A Mysterious Read

A mysterious letter tucked away in an old book brings curiosity to a young girl.

It was more than just a café to me; it was a place of inspiration. There wasn’t a place I had come to more when feeling the need for a boost of primeval thought, a place to simplify the rapid thoughts of daily life that continuously whirled around about my mind. To me, Le Vieux Café was a place of astounding beauty to me, as it encompassed an atmosphere so delicate and calming to me, one where musing ideas spawned at an instant, and yet it remained poignantly generic to the common riffraff.  The rich scent of brewing, black coffee, floated freely amidst the air, carrying with it a rustic feel as it drifted on by busy, exclusive minds. Beneath yellow-tinted illuminations, books, some of extraordinary notoriety, were huddled gently against one another, encased within smooth, wood-grained shelves. The expanse of color reflected from these tomes complemented the antique-fashioned interior, raising awareness to the deep burgundy and forest green tapestries draped upon the walls, shadowing the flaking paint of the brick wall it covered.

Sitting tucked away upon a quiet, city street, I had a sense of nostalgia, belonging to someone past, but nevertheless for my own beneficial thriving. It was as if I had been embedded into a place that was non-existent in the present, an enchanted existence filled with mystical, dark forests and veiled surprises misted under a peaceful rainfall. Separated from the sights of the modern architectural world, I felt no hesitation at enjoying the natural beauty that surrounded me. It became much to my dismay that a place that held such value was becoming overrun by the common grind, with little of those left who appreciated it for its primitive feel.  It was of my best efforts not to fall into the circulating trap of modernization, as I knew of my capability to appreciate the non-contemporary, and yet still find value amongst that which was forgotten.  And for those such reasons, I continued to separate myself from the ever-changing culture, at times, to find the sentimental value in that which seemingly existed no further.

Although there was the possibility of other such locations holding a similar aged feel, this one was of particular interest to me, and even more so on days like this, as the rain fell from above in scores enough to wash away all, or so it felt so.  On days that were a muddle of grey, tempestuous skies, it was as if the rain made interrupting commotions impassible to the mind, and it gave way to a stirring atmosphere of motivation and concise thoughts.  These days were to be used much to my advantage, and not looked upon as non-idealistic for a productive day’s work.  As a writer and reader of novels and other numerous written passages, the least supreme weather was the most idealistic for producing regal work and finding oneself lost between the pages of a tale.

Today felt like a day quite like that, and I situated myself in the corner of the café, completed with a table and chair fixture of absolute perfection for my intended purposes. As university classes were concluded for the remainder of the summer, I was now gifted with free hours of the day to devote to the activity of my choosing. Luckily enough for myself, this day was the morning of a Saturday, early as well, in effect leaving the café nearly empty in consumers, apart from the few scattered early goers. Despite the occasional reluctance I displayed when given readings to complete for classes, there was no time of greater anticipation for reading than this morning.  To have the minutes, whether spare or hurried, to appreciate a novel with  great eagerness was a gift.  As it seemed, the list of novels I was keenly interested in may have certainly continued on for miles. And I fervently began a new one before the completion of the previous, so the cycle was continuous.  Nearly nothing compared to the feeling of beginning a new book, with its crisp pages turning flawlessly between the hands of the reader.  But it seemed, sadly, that never existed the time enough for such pastimes, among the bustle of daily life.

As I was frequently someone who had difficulty decisions on how to most efficiently use my time, I had found myself in luck today, as I had only brought one book along, a copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, with me to the café.  I regularly kept a composition notebook in my bag,  in light of those brief instances in which I had to jot down ideas that were seemingly slipping away. I had tucked a knit sweater in my bag as well, knowing well that the rain would cause me to feel chill.

I had only just recently started reading the novel, never having read it before, and thought that an early morning start in a quiet place would allow me adequate time to catch a good start on it. I knew well to my advantage that if I had carried my laptop along, like the majority of individuals did, that I would too easily find myself distracted by useless social networking sites, which would likely contain irrelevant information anyways. I had never found much interest in them, but found myself frequently turning to them in times of boredom, why I wasn’t certain.

