The Table For Two

                                                                                                             THE TABLE FOR TWO

The bright sunny morning had a hint of chill and cloying smell of purple and white flowers of the lilac trees merrily lined up the street leading to the city square. This beautiful street of Belgrade, not far away from the banks of Sava river encircling the city, was quiet at this hour; except for a faint humming coming from cafes serving breakfast to morning office goers. A few florists' shops had opened, displaying bulbs of Lilies and carnations in their glass paned windows, spewing sweet smell of freshly picked roses. The morning bells from the church of Saint Sava standing majestically in the middle of the square rang its huge bell; its solemn and deep sound crawling to the expansive stone paved promenade and numerous lanes branching out from the centre. The serenity of the hummed gongs swept the square, adding to the grandeur of this historic site. 

.                     It was yet another pleasant and fabulous morning in Belgrade where I was doing my short term student exchange program in the university of Belgrade. My condo in a student facility in a sleepy neighbourhood was a few blocks away from the city centre, where I often strolled in morning and sometimes in evenings after my university hours. During the evenings, the promenade transformed magically, buzzing with a myriad of sounds of humanity, colours and lights. Tourists and families thronged the endless number of bars and cafes lining the brightly lit lanes of the square. Hawkers in their colourful attires and Turkish caps enticed tourists with their novelties and displays. My favourite spot during the evenings was at the centre of the square; near the huge fountain where an old man dressed in Santa Claus attire had set his stall and invited young kids offering them free candy floss from a machine which oozed soft colourful balls of sugar cotton which looked like giant sized spider webs . Brightly lit shops displayed watches, electronics and garments and stuffed toys in their windows while their bell boys wearing iron crisp bows and shiny shoes coaxed and cajoled tourists, inviting them to the shops, casinos and hotels tucked in the lanes which branched out from the centre of the square. 

 That day, after my morning run, I walked down to my regular breakfast joint, 'Café Caruso', which was tucked in a relatively quieter lane in the square. My friends had recommended this place for its Turkish coffee and heavenly cinnamon rolls.  The interior of the café had an old charm with classic European furniture in dark mahogany, floral curtains hanging on tall French windows and a huge old fashion bar. A bronze gramophone with a massive horn on the bar counter played jazz and lounge music of seventies.  

                                  It was about eight in the morning. The café had begun filling in with men and women in their work clothes and families returning from their morning walks, looking for small grubs or take away. I Looked around for a table near the bar and found one; at the far end of the café which had begun buzzing with conversations and rustling of newspapers. I returned the greetings of the bartender Dusan who was at the bar, brewing fresh coffee. He  was a tall and jovial Serbian in his late fifties  who knew each and every regular patron in the café. I ordered toast and coffee and picked up an English newspaper from the stand and flipping the pages casually . I was never an avid newspaper reader and browsed them mainly for interesting ads or discount coupons of food and garments. The front page was full of stories of the ongoing war on the Bosnian border. I dropped the newspaper on the table and looked around while waiting for my order to be served. Most of the tables were occupied except the one next to mine with two chairs instead of the usual four; marked 'Reserved'. As I yawned  and looked around, the entrance door opened; ushering in an old man whom wore a long beige overcoat and a hunters' cap. Without noticing other guests, he calmly walked to the table which was marked 'Reserved' and sat, resting his walking stick at the side. He was in his late sixties, had long hair and a wrinkled, shaven face with a sharp sun tanned nose on which a thick pair of glasses rested. He kept his gaze low, leaning on his cell phone, occasionally glancing at the entrance; as if expecting someone. A while later picked up a newspaper from his table and began reading.

I was curious! 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 the 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 not since he had entered the café. Probably they knew his favourites and did not need to ask. My curiosity arose when I saw that the waiter served two portions of breakfasts on his table; the second plate and carafe of coffee kept opposite.

"So he is waiting for someone!" I convinced myself and nibbled into my toast. After ordering another coffee, I began checking texts on my cell phone. I was not in a hurry as my classes were scheduled in the afternoon. 

Our old gentleman was still sitting; his eyes glued to the newspaper, occasionally throwing his glance at the glass panelled door of the café. It was almost an hour since his breakfast was served but had had not touched it; nor there was any sign of his guest. is glances still travelling from the newspaper to the entrance. I noticed that no waiter had come to his table to clear the dishes.  After about ten minutes later, precisely at 9 Am, the old man looked at his watch, kept some bills on the table and left. Something was strange about all this!  It was a silly idea but I had a very strong desire to follow him. I hurriedly paid my bill and rushed out to catch on him, but he was gone.

I came back to my apartment thinking of the old man who had reserved table for two but had not eaten, waiting for someone. My curiosity was rising. Was he waiting for his wife or may be a friend! Or was it a failed date? I shrugged off my curiosity and began preparing my notes for the lecture.

A couple of days later, after my morning run, I wanted to have a coffee at the 'Caruso'. It was relatively empty that day; just a few office goers and a couple of joggers in their track suites; but then I realized that I was late that day. I sat at the same table near the bar where I had my coffee the previous morning and placed   my order.  To my surprise, the old man in the beige overcoat was at the same table where he sat yesterday, 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 door and continued reading a tabloid. The waiter came to his table, greeted him and served two breakfast platters! My curiosity was at the peak. I decided to talk to the man who had a pensive look, reading through his thick glasses. I Gathered some courage and came to his table. His face was buried in the newspaper; the plates lying 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 in trembling voice , without taking his eyes from the newspaper. He had a German accent. 

