Waiters and Roses

by Julie Wornan

On the top floor of a certain Parisian art museum, there is an unusual exhibit. An enormous block of something like bluish ice contains, as though frozen within it, a perfect life-sized replica of a tea-room, complete with two waiters impeccably dressed in the fashion of that romantic period: early 21st-century Paris. There are no customers. On each table a red rose glows like a little lamp in the gloom. The œuvre is striking for its realism and touching in its nostalgia.

Oddly, none of the museum staff can tell you the origin of the work. Some think it has been there since the museum was built. Some say there once was an actual tea-room here, and some claim to have dined there, in the old days when everyone could afford the museum fee and you didn’t have to be wealthy to enjoy a snack high above the city, looking down on a jumble of roofs and graffitied walls.

* * *

The waiters — let’s call them Jean-Pierre and Jean-Luc — are anxious to clear up and go home. It is nearly closing time, and the day’s few customers are gone. It has started to rain hard. Jean-Pierre, elegant, professional, holds a tray bearing the last coffee cups as he turns toward Jean-Luc to encourage him to hurry.

Jean-Luc has his back to us; his head is slightly bent; his thoughts are elsewhere. He is looking at the roses. “Rose-Marie has left me,” he blurts.

Jean-Pierre is surprised. His colleague never talks about himself. Is it the rain? The roses? Should he find some words of comfort? “C’mon, my friend. It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs.

“No,” says Jean-Luc, unexpectedly. “It will never be okay again.” He just stands there holding his tray, a white napkin draped over his left arm, remembering: “I left her alone too much. I worked too many hours. And even with all the overtime, we couldn’t afford the life she wanted.”

And then he says what they have both been avoiding: “You know, we’re fired.”

“Yeah, I know. They’re closing this place down.” Jean-Pierre’s professionalism crumbles. His face falls and he, too, stops in his tracks. The rain hammers on the glass like an omen.

“Nobody’s hiring,” he admits.

“No. Restaurants aren’t getting customers. People can’t afford to eat out these days.”

“Remember when we started? Seems like only yesterday. I’d got this great job, and Rose-Marie...” For a moment Jean-Luc seems about to cry.

“Oh I believe in Yesterday.” Jean-Pierre remembers the old classic and sings it softly in English. Jean-Luc joins in and tops it with “There’s no Tomorrow.”

“Today,” says Jean-Luc, firmly. “Let’s stop at Today. With the roses.”

The rain lashes the walls faster and faster. Inside the tea-room, time runs slower and slower. And then it stops.

* * *

A museum guard is telling a visitor that there was indeed a tea-room here forty years ago. It was the inspiration for this work, a very fine life-size sculpture, by “Anonymous.”