‘Monsieur!’

Alfonso Keller-Casielles

Monsieur!

Up at the crack of dawn, pays homage to the Sun, splashes water on his face and sets out. Tea nor water; brush nor comb. Perched on the saddle, heading out. Jacket, helmet and a cycling suit. In the age when everyone owns a car, a nondescript bicycle and its countless repairs of the break-handle-puncture trinity is all he bothers himself with. Indeed, Monsieur and his boundless majesty! 

Each morning, after he’s strangled the bicycle for a couple hours, he dives into kitchen. Is there a dearth of servants, you’d ask? Non, sir! ‘Why trouble others?’ he’d say. Bageuette, croissant, café au lait, bon apetit! And locks himself up indoors right after. Besotted with changes in life due any moment now. Like before. Speaks of Paris and its many Rue with a glint in his eyes. As though he’d mapped them all on his one visit years ago. Tongue starts rolling the R’s. Rue de la hue, mon cher – stuff only he can make sense of.

Not that he speaks often. But seems particularly invested in the language of trees and its leaves. On a morning he supposedly ran down a butterfly with his bicycle, he spent an hour wailing on the side of the street. ‘How could I, mon cheri?’, ‘A cold-blooded murder! A life stolen!’ he’d go on. ‘Wait,’ I said, ‘supposedly? Why didn’t you turn back and check if it actually died?’ ‘Couldn’t find the strength. I must repent. I shall fast over the weekend,’ he declared. About right, I thought. Pestering yourself might revive the supposedly-dead insect. At any rate, when he eats, he barely does. Neither does he stay back a second more when finished. To find out what everyone else’s up to. Nope, no chance. His lean frame disappears in a flash.

Won’t visit the family garden or their village farms. Won’t splurge on fuel, driving around aimlessly. Won’t even be cross with a servant. A proponent of modern thought, Monsieur hates orthodoxy like the plague. ‘No one’s the servant, no one the owner, we’re all equal,’ he proclaims. Detests theft; advocates fervently for the upright. Suppressing someone is out of question. 

‘Whatever little we may have – is all yours. You must look after it all, soon,’ his father called for him and declared. 

‘Pray, don’t trap me in worldliness. This isn’t for me,’ he says and storms off on his antique palace on wheels. For the empty streets. No chateau, no heir!

Alright. Don’t be the caretaker. Maybe find a job? But the boss man’s reprimand never sat well with Monsieur. Undue criticism or uncalled for behaviour never got his approval. Doesn’t have enough perils or financial troubles to turn him into a Yes man. How does one explain to a man of his ilk, that this is just the unwritten code of the society – the social fabric, if you will. Anger trickles down one to another; now foes, now chums; a rebuke this moment, camaraderie the next – I mean, that’s not the sort of stuff one explicitly lists out to the other! Such stuff just exists and flourishes. Since time immemorial. Now, now, don’t you get so worked up, Monsieur! But such stuff doesn’t sit well with him either. He packed his stuff, cleared his desk and handed in his papers on his way out. Of course, the Boss Man couldn’t care less – any man worth his salt would’ve hung his head and stayed; good riddance, the man was a temp at best, he thought. Of course, Boss Man returned to the said temp’s door twice, but Monsieur’s flat refusal couldn’t be overturned. It’s set in stone. 

Been ages since he last cut his hair. Or beard. The salon master waits anxiously for that fine morning when Monsieur shall grace his small outlet with his highness’ presence. And give him a chance to play with the scissors that lies rusting in a corner. Or gift Monsieur’s moustache the handlebars it deserves. When he roams the street with a swagger after, everyone knows there was only one man in the whole village who coulda-done-it. The latter can then step out his house, comforted with knowledge that soon there’d be people queuing out front. The former could glance at the newspaper and explain with intrinsic details to entertain the said queue. The outlet could turn into a franchisee overnight, even, but Monsieur – has ruined his earnest business plans. 

Doesn’t fancy clean shoes or slick suits. No wining-dining or Cuban cigars. No hedonism. Character purer than water, top notch behaviour, no arrogancy or greed. Can’t tell the boundaries of his land, has no need for a woman. Many a suitress and their fathers had to return empty-handed. ‘I can’t handle these relations,’ he’d say. What does that even mean, one may scratch their head and ask? What’s one got to do to handle – these things pretty much handle themselves! ‘Don’t make me responsible for another human, now.’ What responsibility – who in this godforsaken world considers themselves responsible for another? People come and go as they please. But you can count on Monsieur to string a necklace of excuses.

‘Why must you while your life alone? And how?’ The wise old men cautioned.

‘Why’d a woman find in her heart a place for a man like me? Why should I have to beg for love? Plead for love? If somebody had wanted to, she’d have stayed. Why shall I impose?’ Pearls of wisdom for each question. A gift hamper, if you will. Seals off every mouth. You can’t school someone who doesn’t want be schooled.