As I came here often enough to familiarize with the common populaces, I had trust in leaving my bag unattended, my novel atop the scalloped-edged coffee table, as I stood upright and sauntered off to order a coffee.  Usually my trust in leaving my belongings unattended was low, but the morning was still composed enough for me to do so. On the other hand, it was also a Saturday, and people were not yet stirring about the city.  I had quite enjoyed rising from bed early in the morning, whether I had reason to or not.  To me, the mornings had a certain identity to them, one that could only be felt and caught at the earliest sign of daybreak.  In the midst of the quiet hours of sunrise, when the birds began twittering about, and the dew remained heavy on the grass, was when I felt the most tranquil.

While it seemed that it was in routine for everyone to require some sort of caffeinated beverage whenever stepping into a coffee shop, individually I wasn’t one to fall into such a trap. But with my early rising, I had begun to feel a bit sluggish, so I settled on getting a small coffee.  Growing up rurally, as I had, the most exquisite choice I had in coffee was whether or not I preferred cream or not.  But here in the city, of course it was much different.  Looking up at the wood-grained menu, complemented by golden lights angled towards the lettering, I grasped just how many choices I really had. Between contemplating on which roast I preferred, the amount of espresso I wanted, and whether or not I wanted iced or hot coffee, I decided to keep it meek. When I arrived in front of the ordering counter, decorated with shelves blooming with the most beautiful pastries of every kind, I met eyes with a middle-aged brunette woman who was shuffling about behind the counter. Upon my arrival, she immediately ceased her wiping of the machines and counter tops, and hurriedly walked over to greet me. In a delicate and humble manner, she said,

 “Why hello there, dear! What can I get for you?” never failing to let go of her jolly smile.”

I returned the smile and replied, “I’ll just have a small black coffee, with some hazelnut in it, please.”

“Alright,” she beamed, as she rung up the price on the register, “will that be all?”

“Yes, thank you,” I politely retorted.

She told me it would be up shortly, and ambled off to arrange my order. I glanced behind me, staring at the gloomy, drizzling sky, speculating if the rain would ever cease. Just as I turned back around, the lovely woman behind the counter was holding my drink out to me. After expressing my gratitude to her, I meandered back to my seat, with inspiration to begin my novel promptly. Just as I fixated myself comfortably in my chair, the rain had begun to pour down faster, in large, plump droplets, and thunder was abruptly noticed in the distance. What a flawless atmosphere for reading, I thought to myself. Well content in my comfy corner, I began to flip through the crisp pages of my book, searching tentatively for where I had last left off.

Upon discovering my end-point, I returned to absorbing myself within the novel, occasionally sipping on the warm, hazelnut delight situated in front of me.  As time progressed, more people began to trickle into the café, despite the faltering depression of the stormy skies. I had begun to fall into a trance-like state the deeper into the novel I became, essentially ignoring all that was prospering around me. It was curious how much a group of collaborated words could draw you from the world in such a way, as if the author knew just how to captivate your attention, and draw it inwards. It was somewhat of a disappointment to leave such a train of thought and re-enter the world of reality.

 Much to my previous assumption, sitting by the window began to cause me to develop a bit of a chill, and I casually shrugged on the knit sweater from my bag. I picked my book back up, returning to the page in which I had left off. I had found myself more interested in the characters of this particular book than I had previously imagined.  What I thought would just be a simplistic, classic novel, turned out to be filled with so much more than I had hoped. Tess, the main character, was a young, lighthearted country girl, and had an innocent beauty about her that I admired.  Although she put herself in grim predicaments of falling in and out of love, her heart for the spirits of others was bigger than the world. But the book loomed with instances in which her naivety brought her into the most difficult of circumstances, ones in which she did not have the years in her to figure out alone.

