The Walnut Café

Jean was sitting in his grandfather’s old rocking chair, he had sat there for the better part of the morning. He was immobile, statuesque. His chest lifting slightly, elevating only to depress and fall further into his form, this was the limit of his movement. An all too necessary action, one which Jean would rather have not even taken if he could have helped it. His chest hung low, dangling over his legs, and his head even lower, hiding the vital redness of his eyes and the simple streams that fell further down. These currents of life in Jean’s momentarily inanimate body fell on his legs, trailed down them and onto the red oak floor. These were the moments when Jean truly felt alone. Not in a physical sense of course, as the house was bustling with relatives and old family friends, but in a sincere way only a true artist can be. Jean’s grandfather was kin more than just in name or blood, but in his passions. He sat there at his grandfather’s desk, with his grandfather’s old recipe book in hand. His body pressed into the cold chair by an immeasurable sense of depression, one which might have seemed familiar to some onlookers. Jean was alone.

After a while of lurking in the door, Jean’s cousin, Mélanie, ambled her way into the room. She walked behind Jean and hung her arms around the back of the chair, as to rest her hands on his head. She rested her arms against Jeans short and ruffled brown hair and leaned to the side to look at him. She looked deep into the sorrow of Jean’s face and spoke, “Jean, Papa is dead. It doesn’t mean you need to be!” Mélanie said this in her soft and loving voice, one she reserved for when Jean was sad. She had always looked after her younger cousin, she had loved to sit in the kitchen of Papa’s house while he and Jean would cook. This was their art and she was always a ready critic, at least ready to eat. Jean mustered his energy and turned his head up at Mélanie and said nothing aloud, his eyes had carried their message as well as any words could have.

After a moment of this locking of minds, Mélanie stood up and glided towards the French doors of the study. “He left you quite a lot in the will at least, lots to remember him by.” She looked back over her shoulder at him and sighed, tilting her head in the face of defeat, “He left you a house, with the best kitchen in the city, and a new tree freshly planted out back. It does add a nice touch.” She paused and looked at him, a sense of pity took over, “I’m sorry he’s gone but you should move on Jean. Give me a call if you need to talk.” She said this with a loving tone and disappeared out of the room.

A year later and Jean had hardly called, he had hardly smiled or even talked. Jean dreamt only of a successful restaurant to honor the man who had taught him to cook, one which would require more money if he had any hope to open. This thought had crept into Jean’s mind over the last year. As he began to cook once more in Papa’s old kitchen, he had once again made his famous lemon lavender crêpes for Mélanie and his parents. But it seemed so bleak to only share such cooking with those who had already been spoiled by it. A sweet idea wafted into his mind one evening, about two months after the funeral, that he should open a restaurant, but quickly this idea had soured. He was young and had little, most of which he did have was now left to him by his grandfather. This idea tortured Jean, as he wandered through the old house, each chair and clock ringing at him as an expense, as a challenge that he would need to answer. In the end Jean was obsessed.

The afternoons when Mélanie would come by, she would tell him that he needed to spend some more time outside and more time being productive, such as painting or woodworking. While Mélanie seemed harsh, but she was of course right. On this occasion Mélanie had brought Jean out into the backyard to sit and have tea. Throughout the visit bringing attention to the marvelous, yet now horridly overgrown, garden that Papa had left behind and that new tree which had grown into a wondrous walnut tree. She said all this in the hopes that Jean would take up something else, something distracting in his life at the house, instead of moping around and reminiscing all day. The days came and went and Jean did not paint, whittle or of course garden. Jean was depressed and, as anyone who has found themselves in similar scenarios can attest, it is mighty difficult to break free of such a mind set.

A month had passed after Mélanie had drawn attention to this new walnut tree, that had grown unimpededly in the backyard, before it crossed Jean’s mind once more. It was early November, the perfect season for walnuts, and he was hungry. Jean walked out into the back yard, past the old stone table, where the family would always sit for tea, through the wooden arbor, now overgrown with vines, and up to the terrace where the walnut tree stood. This tree was still young, but quite rich. It’s leaves verdant and it’s bark was an enveloping amber hue. Jean reached up and grabbed a nut, peeled off the outer flesh and cracked open the nut on a boulder that sat between the tree and the nearby wall. Jean struck the nut against the boulder once, then twice and finally with a third strike to the grey monolith, the nut’s shield gave way. Buried deep inside the nut was a roll of a thousand dollars. Jean was confused. He was gobsmacked. Completely at his wits end. Jean began to speak to himself, “Why?” He gave a great pause, he looked back at the tree and then the nut. He was puzzled.

