozen different reasons to excuse his tardiness, but he knew none of it mattered. He was late and had kept her waiting. And in that moment the disappointment with himself broke his own heart. 

Her dark hair was tied and braided into a single rope that was brought forward over her right shoulder. Her purple dress spoke of nobility yet did not border on the gaudiness that a younger woman would have worn. The necklace her mother and grandmother had worn was, as always, around her neck and she wore the bracelet from Paris he had given her so many years ago. 

He always saw her as he did when she was young and didn’t notice the greying of her hair or the slight wrinkles of age. He had made her wait and the sorrow of such an act hung heavily on his face. 

“What is wrong?” she asked when she looked up at him. 

He took her hand into his and said, “I need to ask a beautiful woman to dance and I fear her rejection. “

She stood and he led her to the dance floor where a few other couples were slowly dancing. He pulled her close and took in the light smell of her perfume. “I am sorry, my love” he whispered into her ear. 

“There is no need to be,” she responded. “The business is important. I know the struggles you have.”

She was so understanding, so gentle to him. If there was a temperament that was exactly opposite of his, his wife embodied it perfectly. When he was quick to anger, she was quick to reconcile. When he had nothing but harsh words, she would speak the most gentle.  She never angered with him, or at least showed any anger toward him. 

And because of that, disappointing her devastated him. 

“Adeline, you are too good to me. The vineyard should never keep you waiting. I should never keep you waiting. You deserve better than that. You deserve better than me.”

She stopped dancing and held his face in her hands. He lost himself in her eyes. “My love,” she started softly, “a man who strives to love better is better than a man who believes he loves enough.” She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. 

Macaire felt a thick lump grow in his throat and he held her closer. He tried as hard as he could to hold back the emotion and the effort made his chest quiver. He finally gave in and let the tears flow freely down his cheeks as he held her tighter. He didn’t care who saw him, how many eyes stared at him. To feel love to the core of your soul eclipsed any feeling of shame or embarrassment. 

“Your love is more exquisite than any man deserves,” he managed to say with a cracked voice. 

As the song came to an end, Macaire and Adeline made their way back to their table. As they sat back down and the waiter started them on their meal. Confit de canard followed the beginning entree of quiche. The braised duck was perfectly done, as it always was. After the main entree was completed the waiter brought a plate with Camembert and bread. The soft cheese was a perfect match with the Pinot. For dessert, small Madeleine cakes were offered. 

While the meal was perfectly done, it paled in comparison to Macaire’s wife, Adeline. And her beauty, while beyond compare, felt insignificant next to the depth of his love for her. 

He reached across the table and held her hand in his. He tore his gaze from her eyes to look at her hand. He closed his eyes to take it all in – the sound of her voice, the smell of the food, the warmth of love flowing through his veins. 

When he opened his eyes she wasn’t there. 

He sat on a broken chair in a restaurant that had been destroyed four years earlier. Two walls were crumbled, allowing a view of the cold grey street outside. The building across the street was also destroyed in the initial bombing of the German invasion. 

A rain had started while Macaire was sitting at the table dreaming of his lost wife. The water dripping all around him drowned out the sounds of the American troops that were yelling at him from the opening in the wall. “Go home!” they yelled at him in English. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

He looked up at them and, in an age past, would have felt his anger rise at the thought of an uncouth American even peering into the finest restaurant in Hettange. Another army of the uncivilized, he thought. They all call themselves liberators, but they all only took what they wanted and left what remained in ruin. 

His anger didn’t rise. Those days were long gone. His quick anger was replaced by constant anguish. 

Home? Home was where Adeline made her presence. Home was where his sons worked. Home was the vineyard that had been in his family for generations. 

Home was lost, burned, and destroyed by war. But the loss of everything he owned and loved was nothing. That was not the root cause of his anguish. 

He was late and had kept her waiting. And in that moment the disappointment with himself broke his own heart. He never made it to the restaurant on the night the bombings began. 

He missed the last opportunity to feel her exquisite love.