Just as I was continuing to explore another set of troubles in which she found herself, I was found myself interrupted, partially by the clicking chatter now echoing about the café, but for the furthermost part, from an error within my book. As I had started to turn the page, I found that it was completely stuck to the successive page, making it quite impossible for me to advance any further. Typical for a public library book,  I thought to myself.  Carefully, I tried prying the pages from one another, but since this edition of the book was fairly old, the pages truly fragile, I found myself in a troublesome situation.

I glanced up and around, as I presumed it must look a bit strange that I was diligently interested in this page of my book, as others could not see what for. After what seemed to take too long, I was successful in pulling apart the troublesome pages a few inches, but was surprised by what appeared to be a form of dried adhesive that was holding them against one another. Careful not to tear them, I tried for a few more inches, but something flickered out of the corner of my eye. Almost not catching my glance, I looked down towards the carpeted ground that lay beneath my feet, and saw a small, folded piece of paper, yellowed like the pages of the book from which it fell.

Immediately I was intrigued by this cryptic piece of paper, one that was concealed between the pages of my rustic book, for how long I didn’t know. I lightly clutched the folded paper off of the carpeted floor and began to unfold it slowly, the crisp page passing roughly over my fingertips.  As captivating as it was, I didn’t hold a clue as to what it possibly contained. Despite my past indulgence in mystery novels and reading of the numerous conundrums that unfolded before my waking eyes, I was still in wonder. A large wave of thunder rumbled, startling myself  and those who had accumulated around me.

Taken aback with distraction, I wandered my gaze from the paper, catching the glance of the friendly old woman from behind the counter sauntering over to my table. Coffee pot in hand, and her silky grey hair bouncing with her every step, she approached my table with a beaming grin and said,

“Any more coffee miss?” 

I found myself in a muddled state, as I was so previously locked on the content of the yellowed page.

"Oh, um, yes please," I stammered, "thank you."  I could feel my face flush in embarrassment.

She displayed a peculiar facial expression in the aftermath of my surprise, but nonetheless progressed in filling my cup to the brim. As she strolled away, I found myself having clutched the paper in a protective manner, it bending slightly between the tacky gripping of my fingers.  Perhaps I looked a little worrisome to her,  I pondered to myself. Possibly I’ve consumed a bit too much coffee… With good reasoning, I decided upon this cup being my last.

I hadn't quite noticed thus far, but it was nearing late-morning, although the obscure, gloomy sky revealed nothing of the time. Additional individuals had filtered in, some a seat at the small, French-style tables, enjoying their late-morning beverages, others relaxing over the daily paper with a pastry on the side. Despite the shabby weather, the prosperity of the city streets had anything but died down, as pedestrians were yet continuously scuttling along to their destinations.

A few tables down from me sat an older gentlemen, completely immersed in a novel of some sort as well. With his long, Galileo-style beard furrowing down his chest and the creases of wisdom grooved within his aged skin, I felt as though I was looking at the portrait of a man from days long past. My diversion from the furtive piece of paper was kept by this man’s fresh presentation. Much to my astonishment, regardless of it being an ordinary Saturday morning, he was dressed in finely assembled clothes, looking as though he had just emerged from another century, crisp, clean, and so refined. It would have only been natural for him to have drawn an old-fashioned tobacco pipe from his jacket, puffing on it as he progressed through his novel, turning a contemporary, repugnant habit into once of centuries past.

My deeply immersed mind had not quite removed itself from the 1800’s time period of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, so seeing this out-of-the-ordinary man animated my appreciation for those who were not, in character, modernized.  His solitude from the rest of those who accommodated Le Vieux Café, in addition to his vintage assembly, made me think in all possibility, despite his being a stranger to me, we had both come to accept the rapidly changing modern times. But in essence, at heart, we had remained old-fashioned.  My mindset had always been that way, despite my youthful age and acceptance of common ideas. But my gratitude for the past seemingly made it difficult to fall in line with others of my generation.

As I found my thoughts wondering afar and contemplating the mysteries of this outdated man, my curiosity was drawn back yet again, to my own mystery of what laid before me.

Author's Note

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