Walter, Passing

Not Walter, but from the back there's a strong resemblance.

The gentleman in question, and his lady

Walter, passing. He does not have a bump on his head; that is a white-haired man crossing behind him.

Paris in the springtime is proverbial. Walter and I were able to travel to Paris several times, always in the springtime. In Europe, spring is closer to winter than it is here, and Walter always dressed accordingly, in sports coat or blazer, sweater vest, and a buttoned shirt, and often a hat. With his silver hair and distinguished head, he always fitted right in, passing effortlessly for French. He read French much better than he spoke it, particularly in the real-time haste of speech, and I spoke English with him. Waiters overhearing us often brought me a menu in English, which I always exchanged giving a sharp look. Walter always got a menu in French, which I generally had to translate, as his vocabulary did not extend to food.

 He passed for French so often that we got to expect it. Once we were having breakfast in a café during the World Cup play-offs. France had made it into the finals, and everyone was staring at the TV, peeling off reluctantly to get to work. One man after another stopped to murmur something into Walter’s ear, to gesture significantly at the screen, to look at him expectantly. He did not let them down. He shrugged, tilted his head, raised his eyebrows, looked up at them ruefully, made some sign with his hands. Every time, the man laughed, clapped Walter on the shoulder, and strode away, clearly feeling that he had been understood.

 Another time there was a major exhibition of Manet at the Orsay. The line snaked back and forth, filling the plaza. It was late morning, and it looked like we were in for a long wait. Suddenly I heard an announcement in French:   the galleries were so full that no one else would be admitted until after 1pm. I grabbed his arm and hissed, “Come with me! Now! Run!” Happily Walter trusted me enough to run with me first and get an explanation after. As we cleared the plaza, we heard the announcement repeated in German, then English. I had figured that much of the line would use the opportunity to get lunch, and I had noticed only one promising restaurant nearby as we’d walked from the Métro.

 The crowd surged but we had a head start. We got an excellent table against the wall, next to an older French couple, and had the Schadenfreude of seeing people turned away from the now-full restaurant. 

We ordered a good meal in the French style, and Walter got his usual pichet of house wine. Then we settled in to chat quietly and wait for our meals and to enjoy 90 minutes or so before strolling back to the Orsay. Apparently many Americans speak loudly, demand their food be brought quickly, and hustle away from the table. The couple next to us eyed us and we exchanged sociable nods. After we’d eaten, the husband struck up a conversation. That is to say, he started talking to Walter, and Walter gave his usual stellar performance. He looked at the other man intently, nodding now and then. He smiled wryly, shrugged, leaned forward. He gave every sign of participating. Certainly, he was a good listener, and the other man became animated, laughing, confiding his philosophy of life, his vulnerable moments, and who knows what all else. We wives watched this touching bonding. The woman said to me in French, “Your husband doesn’t understand French, does he?” “No, you’re right, he doesn’t,” I answered, “and your husband doesn’t know it, does he?” We laughed and enjoyed conversation of our own while watching the meeting of true minds across the tables. Walter was not malicious—far from it. He simply wanted not to disappoint his neighbor.

When Walter did venture French, he had a strong Brazilian accent, as he had started learning French during his schooling in Brazil. It seems that Parisians find the Brazilian accent adorable, and they always cooed over its manifestation. Another win for Walter.