Man in a hat on the Durbuy waterfront

He sits on a bench, as he does every day , at the same time just before the children leave school, like a flock of sparrows whose cage has been opened.

Nobody knows what he's doing there. he is waiting . Every day he has the same hope in his eyes, the same thoughtful smile on his lips.
Nothing in his demeanor suggests impatience or boredom.

Expected. That's all.

People walk by, look at him, silently wondering. Some shrug their shoulders and continue on their way.

Hasty and silent mothers, naughty and teasing teenagers, wild children... Would the whole city gather on this street at this hour?

"He's a crazy old man," say people here and there in the houses, in the evenings, when everyone is asleep and you can still see him calmly on his bench.

He then removes his hat , on which he leans against the stone wall as if blending into the crowd. His hands come off his knees as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an old, very old heather pipe...

It's been a while since he's had tobacco... It doesn't matter! His hand finds the warmth of the pipe, envelops it tenderly.

Old loves from the past, I should have fired them. He can't The pipe belonged to his father, who got it from his father, who himself... It was the only treasure in the family.

He puts his hat back on, his pipe in his pocket, finally stands up, cold, a little offended.

He did not come.

He, the boy I've been waiting for. is it wrong he is sick? Or just "absent"?

Has he forgotten the moment when he, too, drifts away a little more every day?

He is a young boy and without too much preamble he settles under the shelter of a very old vineyard that some would like to get rid of.

Luckily he settles in there and makes himself comfortable.

Then , like a relic, he pulls a very old book out of his pocket.
Read a few lines or pages. He reads them aloud as if he would like to be the people he finds there.

He has Cyrano's deep accent, Roxane's soft, light voice, and Christian's worried sigh.

He plays... He has Rodrigue's passion, his passion in battle. It's chimène when she loves.

He's too young to know all this, but he puts so much heart into his reading that even older kids would say, "Hats off!

Read, a few lines or a few pages... until he looks up at the old man who is listening and smiling at him.

He pauses, closes his book, pulls on his thirsty boots, tucks Durandal in the bottom of his pocket, and then, without shaking hands with his only spectator, flies to his luncheon and the silent warmth of a fireplace.

He didn't come today... but tomorrow?

Tomorrow he will open his book, lend him his eyes, his voice. It will make him dream and tremble again.

...

Willem Vandenameele