Gastien Pt 1

by Caddy Rowland

  Mic did not agree. “He will be experienced by the time I am done with him. I will be leaving in four months. I know how much the owner likes me. He will value my recommendation.” The cook still looked doubtful. “Look, if Gastien proves he can’t do it, I won’t recommend him. I would not do that to the restaurant. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. What can it hurt? He needs the job badly.”

  “So do a million others,” grumbled the chef. He looked again at Gastien. Gastien held his gaze and refused to look down. He smiled at the chef. “Actually, I am not as bad as you might think. I will be a quick learner and a hard worker. I worked twelve hours a day many days on the farm. This will be a breeze.”

  The chef looked harder at him. The young man was scruffy but very handsome. If he could learn how to serve without being clumsy, he might be good for business. Women did not come in to restaurants alone, but they did come in with boyfriends and husbands. A man with looks of Gastien’s caliber might cause them to select Le Procope even more often. He returned the smile. “Fine. I will reserve judgment until you have had a while to learn. You might make a good team member after all. Just expect to work hard! Oh, and keep your hands from stealing food! We have too much of that here. Monsieur will tell you what you can and cannot have for free.”

  “I don’t expect anything for free, but thank you for giving me a chance to prove myself.”

  With that, Mic grabbed a tray. He piled it with platters and drink ware. Then he showed Gastien how to shoulder it. “Now you try it,” he said. Gastien took the tray and the glasses swayed. “Wait!”said Matt. “Let’s fill them with water. That way they won’t tip as easily and the weight will be more realistic, too.”

  Once that was done, Gastien tried again. He picked up the tray, hefting it up to his shoulder. Immediately, one glass tipped, dousing him with water. At least it did not fall to the floor and break! The cook guffawed, Mic was trying not to laugh. Gastien was embarrassed. Suddenly, he looked at both men and could not help it. He started to laugh, too. All three of them roared, cutting the tension. He tried it again, this time with success.

  Over and over again that day they practiced the skills of serving. Mic had him lifting trays, taking orders, serving imaginary patrons, removing plates from tables, all while those “imaginary” people were still there. He was clumsy at first, but he got better. At the end of the day, both the chef and Mic agreed that he had made some good progress.

  “Now we will just have to practice for an hour or so every Sunday to get you polished at it. In the meantime, you will take menus with you. I have already indicated with paint which wines go with what foods. The brand name is not as important right now as the type of wine. Brand names will vary from restaurant to restaurant, but the types of wines will remain the same. You will need to know which wine goes the best with different types of dishes. Study these menu’s this week. Next Sunday you will be recommending wine.

  He turned to the chef “I know you have a personal stash of wines.” The cook looked offended and started to protest. “Non, don’t deny it! I could care less if you drink. But, next Sunday, will you please let Gastien sample a small amount of each? He needs to know what each type of wine tastes like in order to know why they go with the dishes they pair with. Just a small sip of each. I don’t want him drunk. I need him sober, so that he is able to practice serving. He will also do an oral wine and food matching test.”

  The chef thought a moment and then said, “Oui. Sure, I will do that for him. Just don’t mention to Monsieur that I have a bottle of each back here!”

  “You think he does not know, you rascal?” Mic asked. “He knows. We all do. If you weren’t such a damn good chef, you would have been gone long ago. I think Monsieur feels it is a small price to pay for the amount of people who come back for your delicious fare.”

  The chef looked surprised that everyone knew. He accepted it in good humor, looking at Gastien. “Nice to meet you, Gastien. I don’t know if we will ever work together, but I hope you succeed in finding a serving job. Mic tells me you are an artist and want to succeed there. That is tough. But, nothing is easy that is worth doing.” He put out his hand.

  Gastien shook it. “Merci.”

  Things went on like that for a few weeks. Gastien passed his oral wine test from Mic, and was getting better at serving. He was selling a few drawings here and there, but not much. Many days all he had was a bowl of soup at the end of the day. His clothes were getting a bit loose on him. Still, he had a place to sleep, to keep his supplies and one “meal” a day, he reasoned. Things could be much worse. He was thankful for what he had.

