Cay and Judas, both had never not stepped foot on French lands, stumbled upon their first challenge. They were in a café with no signs of new: the decorations mounted on the walls have been there since a long time ago, the dusty carpet floor unkempt, the furniture arranged in such a way that would only be appreciated by hipster cafes. It’s old and unrecognized widely, but it was open. The two were hungry again and could not pass the chance away, especially at that time of the day.
As they went further in, they saw a bar stand with a middle-aged man with short, steely grey hair looked up and said “Bonjour, Monsieur. Please, have a seat”.
“Bonjour.”, the two called out, Cay louder than Judas.
Cay had only spoken French in rare occasions, it was rare when he was in Malaysia, even in England. Judas had taken French classes during his GCSE years but did not score a distinction in the language. It was obvious to assume that in the eyes of the café owner the two young men were inexperience travelers, or at least had not ventured into French territory before.
The bartender owner stood rooted behind the bar with a display of coffee and tea cups instead of liquor behind him, it made him looked overly protective of his items.
“What would you like?”, as he called out, while they were only halfway through the single page menu.
“Latte, please.”, Cay answered in an instant, like a reflex when it came to inquiry about beverages.
Judas did not answer, he did not enjoy coffee just after having one.
A minute or so later, the owner came to their table with a cup of coffee and a look that implied impatience.
“Food?”, he asked in a heavy French accent.
“I’ll have a croissant, please.”, Cay tried to pronounce the name of the pastry right, somehow afraid of offending the native speaker.
“And a ham sandwich, please.”, he added Judas’s choice, barely identifying the word jambon.
As the man took in the order and turned towards the kitchen, Cay sighed with relief and noticed strands of black hair still stuck on his low-cropped hair. Perhaps the owner was not as old as the two thought, he was medium-built with a strong expression suggesting an average health. Maybe he did occasional exercise during his time off, Cay imagined the owner walking alongside the River Rhone with a medium-size dog on a leash walking beside him.
Cay laid his plans to Judas as the latter listened with a cool expression, unhinged by the cold sandwich. Normally, Cay would stare at the bitten part of his cold bread for a split second, he could not help but imagine what it would be like if his meal was warm and toasted. Judas was at his last half when Cay finished his coffee; the air around him felt warmer after the hot drink, even though the light outside seemed unchanged.
They hurried with the pay as not to disturb the occupied owner with one cloth on one hand while the other was holding a china piece. Saying merci and not eager to wait for a reply, the sucked in the cool air that was now not chilly but with a hint of grass, probably from the parc nearby. Their minds freshened with the intake of food and short rest.
They were almost over the bridge when they saw the risen sun, it had left the confinement of the hilly horizon and was free to float higher. Until more light was shown enough to stir the people from their slumber, the two were already a few kilometers south of Croix-Rousse.
*
Around friends, he knew how to disguise himself as a cheery and talkative lad; By himself, he was still the fragile and younger self. Cay had been building invisible walls of pride and ego that seen foreign to the real self.
He sometimes thought of philosophical ideas, it gave him a sense of temporary enlightenment from the cruel world. The pages turned, guided by his teachers back in high school had taught young Cay how to be presentable in front of others through the teachings of old poems and textbooks relevant to his upcoming tests. He took them all in with a serious fashion, memorising quotes that would only be useful to himself. Are quotes not relevant to only the person reading it unless read out loud?
There were a lot of question he asked himself, even more as he grew from a young teenager to an older one. Perhaps unreferenced sayings and quotes made by wise men of older times were not convincing enough. The fictions he read only stayed in books, for all the reader to solely enjoy without much hope that scenes illustrated on papers stayed on papers. expectation was only a rollercoaster of fake designed to woo others, prompting them to believe in false hopes. Hence, people had a goal, a target that would never be fully achieved.
Cay knew about the distance between fantasy and reality; He understood the difference between giving into false hope and living in negativity. It was safer to have lower expectations of everything and everyone, that was how he kept himself from maximum hurt. Spiraling into the depth of reality, he consumed as much knowledge as possible through fictions and non-fiction books. He did so not because he wanted to escape from the cruel fact made evident by the world, he wanted to build a fortification consisted of strengthened mind that could anticipate any incoming attack from his surrounding.
He felt alive living in his own world, where there was minimum contact with other people. Although arranging meetings with friends and acquaintances were part of his plan for self-improvement, he sometime could not bear the fact that he had left out so much alone time. There were times he rather not speak to anyone but read his book in the study room of his home, where sunlight could be curtained and an air conditioner was present.
He never rarely told anyone how simple of a person he was, especially not after painstakingly weaving an intricate web of disguises. He just wanted people to believe he was always having the best time of his life, while simultaneously savoring each word on the book he was reading. It had always been easy, living a double-life that did was not portrayed as serious as in films but span a significant difference between one another. He wanted to be appreciated by letting people know about his number of ties with others, at the same time building a reading profile for himself.
You have gotten far, convinced Cay to himself as he was turning one of the pages from the book Paris Trout by Pete Dexter. Cay shrouded himself as mysterious as how the author would write his book as interestingly dark. Perhaps his motivation for self-improvement came not only from self-loathsome, no, he could not afford to feel so simple. It had also been the books that gave him the intellectual edge to pivot himself towards complexity in which he could control to some extent.
He has friends that could not understand him and family that were left in the dark, that was his goal. To disappear into a void of loneliness where nothing exists besides his single-occupied mind, whether it was reading a book of staring at the ceiling. He savored every moment with himself, his self-abhorrence a reminder of how ugly his appearance and mind were.
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