Driving Blind

“Yes!” The older man examined Andre’s coat, the worn cuffs, the too-often-cleaned lapels and said, “Are you hungry?”

“Do I sing for my supper?”

“No, no! Regardez the window.”

Andrew turned and gasped, shot through the heart.

For in the window sat the most beautiful young woman, bent to ladle her soup to a most delicious mouth. Bent, as if in prayer, she seemed not to notice their tracing her profile, her mellow cheeks, her violet eyes, her ears as delicate as seashells.

Andre had never dined on a woman’s fingers, but now the urge overwhelmed him as he fought to breathe.

“All you must do,” whispered the proprietor, “is sit in that window with the lovely creature and eat and drink during the next hour. And return another night to dine with the same lovely vision.”

“Why?” said Andre.

“Regardez.” The old man turned Andre’s head so he might gaze at himself in the window’s reflection.

“What do you see?”

“A hungry art student. Myself! And … not bad-looking?”

“Ah hah! Good. Come!”

And the young man was pulled through the door to sit at the table while the beautiful young woman laughed.

“What?” he cried, as champagne was poured. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” the beauty smiled. “Hasn’t he said why we’re here? Behold, our audience.”

She pointed her champagne glass at the window where people now lingered outside.

“Who are they?” he protested. “And what do they see?”

“The actors.” She sipped her champagne. “The beautiful people. Us. My fine eyes, nose, fine mouth, and look at you. Eyes, nose, mouth, all fine. Drink!”

The proprietor’s shadow moved between them. “Do you know the magician’s theater where a volunteer who is the magician’s assistant pretends innocence to secretly help the sorcerer, eh? And the name of such assistants? Shill. So, seated with a proper wine and your audience beyond the window, I now dub thee …”

He paused.

“Shill. Madame et Monsieur … Shill.”

And indeed as the lovely creature across from Andre raised her glass, in the twilight hour beyond the window, passersby hesitated and were pleasured by the incredible beauty and a man as handsome as she was lovely.

With a murmuring and shadowing the couples, lured by more than menus, filled the tables and more candles were lit and more champagne poured as Andre and his love, fascinated with each other’s immortal faces, devoured their meal without seeing it.

So the last plates were cleared, the last wine tasted, the last candles extinguished. They sat, staring at one another, until the proprietor, in the shadows, raised his hands.

Applause.

“Tomorrow night,” he said. “Encore?”

Encore and another after that and still another followed with their arrivals and departures, but always they met in silence to cause the room’s temperature to change. People entering from the cool night found summer on this hearth where he fed on her warmth.

And it was in the midst of the sixteenth night that Andre felt a ventriloquist’s ghost in his throat move his mouth to say:

“I love you.”

“Don’t!” she said. “People are watching!”