  As far as sex went, he was so busy learning that he decided to not even worry about sex for the time being. Sometimes he used his hand in the toilet at the church just to relieve the need. He had no time for women right now. Painting was his mistress. He had to apply all thought and energy to it, and to learning how to wait tables in the proper French way. By the time he got to lie down at night he was mentally exhausted. The walk to and from Notre Dame gave him good exercise, making him sleep well.

  It had now been a month and a half since Gastien had arrived in Paris. His eighteenth birthday had come and gone.

  XVIII

  It was late evening after a Sunday of training and painting. Gastien had sold a couple drawings each day that week, which meant that he would be eating at least once a day for the next few days. He was very much looking forward to sleep. He walked in to Notre Dame and went back to “his” area. Smiling to himself, he opened the bench. He felt his heart fall to his stomach. Gastien did not know if he was going to vomit, or pass out. All of his belongings were gone.

  Gastien’s knees buckled. Holding on to the bench for support, he lowered himself to his knees. He could not believe his eyes! It could not be true, they had to be playing tricks on him! He kept looking away and then checking again. No matter how many times he looked away, when he looked back the results were the same. All of it gone. His art supplies. His tarp with his few personal belongings, including his blanket. Everything! Gone.

  There was a funny, awful sound in the room and he briefly wondered what it could possibly be. Then he realized he was sobbing. He found he could not stop, and in fact he just grew louder.

  Mon Dieu, what was he going to do? Just when he was finally making progress! He was so close now to painting on his own, and he had done quite well at learning waiter skills. And his clothes, his soap, his blanket! How would he survive without a place to sleep, a place to wash? Especially now. It was December! January would be the coldest month. It could get below freezing at night, and highs would only be in the high 30’s to low 40’s. It would occasionally snow. What would he do without even a blanket?

  Then an even worse thought came to his mind. Sales were going to get slower as the weather got colder, because there would not be as many people around. Sure, right now people were out and about doing holiday shopping, but what about after that? What would he smell like in a week? A month? Oh mon Dieu, what would he look like? No one would want him to approach them! He already looked shaggy. How would he get money to eat???

  Near panic, Gastien curled up in a ball and wailed. He cried like he had never cried in his life. All of the beatings, all the berating, all of it he had taken with little crying the older he got. But this? THIS??? This was his life, his one chance! And now, it was gone. He could not even go home! His father would not allow it, of that he was sure. Nor did he want to. If he could not get money, he would soon die of starvation. What about art supplies? Where would he keep them if he ever got any?

  Oui, his life was pretty much over before it had even begun. The sobs kept coming. Gasping for air, he just couldn’t turn the tears off. I don’t know what I did to deserve this all, he thought bitterly. I have not even had a chance yet! What have I done that was so wrong that I am seen, by whatever great force there is, as a piece of garbage? WHAT?

  He cried out, “God, if you do exist, I hate you! I hate you for what y
ou allowed my mother to endure, and I hate you for what you have allowed to happen to me! Every good thing that has happened in my life is only because I have persevered despite the odds. Never have you given me one small reason to believe in you or love you. So go ahead! If you do exist, make your plans to finish me off! But let me tell you, I will fight to survive all the way! I don’t know what I will do, but I am NOT going down without a fight! Believe me, it won’t be you I thank if I get out of this, it will be me!” He stopped and drew several ragged breaths. “Just leave me alone! Leave me alone! I will find a way. I have not had your help, and I don’t want it now! As far as you are concerned, I have never mattered. Well, you don’t matter to me! You hear me? If you are out there, Gastien Beauchamp does not exist! Not for you.”

