Free Significance by Jo Mazelis Page A

self - conscious suddenly, she walked on a little way, then at the first sight of the word tabac she turned purposefully into the entrance under that sign. Hardly noticing that it was the smallest and most basic café on the street. Outside there were no low planters to separate the clientele from the street, instead there were just two rickety aluminium tables with five mismatched plastic chairs, and the inside was little more than a narrow room with a bar along one side and a row of booths with ripped vinyl benches on the other.
    That sense of purpose – buy cigarettes, have a drink – and of escape – get off the street, gather herself together, regroup, calm down, then whisk off again – was shattered as soon as she found herself in the heart of the shabby café.
    Her heels clicking sharply, bravely on the wooden floor announced her. All eyes turned in her direction.
    Out of the frying pan into the fire.
    The eyes, all twelve pairs of them, were male. At the bar nearest her were three working men, paint and cement splashed, bristly and gristly, unshaved in navy nylon track suits, tired denim, raggedy sweatshirts, sweat - stained, flesh bulging, hairy and raw, as they hunched over the counter. To her left, in one of the booths, the younger contingent from the same crew, equally paint and cement splashed, bodies leaner, flesh tight against muscle and bone, hair dusty with plaster and dirt. Five of them, leering and grinning, clucking tongues.
    Beyond the three older men towards the back of the cafe, a young man with blue - black skin, cleaner and leaner, more reticent, more shy than all the other men. She noticed a gleam of perfect white teeth as he smiled warmly.
    One guy on his own near the front – she must have breezed straight past him – the ashen - skinned loner in a crumpled suit, his tie pulled askew, his collar curling.
    At the back of the bar, his body bent over the slot machine, stone - washed denims, jacket and jeans, another man, young and dark haired, but with a bald spot on the crown of his head.
    Then last, the patron, slick and shiny, and full of overtures of control, the only one, really, with the right to address her. He lifts up the flap in the bar, growls rapid words at the men, particularly the younger ones, and gestures for her to sit in the empty booth.
    She had planned a quick departure, to buy cigarettes then exit stage left not pursued by a bear, but perhaps with dogs, snakes and rats watching the switch of her tail as she went.
    But the bartender is partly blocking her way, and his gesture is so theatrical, so kind, and he has swiftly put the other men in order. One by one they look away, go back to their conversations. He makes her feel safe, but also childlike.
    She sits. The patron wipes the table in front of her, replaces the dirty ashtray, clears away the empty beer glasses. He has black hair, very straight and very fine, she can make out his scalp just below the lank hair. His hands are very large, meaty and pale, they remind her of wax.
    He calls her Mademoiselle. He is respectful without being obsequious as he takes her order. He brings her a brandy, an espresso and a packet of Marlboro, which he unwraps and offers to her, so she is forced to take a cigarette and smoke it at once. He returns to his station behind the bar and keeps a proprietorial eye on her. Perhaps he has a daughter her age. Or rather a daughter the age he assumes Lucy to be, perhaps twenty or twenty - one.
    Lucy takes a sip of the brandy, holds the liquid in her mouth where it tingles and stings. On swallowing she shudders slightly.
    She feels oddly peaceful – as if she were a princess surrounded by the men of her kingdom, knights and serfs and peasants, none of whom dare harm her.
    The man in the crumpled suit gets up from his table and heads for the exit. His shoes are grey plastic loafers. She knows they are plastic as they have a split on one side which reveals a line of white sock.