The Table For Two

It was a bright sunny morning with crisp air which had a hint of chill in the beautiful city square of Belgrade, not far away from the promenade of Sava river which encircled the city. The one thing I had noticed about the people in this city was the remarkable low level of stress; or probable it won't show on their faces. In the evenings, almost the entire city would pour out in the streets and market places, filling the cafes and restaurants. The City square with its countless number of shops and showrooms was quiet at this hour, except a few cafes and restaurants which opened for breakfast; and florists with their beautiful Carnations and Lilies for which Serbia is known for. During the evenings, the place would buzz with tourists and families who thronged the endless number of bars and cafes lining the tiled lanes of the square.

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    It was yet another pleasant and fabulous morning in Belgrade where I was in a short student exchange program. My place was a few blocks away from the city centre; a sleepy neighbourhood, and I often strolled there in morning and in evenings too after my classes. That day, after my morning run, I walked down to my favourite breakfast joint, café Caruso, in a relatively silent lane in the city square. The café had begun filling in with men and women in their work clothes and families on their morning walks. I had discovered this place one early morning when I was hungry and was searching for some food . Looking for a vacant table, I found a table near the bar, at the far end of the café and ordered my toast and favourite Turkish coffee. Most of the tables were occupied except the one next to mine which was marked 'Reserved'. About ten minutes later, while I waited for my breakfast, an old man in a long beige overcoat entered the café. He slowly came at that table and sat, resting his stick at the side of the table. He was in his late sixties, with groomed hair and shaven face. He kept his gaze low, leaning on his cell phone, occasionally glancing at the entrance; as if he was waiting for someone. He picked up a newspaper neatly stacked on his table and began reading.

I was intrigued! He looked calm and composed but there was something strange about him and his demeanour; some mysterious aura surrounding him, as if a storm lurked behind his calm and stern face. Sipping my coffee, I watched him with corners of my eyes as a waiter came to him and served his order which he had never given; at least from the time he had entered the café. My curiosity rose when I saw that the waiter had served two breakfasts; the second plate and carafe of coffee kept opposite to where he sat.

"So he is waiting for someone!" I convinced myself. I was curious to know whom he was waiting for. I ordered for another coffee and began checking texts on my cell phone.

Our old gentleman was still sitting, with his eyes on the newspaper, occasionally throwing his glace to the closed glass door of the café. It was almost an hour since the breakfast was served at his table but there was no sign of his guest. He had not touched the food, or even looked at it; his pale eyes still scanning the door every few seconds. I noticed that no waiter had come to his table or spoke to him which they normally do with other customers.

              I paid my bill on the table and left; thinking of the old man. Was he waiting for his wife who was stuck somewhere or was it a failed date? I shrugged off my curiosity and began preparing my notes for the lecture.

Next morning I had risen early. Although I was not hungry, I decided to check on the old man in the café and walked out. Almost running, I reached the café which was relatively empty. I sat at the same table near the bar where I had my coffee the previous morning and waited for him. At 7.30, precisely the same time, the man in the beige overcoat entered and sat at the table next to mine, marked 'Reserved'. The stereo at the bar counter opposite my table was playing imagine by Beatles. He did not look up except for casual glances at the entrance and continued

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reading the newspaper. To my surprise, the waiter came to his table and served two breakfast platters, without asking for his order. After another hour while I ordered my third serving of coffee, my curiosity was at the peak. I decided to talk to the man who had a pensive look and was silent, reading a tabloid. I gathered my courage and came to his table. I saw that his breakfast lay there, untouched.

"Excuse me sir, it is none of my business, but are you waiting for someone?" I asked, trying to be as polite as I could be.

"Yes, I am waiting for my son." He answered, without taking his eyes from the newspaper.

"Oh, I got it. I was here yesterday too and saw you. Has he gone somewhere?" I was a little emboldened.

"He has gone to war, on the Bosnian borders." His eyes were still glued to the newspaper.

"I understand. So he is a soldier! Is he coming today? Can I meet him when he comes?" The conversation was going somewhere now, at last!

His eyes brightened. "He is a captain in Serbian army. This is the place we two have our daily breakfast whenever he is in the city. Before he left, we had agreed that the day he returns, we will first meet here, in this café." He looked at me through his thick lenses, tapping the table top.

"You haven't heard from him, I mean a phone call or a message?" I asked.

He leaned on the table and looked at me, "Do you know something?" Wars are the stupid games played by governments and people like you and me take so much pride in them; all for a piece of land or to prove that my religion is better than yours." He sounded bitter.

"But why do you always order for two breakfasts; if you are not sure of the day when he returns!" I asked.

"Well, he would be hungry and he hates to wait."

"Excuse me, it is time to go." He kept some bills on the table and got up, leaving the food untouched.

 I came back to my condo and began preparing for my classes. That entire day, I kept on thinking about the man and his son for whom he waited. Next morning, I decided to visit the café again. When I reached there, I saw a small crowd of people waiting at the entrance with flowers. Surprisingly, the café was full to the capacity but there was an unsettling silence, which was unusual as it was always busy and noisy at this hour. The stereo played imagine by John Lenon filling the cafe.

Imagine there's no countries

It isn't hard to do

Nothing to kill or die for

And no religion, too

Imagine all the people

Livin' life in peace………….

 My eyes searched for the old man but he was not there. Then I saw his table which was laden with flower bouquets and cards. There was no sign of the old gentleman. Intrigued and confused, I went to the bar counter and asked Dusan, the bartender. He too was unusually silent and had a pensive look on his face. I asked him about the old man and why all those flowers were on his table.

"Oh! You haven't heard about it? He had a son who was in the Serbian army. He was reported missing in action a month ago. Yesterday they found his body in mountains, killed in action. Before dying he recaptured an important post; and saved his regiment fighting for the country! Our Government has declared him a National hero." He said in a regretful tone laced with pride.

"You see all those flowers! His poor father would wait for him here, every single day, in hope that he would join him at breakfast. We have decided to keep that table reserved for ever in his son's honour." He told.

I was stunned. "Did he know that he was reported missing?" I was overwhelmed.

"Yes, but he never believed that. He was sure that he would return." Dusan pointed out to the table where more people had gathered around, praying silently and burning candles.

 I went to the café a few days more hoping that I could meet the old father but he was not there. Instead, I always found that table full of cards and fresh flowers. Dusan told me that the man never returned after that day.

A month later, I returned to India with the memories of the old man and his son whom I never met.