Walnuts

On the #5 bus in Aix-en-Provence

Audrey got on the #5 after closing her storage box at Shurgard Self Storage on the outskirts of Aix-en-Provence, a small, lovely city in the South of France. It was the end of the day, and the bus was nearly full when she got on at Cavaliers.

After she sat down near the back of the bus, she noticed the two men across from her. Both were a bit scruffily dressed, and they looked around 60, though it was hard to really tell their ages.

The one standing up was speaking in what sounded like an Eastern European language. Russian? Ukrainian? These the first languages to pop into her mind because, well, of course, the war. Besides that, the man wasn’t just speaking, he was ranting, ranting somewhat loudly between swallows he took from an open bottle of white wine. Something really had him upset, and though she had no factual basis for it, Audrey imagined it had to do with the war.

The Ranter’s companion sat silently in the seat across the aisle from Audrey, staring blankly ahead. He held a brown paper sack full of walnuts and was cracking and eating them, one by one.

Audrey glanced at the passengers in front of her on the bus. Their eyes registered awareness of the standing man’s drinking and ranting, but no one seemed alarmed. The driver continued driving, glancing occasionally but repeatedly, into the mirror, something Audrey hadn’t seen before. This was also the first time she’d seen anyone drinking alcohol on the bus, much less taking swigs from an open bottle.

Audrey shuffled her tote bags around, creating a chance to turn her body in the seat. This is when she noticed that the Walnut-eater was cracking walnuts in his bare hands. A third first, she thought, and this one was more amazing to her than the Ranter with the open bottle. How in the hell was this man cracking walnuts with his bare hands?

Audrey watched scraps of walnut shell fall from the man’s thick hands as he freed the meat, saw a scattering of ragged shells dot the floor around him. The Ranter continued drinking and ranting, the Walnut-cracker continued cracking and eating, the bus continued its route.

Audrey watched the comings and goings at each stop, watched the people getting on the bus greet the driver with Bonjour/Hello and those getting off offer, Merci, au revoir/Thank you, goodbye. This, a lovely French custom, Audrey thought, one she happily practiced.

In fact, she rode the bus so often that these words of acknowledgement had become second nature, something not yet true for her in terms of saying Bonjour when she entered a shop. Anchored in American customs, Audrey’s behavior still sometimes ran on auto-pilot, much to her dismay, for she didn’t want to be disrespectful to the country that had so warmly welcomed her.

Soon it wasn’t only walnut shells on the floor. The Ranter had finished the bottle and it rolled around beneath his swaying body, the bottle and the Ranter both falling prey to the turns and bumps of the #5 as it wove its way through the city’s narrow streets.

At the Miollis stop the Walnut-cracker stood up and got off the bus, got off without a word to his companion, or to anyone. The Ranter had quieted down a bit after finishing the bottle. Still, people were giving him space, especially after the Walnut-cracker’s departure. Audrey saw the driver’s eyes glance in the mirror, saw also how people’s bodies registered awareness of the intoxicated man standing, in fact tilting, nearby.

Soon the bus stopped at Amandiers, and Audrey watched the Ranter shuffle across the bus’s aisle toward its open doors, watched him pause, his body seeming to reverse, to levitate as his mouth opened and he proclaimed, in perfect French and without a hint of intoxication: Merci, au revoir! And with that he stepped off the bus into the city’s soft, evening air.