Monsieur was once known for his roaring laughter. Never the life of a party at any rate, but a man that knew how to entertain himself. Though now, even the tears have dried up. Couldn’t he just crack up for no reason? Laugh at the expense of someone – isn’t that the cornerstone of friendship? Gather around, spin yarns in praise of an adventurous life? Just make something up on the spot and let others lap it up? Ain’t no flying squad coming in for inspection. Or, maybe– take someone’s case. Lose his temper. Bicker, worse misbehave, if not enjoy. Get crossed with someone and swear on him to never cross paths again; pledge enmity, in fact. Frown and yell so much, the man in front pees his pants and falls to his feet scampering for mercy, and be pleasantly surprised with former’s nobility. ‘Oh, what a noble come to justice,’ the man would find himself saying, even if just for the sake of it.

If he’s sleeping, we’d like him to rise; if hasn’t slept in days, pray take a nap, wreathe a garland full of dreams by his pillow. That’s all everyone asks of Monsieur. But he’s so within himself, he’s nowhere to be found. Earlier, at least he used to sit by his window, with the account of his years. Gained this, lost that; plus, minus. He harboured grudges, entertained complaints or found questions to answers. Then threw away the ledger in frustration to look out the window, admiring the night sky. Let alone plead with life, he now won’t even knock the door to that court. The stars that twinkled several nights in hopes he’d come looking for them, had no choice but to fall into a black hole. 

If it was an ailment, you’d take him to a doctor, but what does one do about nothing?

Still; motionless. He lives the same day each night. Time is slipping out; life is rushing albeit his snail pace. Boyhood is giving way to old age. The eyes are turning baggy; forehead full of meandering rivers and the dimples on his cheek an oxbow lake. The innocence on face is under siege – grey hair on beard leading the hostile takeover. 

A pain in the arse for his brother in or out of law, uncles and father and forefathers. They watch with bated breath Monsieur’s next step. What’s it going to be? Why wouldn’t he just commit a mistake – grave or otherwise? Give someone some grief? Take up something – anything, even vile? An order, a request, advice, gripe, a fight, a debate, vandalism, war, love – just about anything this world has on offer. Let something take its course. How long will he tread with caution, with such calculated moves? Or maybe renounce everything and head for the woods. They’d probably feel bad, maybe even guilty, but at least heave a sigh of relief. At least he’s done something – finally!

Well, it should be brought to notice at this point that Monsieur lost his mother almost a decade ago. And who doesn’t? In this day and age, who doesn’t die? Everyone meets their fate anyway, sooner or later, fully or partial, more or less. But Monsieur took it to heart. ‘This shouldn’t have happened, this wasn’t right,’ he kept mumbling, ‘it didn’t have to be this way.’ Now, now, is that how things will go on from here on? Are you in charge now – will you decide if the Sun comes out from the West going forward? It happened because it happened. Ain’t no letter in your mailbox will pre-notify you of what’s going to happen or ask your wellbeing. How long will you sit with it; how long will you sit out? So, you fell once; it’s not as though you’d limp the whole way. A million explainers have not turned the tide yet for Monsieur.

And it’s not as if Monsieur isn’t a man worth his salt. He topped his university back in the day. Curriculum or co-curricular. People never got tired of saying he’d make it big someday. Monsieur would laugh it off. People have been getting tired for some time now. Monsieur hopes someone would say it again but also dreads someone would say it again so he steps outside with caution.

I stated very matter-of-factly, in fact. Not everyone makes something of their lives. It’s not etched in stone. It’s not a rule or a law; no one’s going to jail you if you don’t make something of it. If you don’t, then so be it. Crisis aside, mid-life is gone; the other half shall too. When the lungs run out of air, so will the breath. But if someone doesn’t even like to be damned, what does one help them with?

For years, he kept trying. Maybe does too, behind closed doors. Wonder what direction he’s been rowing this boat of dreams; for he’s further away from both shores. His peers are not his peers anymore; nor are his juniors. Wonder if he rues it? Doesn’t show though. If someone asks, he’ll just lecture them about the dangers of materialism or capitalism. You either give up or give in, wondering who the joke’s on. ‘Everyone must prosper; I’m happy for them,’ is all he says in response. Wonder if he knows his own cart of happiness is empty. Does he not feel it? Can he not be bothered? Shame, guilt, regret – does nothing pay him a visit? What is he – a stone?

‘What is it that you want to do?’ I balked one day. 

He just stood in silence. Inching further away, while still. Didn’t bat an eyelid. Didn’t mutter under his breath. The sky fell to the ground and the birds forgot to chirp. 

I walked out. 

Wonder what’s going on inside his head, heart, whatever he still has. In the age where everyone claims to be a God, all he desires is to be a tree. As though he’d plead the next instant – I shall give you shade, fruits, flowers, bark, wood. I shall look for the Sun and rain. I will be there just in that corner; don’t cut me down, that’s all.

He’s here and he’s not. Monsieur has pledged his allegiance to the oblivion. Even this time of the day, you’d rather find him plugging life into that lifeless cycle of his.

‘But who the heck are you to taint his honour?’ you might ask of me. 

Me?

Monsieur.

Vishaal Pathak writes short stories and poems, mostly about memories and travel. Some of his work has appeared in ARTS by the People, Five on the Fifth, The Kelp Journal, Vermilion, The Rush, The Rainbow Poems, Open Minds Quarterly, Antonym Mag, Good Printed Things and Metonym Journal.