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

"He is a captain in our army and at the borders right now, fighting!" 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 is here?"  I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting a soldier, straight from the war front. The conversation was going somewhere now, at last!

He lifted his eyes from the newspaper for the first time as his pale eyes brightened. 

"I do not know, may be yes, may be no. It all depends on when the war stops!"

"But why wait for him in this café; I mean won't he come back to your home when he returns?" I asked hesitantly.

 "This is the place where both of us have our breakfast everyday 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 paused and smiled, leaning to me, "He hates to wait for his order." He pointed to the plate kept opposite and looked at me through his thick lenses, tapping the table.

"You haven't heard from him, I mean a phone call or a message?" I tried to lace my words with a little concern.

He leaned on the table and looked at me, "No, not for a while but it is normal. Soldiers are not supposed to call their families or reveal their position when they fight on border."

"What is this war about?" I wanted to stretch this conversation. It was almost ten minutes since I had come to his table but the man had not offered me to sit.

He pondered for a moment. "Do you know something?  Wars are the stupid games played by governments. People like you and me are made to believe that killings for the sake of National pride is ok. He paused, looking at the entrance for a moment and resumed. "And what for? A piece of barren unfertile land or religions which are supposed to protect and not slaughter!"

I nodded; this was a bit heavy for me.

"I had served in Serbian army for twenty years and seen plenty of this. See how this war has screwed things up here! People are bankrupt and so is the government. Men, women and kids are dying for the sake of rocky barren lands that cannot fill a single hungry belly! Today you do not get a job anywhere except in the army and the army does not produce anything except death and disenchanted patriots who are not sure what they are fighting for!" He sounded very bitter.

"But are not wars fought for sovereignty and to protect the country?" I confronted him.

"Who makes the country? It is the people who make it and once they make it, their audacious leaders begin martyring those very people in mindless wars; and for sake of what? Listen to their hysterical cries of war and chest beating; that drive the people to frenzy so that they follow them and their damn ego! This is to make you  believe and digest the political rhetoric that people must die for the sake of country!  We have lost thousands of our brave soldiers and poor unarmed people and killed more on their side and gained what! Ego? National pride? And what about the agony of parents who lost their kids or of the wives whose husbands perished and the pain of orphans who will never know how their worlds shattered! 

I was impressed but not convinced. "But don't you agree that you put nation first; above individual interest?"

He evaded my question and continued. "Once the entire Europe envied this beautiful country and now it has gone to dogs. Children do not go to schools because their teachers have gone to war and hospitals have no one to treat the sick as doctors are at the front. This is our National pride!" he smirked.

Suddenly he got up and started to leave; the food untouched. "Excuse me, it is time for me to go." He picked up his stick and limped to the door.

That day I kept on thinking about the man and his son in the war. Next morning, I decided to go to the café again. I was not surprised to see him at his table, albeit a tad earlier than his usual time.

I was about to sit at a table across him when he gestured me, calling me to. I was taken aback! His order was yet to be served. I stood awkwardly besides the vacant chair, holding its back. The man stood and pressed my soldier, insisting on me to sit. We sat their silently; without speaking for next ten minutes till the breakfast arrived. He was silent and seemed unsettled. He looked at me once through the dark clouds in his eyes behind his thick lenses.

I gathered my courage and asked without looking at him, "Did you get a message from him?" 

 "He must be hungry," he said painstakingly.

It was weird. But somehow I ate the pie while his watched me, not taking a single morsel from his plate.

I repeated my question, "is the war ending? The old man again evaded the question and kept his head hung at an angle from where he could see me. After a long wait, he whispered painstakingly, "I will have to wait longer." He looked away from me, got up and walked out.

That day in my apartment and later in the university, I kept on brooding over his words and the unusual invite for the breakfast and his words. Next couple of days were the weekend days and we had planned a hike in the mountains of Zlatibor with my friends. Despite a late night return on Sunday night, I convinced myself to check on the old man in the café the next morning.

When I reached there, I found a small crowd of people waiting at the entrance with flowers.

 I entered the café which 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 the imagine by John Lennon, which filled 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 I could not find him. Then I looked at his table and gasped! It which was laden with flower bouquets and cards. There was no sign of the old gentleman though. Suddenly I was scared. Intrigued and confused, I went to the bar counter to ask Dusan. 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? His son was in the Serbian army. A day before when you had breakfast with him, he was missing in action. Our army had been searching for him for last two days. They found him this morning, tortured and killed by the enemy forces. But before dying, he recaptured an important post; and saved his regiment! What a brave man! The Government has declared him a National hero." His eyes were filled with tears while he fumbled to find words. 

I was stunned. "Did he know that he was killed? I mean did he know it when I sat on his table on Friday morning?" I was overwhelmed and numb with fear! 

 "The news of him missing had broken out on Friday only so he must be knowing it. That day, he did invite you and let you sit with him, didn't he? He would never do it, not for anyone!" Dusan said.

"The poor father would wait for him here, every single day since his son had left; hoping that he would join him.  We have decided to keep that table reserved for ever in his brave son's honour." He told with a heavy heart.

 I looked at the table where more people had gathered around, praying silently and burning candles.

 I went to the café a few more days in hope of finding him; asking Duasan about him but he was not there 

His table marked "Reserved" in gold letters was always full of cards and fresh flowers. A month later, I returned to India with the memories of the old man and his son whom I never met. 

 

 

 

 

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