  Although silence of the cathedral mocked him, a priest waited in the shadows. He had found Gastien’s things and wondered who they belonged to. He removed them so that they would not be stolen. Tonight he had kept watch to see if anyone came to claim them. His eyes burned with tears when he heard Gastien’s forlorn cries out to God. Instead of being angry with the way this young man spoke to his Father in heaven, the priest had compassion on him. He could understand the utter desolation Gastien felt, because he had seen desolation in the eyes of so many. He walked quietly over to the huddled body of Gastien. Gastien was still sobbing and did not hear the priest as he eased himself down beside the young man.

  “Shhhhh. Shhh, Son, don’t be afraid. I have your things. Shhhhh,” said the priest tenderly. Then he simply reached forward and held Gastien in his arms, while Gastien sobbed. The priest knew it had not registered yet that his things were not lost. He simply rocked Gastien awkwardly. “What is your name, Son? Mine is Father Fournier. Can you hear me?”

  Gastien stopped sobbing. All of a sudden he realized he was being held. Although his body tensed up (he was still not used to kindness from males), he looked into Father Fournier’s eyes. He saw only kindness. Gastien shuddered, trying to get himself under control. He wiped quickly at his eyes, wishing he had something to blow his nose into. The priest took a cloth from the altar, offering it to him.

  “Here. Wipe your tears and blow your nose, son,” he said gently.

  Gastien did so, then realized that he had soiled an alter cloth. Mon Dieu, how could a priest allow that? “Father, I am sorry to have used this. I know you offered, but I should have thought. It must be holy or something to you,” Gastien said quietly.

  “It is just a piece of cloth in the end, Son. Material items can symbolize many things, but if accessories of the church can’t be put to use when a human being’s soul is in great pain, what good are they really? Their meaning becomes quite empty. I am sure that God understands.”

  “Forgive me, Father, but I don’t believe in your God,“ Gastien stated. “I learned years ago he did not really exist. If you are hoping for a believer, I am going to have to disappoint you.”

  Father Fournier smiled. “That is quite all right. You don’t have to believe in Him. He believes in you. That is all that matters.”

  “Well, he has one hell of a way of showing it so far,” Gastien said tiredly.

  The priest wisely let that go. “Why don’t you come with me to my quarters? It is warmer there, as it is much smaller than this big old building. I can make us a small supper. It won’t be fancy, but I promise you will get a full, warm stomach,” the priest offered.

  Gastien looked at him suspiciously. “Why would you do that? Why do you say you have my things? Why would you take them away and then be kind to me?” His eyes grew big. “I think you want to turn me in!” He pulled away and stood up. He was embarrassed to have been rocked in the arms of a man.

  “I took your things because I was afraid they would get stolen. What am I going to turn you in for, and to whom? Shall I turn you in to the police for owning a blanket? Or perhaps to God for cursing at him?” the Father smiled.

  Gastien just looked at him. “What do you want from me? Please just give me my things!” he cried desperately. He wanted his things back, he wanted to touch everything and make sure it was all there, not damaged. He needed to see his things!

  “I have your things in my quarters, Son. If you don’t want the meal, you can walk with me to get them. But I do make a mean stew! There is meat in it, I have some good bread, and I even have some sweets that parishioners gave to me this week. I am quite willing to share, but it is your choice.” The Father kept his voice soft and even. He maintained eye contact with Gastien and stepped back, giving him more space. Gastien said nothing. Stew sounded good, and meat in it even better! And sweets? He had not had a sweet since his first day in Paris.

  “Well?” inquired the priest, after a few minutes, “Do I have a guest for dinner or not? I must get back there to make sure the stew is not boiling away. It would be a pity to eat alone, as I made more than enough for three or four! Plus, I have a nice bottle of cabernet to go with it…”

  Gastien sniffled and scratched his head, breaking eye contact. He kicked softly at the floor. The man was right, what reason did he have to trick him? He could use the meal, it would be one less to worry about. He obviously could not continue to stay here, or the priest would not have moved his things. Decision made, Gastien jutted out his chin and said stubbornly, “I accept. Merci. Just, please, don’t lecture me about sleeping in the church or turn me over to somebody.”