“How?” He let out from beneath his breath. He climbed the tree and grabbed another nut, upon smashing it against the rock once again he found the same.

Jean sat down upon the grass, looking up at the tree in amazement. “How does this even happen?” He said to himself, as with a literal money tree in front of him, talking to oneself seemed far less insane. Jean sat there under the tree looking up at it, thinking for a bit and then some more. He finally figured he ought to count all the nuts and so he did. He first did so from the ground then he began climbing the walnut tree in hopes to accurately account for all the nuts. Once he had done so, he had counted twenty. Twenty nuts, which he presumed all carried money inside, meaning Jean had twenty thousand dollars hanging on a walnut tree in his backyard. During this strange day, Jean hadn’t realized that the sun had risen, reached its peak and descended, leaving him standing under a tree counting nuts at ten o’clock at night.

When the sun finally rounded the earth and began creeping along the horizon, Jean had wrapped not only what was happening but what he was going to do around his head. He had saved up almost enough to open the restaurant he had dreadfully wanted and a few of these nuts would be just enough to get the ball rolling. This was Jean’s lucky day! He called Mélanie and told her he had finally saved enough for Papa’s Café, conveniently leaving out any mention of a magically producing money tree. Within a month he had bought a small corner shop at the outskirts of the city and began remodeling, he did so sparingly only having to crack open three other nuts. He had laid out a classic and traditional feel to the seating area. A collection of small and warm tables and chairs sat positioned outside under the awning and a reserve inside incase of bad weather. Next, Jean turned his attention to the kitchen, where he ran into his first bit of misfortune. The pre-owned equipment which he was hopeful for was old, far too old, far too broken, and generally without hope. Upon realizing this, Jean cracked open four more nuts, and his optimism began to shift.

Two months later and Jean’s dream of Papa’s Café was real. The outside was a stunning white with red accents and a lovely awning. The inside looked immaculate, clean and ready for service. Jean was ready, for the first time in over a year he had truly set his mind to something. Soon the opening day came. Jean was ready, he had been for so months, he had been since the thought seeped into his mind. On the opening day the sky was black, covered in clouds, and from them a stream of life came pouring down. On the opening day, Jean saw few customers. The next day, the one following that and so on, Jean saw few customers. His dream was here was it not, Papa’s Café was real. He sat there behind the counter waiting for customers, flipping through his grandfather’s small black notebook filled with recipes. Jean wanted every person in town to rush in and taste every last thing written down in this old book. But that day seemed to never come. Jean’s hope and thoughts grew more fleeting each time he had to crack open a nut and extract more money just to keep the cafe afloat. He cracked one open one month, another a few months later. As he did so, his dream seemed to die around him. This last testament to his grandfather, the fellow artist, was lost.

One day, a sunny summer day Mélanie came by the old house. Jean was sitting under the walnut tree, from which now only one nut hung. He had sat there for the better part of the morning she suspected. His chest lifting slightly, elevating and falling again melting him further into the tree. Mélanie ran to Jean and knelt down before him, “Jean are you alright?” she asked, having already seen the answer. “No, Mélanie! This tree, the last gift from Papa, is dying. I have taken what I can from it and every time I feel that I am killing a part of myself.” Jean unfurled his hand revealing the second to last nut with the money inside it. “This tree is how I afforded the café. This tree is how I let everyone else know of Papa and his artistry!”. Mélanie looked deeply into Jean’s face. She held his hand and sat down next to him. They sat there under the walnut tree, watching the setting summer sun for some time. Finally Mélanie broke the silence, “Jean, maybe it is not my place to speak, but Papa is all but gone. They will never taste his cooking. They will taste yours! Do not live for Papa, live as so he would be proud of his young Jean.” She leaned over resting her head on his shoulder, “Jean do not take from this tree for anyone but yourself. Do not sell your soul for anyone!”

A month later Jean had a grand reopening, in his hand he held a new black notebook filled with Jean. The Walnut Café grew and grew, until soon it was so popular it came time to move into a larger location. Jean’s dream was his.