*A Dream

I walked into the dimly lit room. Unlike most nights, my little Café Kafka on the coast of Spain was actually crowded. Varieties of military men from many different countries were talking and laughing in quite a jovial manner. Rather shocking, I must admit, that they could still enjoy themselves with all that they have seen. War is a hard time for all.

I walked to the counter and ordered my usual sarsaparilla. I turned around with my drink so I could observe those around me. A few of the fellows also standing around the counter talking kept glancing at me. In a few minutes time, they sauntered over and attempted to engage me in conversation. They even were assisted by the bar keep. I did my best to sway them from their obvious goal, but it was to little avail.

In the midst of my polite, yet cold responses to these men with dishonourable intentions, a man sitting at the end of the counter interrupted their conversation by ordering a hot black coffee, two spoons of sugar, and a scoop of ice from the bar tender. This caused the men to stop speaking – and me to look in the direction of the voice – for none of us had noticed his presence until that moment. He smiles politely at all of us as he is handed his unusual order of a drink.

This causes the soldier boys to remember my presence and they once again begin to speak to me. They even ask me to dance, to which I of course decline. They still continue to press me. All of a sudden, the mysterious man at the end of the counter speaks up. “Hey, leave her alone, will you fellas? If she says no, she means no.” I smile at him gratefully.

He speaks even more. “Say, you wouldn't mind giving a lonely soldier a break, and give me the honour of a dance, would ya?” Before I am able to say anything in response, the boys crowded near me begin to mock and scorn him. He doesn't reply to them, and I am given no chance to speak my decision.

So I continue to sit and drink and face all the other strangers in the café who are sitting, dancing, or conversing with each other. Finally the group of soldiers begin to let off the stranger, and begin telling me that I’m smart for choosing to not dance with anyone, as opposed to dancing with “that loser” as they so spitefully call him.

I say nothing to them, but only look. I set my glass down on the counter, walk over to the end of the counter where this man is sitting in the shadows, sit down, and ask him if I can try his coffee. A wonderful smile slowly spreads over his face as he hands me his cup. The group of boys are stunned to silence. I sip his drink. The strange combination of hot, cold, and sweet shocks my taste buds in a delightful manner.

We begin to converse. I find out he joined the military out of love for his country…which is my country. He also comes from a long line of military men, and wanted to continue that tradition. As we continue to talk, we discover just how much we have in common. Even hailing from the same state back in the grand ol’ U.S. of A.

Because evening has approached, the band begins to pick up its musical pace. I speak as I hold out my hand. “I believe you asked me for a dance?” That gorgeous smile appears again. “Why, I believe I did,” he says. He takes my hand, and whisks me out on the dance floor as Louis Prima’s Sing, Sing, Sing is started by the band.

As we step onto the dance floor, that same group of boys begin to jeer and yell at us. He tries to remain discreet, but I see his actions anyways. He’s staring them down every chance he gets in the midst of our swings and turns. And it works. Their mocking begins to die down, and soon stops altogether.

As our feet are moving as fast as possible, we dance in an unbelievable manner. Gliding, twirling, swinging like no other couple ever has. A connection that cannot be explained snapped together the moment our feet hit that dance floor. We are out dancing all other couples there.

As the dance is nearing its end, a siren rings out. A messenger boy from one our American military branches comes rushing in to the café. And then more messenger boys from other country’s military charge in as well. Each begins to announce in his own language that the siren call is not just for French soldiers, but for ALL soldiers of all countries present.

Soldiers begin running out, pouring out of the café. All prior activity is forgotten with the sounding of this reminder of war. My soldier runs out as well. But I run out after him. Before he turns round a corner on the street, I call out to him. “Bill! Wait!” He stops. “When will I see you again?!” I cry out. He smiles that heart-melting smile again. “Tell you what! A year and a day from now! At this very place, on the hour when we first met! Is it a date?” I nod and smile. “A year! I’ll be waiting!” But as I drifted off with my sentence drowning in the noise of all the organized chaos of rushing military men, he had already disappeared.

‘A year and a day from now,’ I think to myself, ‘On June 6, 1945. I’ll be waiting, Bill. I’ll be waiting.’


*I had this dream on the night of 14 June 2012, but forgot to post it here.