For Service
Alba found the couple odd as she led them to a table by the window. The woman had a held-in quality, as if not breathing. The man was just a little too correct.
The woman, Alba noticed, had a ring, an engagement ring she guessed, with a tasteful large diamond. She asked them if they would like drinks before dinner, offered a menu to each and went to her other tables.
When she brought them their drinks and set them down, the table shook a little. Someone had bumped it, she was sure; and she knew it was not her. The woman’s drink spilled.
The man turned on Alba, his nostrils flared and his lips thin with anger. “That was clumsy,” he said. “Bring a cloth to clean it.” The woman reached out a hand, and then withdrew it. “The customer is right,” the managers told her when she was hired, “no matter what they do in France.” Alba did go for a cleaning cloth. The man and woman said nothing, though the woman looked with sympathetic eyes.
The man rose. “Where is the restroom?” he asked in a curt voice. Alba half lowered her head and pointed across the dining room. He walked in that direction with a tight gait.
Alba lowered her eyes. She did not want to add to her guest’s embarrassment.
When she raised them, she saw the woman working the ring from her hand and placing it on the menu at the man’s place. Then she stood, said in a controlled voice, “Tell him, please” and covered the ring with a still-folded napkin. She walked with sad pride towards the door, looked back once, and was gone.
When the man returned, her English deserted her. She pointed silently at the napkin and then found she must go to her other guests.
When she looked again, the napkin was askew and the man was gone. There was, she noticed, no tip.
A week passed.
She was on duty again when she found to her surprise the man waiting. Silence served her. She was about to lead him to a solitary table when he raised a hand and showed a softer face than she remembered.
“I came to apologize,” he said. “I ensnared you in a drama.”
Alba realized she had tilted her head, because he went on. “The lady I was with was my fiancee. I had realized that though I treasured her, I did not love her. She is good, and deserves love. What could I do that would not break her heart?” He looked down.
“The only thing I could think of was to get her to end it. All day I was cold to her, and then at the restaurant I bumped the table…” Alba saw a flush of embarrassment cross his face. “…and was a boor to you.” Now his face was not red but sad. “She made the judgment, she left. She got to end what would not have worked.”
“But I forgot your tip. And the explanation, and my regrets for being so rude.”
Alba was watching his face so closely that she almost did not see his hand, face down, holding a bill. She thought of refusing it, but tips are honorable.
“Merci,” she said.
“Merci a vous,” he replied. He nodded, smiled and was gone.
Alba withdrew her tip-wallet. She unfolded the bill. She saw it was a hundred dollars. She placed it at the back of her daily tips, beside the other hundred the former fiancee had brought to her three days before.