  “I doubt anyone would know how to prosecute a young man seeking solstice in the house of God, Son. There is no reason to be afraid of me.”

  Gastien looked at him another minute. Then he smiled slightly. Inclining his head, he said “Then let’s go. I, as you may have guessed, am starving!”

  XIX

  They made their way to the priest’s quarters next to the church. When they entered, the savory smell of meat stew greeted Gastien. Mon Dieu, the smell made him weak with hunger! It was all he could do to not run over to the kettle and start gulping it down, boiling or not!

  The priest busied himself preparing the table, cutting bread, and pouring vin. As he went about these chores, he talked. “Sit down right here at the table, please. It is so nice to have company for dinner! What is your name, Son?”

  “Gastien.”

  “Do you have a last name?”

  “Not anymore,” Gastien stated. “I don’t want to use it, at least for awhile.”

  “Understood. Sometimes it is better to break away from a family situation, isn’t it. Gastien, I tell you what, how about if I give you a break? I won’t ask you a single question until after we have both eaten our fill. That way you can simply enjoy a good meal. Does that sound good?”

  Gastien relaxed. “Oui! Oui, that sounds good.”

  Soon the food was on the table, and the priest sat down. He bent his head in prayer. “I will not ask you to join me. I know you do not believe. But I do, so I must pray to my Father. I will pray to myself, but I ask that you respect my belief by remaining quiet while I do so.”

  Gastien inclined his head that he agreed. He was thankful that the priest did not pray long. He wanted that stew in his stomach!

  “Please feel free to enjoy the stew,” smiled Father Fournier. Gastien enjoyed it immensely. In fact, he enjoyed three bowls of it, four pieces of bread, and a large piece of cake! By the time he was done, he wondered if he would ever hunger again. Unfortunately, he knew that hunger would come way too soon.

  “Would you like a cigarette?” asked the priest. “I myself enjoy one cigarette a day, after my evening meal.”

  Gastien declined. “I do smoke once in awhile, but not often. And, quite honestly, that was the best stew I have ever eaten. I don’t want a cigarette to rob the taste of it from my mouth!”

  “Fair enough. I am glad you enjoyed it.”

  As the priest smoked, Gastien told him about his life so far. He told him about the beatings, about his dreams and how he had progressed, but certainly NOT about the twins! He ended up with, “That is where I was until I returned tonight and fou
nd my belongings missing. I could not believe my life was over so quickly. I did not know what I was going to do!”

  His gaze fell upon the tarp with his belongings wrapped up. The tote had been with him. Father Fournier said gently, “Go ahead and look through your things, Gastien. You know I would not take or damage anything, but I also know it was quite a shock. You probably just want to have physical contact with your belongings, to reground yourself. I won’t be offended.”

  Gastien jumped up and hurried over to his things. He went through the tarp, reassuring himself that everything was there, including the warm blanket. Then he looked at his art supplies. It was more just to verify that he did indeed still exist than anything. He looked up. “What did you think when you found my stuff? Why did you look in the bench today?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I just for some reason opened the bench. I wish I would not have. Because once I did, I knew that someone homeless was using the area for a place to store belongings, and possibly to sleep. Unfortunately, once I know that, I cannot allow them to stay on.”

  “Father, I would not hurt anything! If I were a thief, things would be missing by now. I have been staying there for about a month and a half or better. Please, you don’t understand,” Gastien pleaded, “I have nowhere to go!”

  “I know, Son. It breaks my heart. You are not the only homeless person I have encountered in the cathedral, and I am sure you will not be the last. I wish with all of my heart I could let you stay there. The church is nothing if it does not provide for the needs of people who come in. But, unfortunately, if we have homeless sleeping throughout the cathedral, parishioners will be intimidated. Soon there would be dozens of homeless setting up shop inside. What would we do then? Truly, I wish I had an answer. I wish I had room for you here, that it would not be frowned upon. You touch my heart more than most. You are simply without money, young, finding your way. Still, I can’t provide a place for you, Gastien, no matter how loudly my heart cries out.”