"In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends" (Martin Luther King, Jr.)
(This quote is on my desk. It's the text I read most of all. It's the reason why I write.)
Donald looked at his watch: 20:25. How could he be so naive? George and he had been best friends since they met in kindergarten. After graduation, when it was clear that both were going their own way, they made a deal: we'll meet again. Where? Under the EiffelTower, a place you can't miss. When? Twenty-five years from now, on the 24th of December 2016, on the evening before Christmas, at eight o'clock. Last one there pays for dinner.
Donald had never forgotten that appointment. At least once a month he thought about his friend George, about the adventures they had when they were kids, about the dreams they had at school. Donald often wondered if life had been as generous to George as it had been to him. He looked at his watch again, not to check the time but to realise that life had been smiling on him, a man with a golden watch, made in Switzerland. He smiled back at life.
"I'll wait until 20:30... No. Twenty-five years is a long time. I should allow George a little more of my patience. I'll wait until 21:00. This is Paris, the city of light. People are used to dining late here. The temperature is nice, the view is fantastic, the flowers in the park smell stronger than the traffic in the streets... I should enjoy this moment. There is no rush. I have no other place to go to. I've travelled far to get here, with the excitement of seeing my old friend again, to hear his stories, to laugh together like we used to do. I can wait. There is no rush."
Donald looked around. The visitors of the park ignored him.
Out of the shadows came a man in a dark coat with a beard and a hat. He lifted the hat and reached out his hand to greet his old friend: "Donald. I'm sorry I'm late. Traffic is awful in Paris. I think you noticed."
Donald smiled, gripped the hand of his old friend with both hands and answered: "How nice to see you. I was afraid you wouldn't come. Twenty-five years is a long time. I thought you had forgotten..."
George smiled back: "How could I forget... Let me have a look at you..." He stepped back so the lights of the EiffelTower illuminated his friend. "You did well, Donald. Tailored clothes, hand-made Italian shoes, expensive aftershave, and that watch... Is that a real one?"
Donald nodded: "Yes, life has smiled on me. I did well. But you look good too. A little heavy perhaps, but that is a sign of eating well. What's that on your finger? Is that a wedding ring? Are you a husband?"
"And a father too. The oldest, Sophie, studies at Sorbonne. Jean-Luc is still at school. He wants to be a movie director. Kids with their fantasies, ha, ha. But we should go. I'm the one who arrived late, so I should pay for dinner. I didn't forget that part of the deal. I know a nice restaurant, not far from here. Let's take a walk and talk. I want to hear all about you and what happened to you after we last saw each other."
The two men started to walk in the direction of the Quartier Latin. Donald told how he started his own business after school. He founded a shoe factory, tried to set up a construction company and after that tried to start his own radio station, but nothing worked well. After a few failures, he found out that he was better at buying and selling and made his move to trade. It became a success. Now he had three houses: a chalet in Switzerland, a little farmhouse in Mexico and a penthouse in Monaco, in one of the best neighbourhoods of the city. The only thing was that he never got married. He looked everywhere but never found that one woman who could make his life complete.
They reached the restaurant George had told him about. It was a little bistro, dark, with small tables and big plates: "It's not cheap, but they serve the best steaks in the whole city, probably in the whole of France, but I'm not sure because so far I've not eaten in every good steakhouse in this country.", George smiled.
The waiter showed them to a table. George ordered a bottle of red wine and a bottle of water.
"And how about you? What about your career? What do you do to make a living?", Donald asked.
"There's not so much to tell. I tried several things, found out that I was not good at anything special and ended up working for the town hall, an office job. I move papers from one side of my desk to the other. But it's a living and it pays the bills."
"Well, at least you have your nights and your weekends free from work. When you're self-employed, like me, every minute is filled with work.", Donald added.
A phone rang. George's face showed slight irritation when he looked at the dial. He apologised to his friend: "Sorry. I have to take this. It's important. It has to do with the job. So much for free nights and weekends, right?"
Donald nodded and studied the menu while his friend left the table and the dining room to answer the call. George was right: this restaurant was expensive, but Donald didn't mind. He could afford it and after all... George had to pay. He decided to go for the T-bone with pepper sauce, baked potatoes and Parisian carrots. He tried the wine: it was delicious. His friend didn't make a fortune, but he had good taste. Donald wondered if the food was as good as the wine.
The waiter showed up on the table and asked: "Do you want to order, sir?"
Donald looked surprised and said: "Not yet. I want to wait for my friend. He left to answer a phone call. I'm sure he'll be back anytime."
The waiter handed Donald a note and said: "I don't think your friend will be back. He was in a hurry. He asked me to give you this note."
Donald took the note, confused but curious about what could be so important to leave from an appointment that had been set twenty-five years ago. He opened the small envelope, took out the paper and read: "I was there first, at the EiffelTower. When I saw you coming, I recognised you immediately: your photo is on every wall in my office, with the text 'Wanted' under it, followed by the charges, from the trafficking of drugs to murder. I was late because I had to organise my team for your arrest. I'm sorry. When you get out of jail, in about twenty-five years, we'll meet again. 24th of December, the evening before Christmas, eight o'clock, under the EiffelTower. Okay?"
Someone behind him took the paper out of his hand, moved his arms to his back and put the handcuffs on: "You have the right to remain silent..."
YOU ARE READING
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