Part 2 : The Princess
I could hardly believe it.
The Princess ignored the three other free tables on the terrace, walked straight over, and squeezed herself into the seat right next to mine.
This was a direct assault on my cloak of invisibility, my shield of personal space, which I’d spent months perfecting.
The Princess is one of many familiar figures dotting Montel town centre. At first, I was curious, and sometimes even a little threatened by them… but now they just feel familiar. It’s remarkable how we humans adapt to the most unusual things through constant exposure, how repetition blurs the lines between the strange and the ordinary until it feels normal.
I don’t know their names, but I can predict their movements: the what, when, and how of their day. Each one 'owns' a corner of the neighborhood, sticking to a precise routine, rain or shine. They’ve become part of the town’s fabric; without them, something feels off.
It’s a habit of mine to process information by assigning nicknames to people and situations, which is why I’ll introduce you to some of Montel’s unique characters that way:
The Starer is a tall, round-faced man in his early thirties, wearing small, wire-rimmed glasses à la Professor Calculus. Every morning at 11 a.m. on the dot, he arrives at Café Marianne. He orders a black coffee, places it precisely in the center of the table, and stares at the blank, cream-colored wall as if it holds the secrets of the universe. He never touches his coffee, barely blinks, and after exactly 30 minutes (I’ve timed it), he leaves €1.70—the price of the coffee—on the table and quietly slips away. Once, our paths crossed on a bus. I spotted him sitting in the back, staring straight ahead as usual. A chill ran down my spine. I jumped off at the next stop, well before my destination.
The Crossword Champion: a man in his fifties who always sits at the same table by the café’s main entrance. Dressed in his shiny green baggy sweatpants (which show up as reliably as Montel’s persistent rain) and oversized wireless headphones, he’s practically inseparable from his spot. One day, when his usual table was temporarily removed for repairs, he didn’t hesitate to show his displeasure to the waitress. Though he reluctantly moved to another seat, he didn’t seem quite himself. He was more irritated than usual. Still, it didn’t stop him from sticking to his routine. He pulled out the day’s paper, flipped straight to the crossword page, and didn’t lift his head until every block was filled. As much as I hate to admit it, his level of commitment sparks a bit of admiration in me, especially when I can’t seem to stick to a single hobby for more than a few weeks.
The Resident DJ: Every Saturday, between 2 and 5 p.m., the self-proclaimed Resident DJ rolls down Charles de Gaulle Avenue, right through the town center, in his motorized wheelchair. Dressed in a Stetson hat, cowboy vest, and boots, complete with a sheriff’s star I once spotted pinned to his vest, he blasts music from a speaker firmly attached to his chair. He doesn’t take requests; his own taste in music is the only available repertoire, which consists of American country songs and Johnny Hallyday’s hits. He insists on keeping the town center entertained, even when stone-filled walkways were put up around the construction site. And somehow, every time I pass him, I catch myself silently humming along… another milestone in my slow journey toward rock bottom.
I could go on with more of Montel’s staple characters: The Drunk, The Pervert, The Rock Star, The Standby Lover, The Parisian Casanova... but I’ll save them for another time.
And then, of course, there’s The Princess.
At six feet tall, the Princess towers over most women in Montel. Though she seems to be in her early fifties, she looks much older, her features marked by the hardships of a difficult life. Her outfits never fail to amaze me. They are faded but elaborate, trimmed with pins, bows, and lace. Everything she wears seems custom-made (remember, we’re in the Kingdom of Sweatshirts).
She pairs long frou-frou skirts with worn-out black boots, and a shiny tiara of rhinestones always crowns her short gray hair. She looks as if she’s ready for a Cinderella-themed birthday party, perhaps her own, or one she was never invited to. To me, she seems like a misplaced character from a fairy tale turned real, without a Prince Charming or a happy ending. Yet she clings to that fantasy, a lie told again and again. Though her outfits may change, the tiara remains, almost like a clever PR move.
The Princess wanders the town alone. Sometimes, she sits by the Montel River to watch the ducks glide by, but more often, I spot her wherever I go, engaging in what I once thought was my thing: café hopping (Don’t worry, I’ll get into that in my next story).
That Monday morning, I felt the Princess’s gaze pierce right through me. I discreetly pressed my earphones, trying to turn up the volume, only to realize it was already at maximum. Act busy, act busy! I reminded myself, scribbling nonsense in my notebook.
My ears were about to burst, when she turned with a toothless smile and said something to me.
I felt forced to pull off my earphones. She realized I hadn’t heard her, so she repeated, "Not a good day to be out," pointing to the rain pouring outside.
My iron shield, my carefully crafted, socially-proofed bubble, shattered into a thousand pieces. Of course, my heart picked that exact second to start pounding in my chest.
"Why are you talking to me? Go away! What do we have in common? Nothing!"
But none of those words came out. Instead, I managed an awkward nod and a forced smile and glanced at my notebook, pretending to be deep in thought.
"I haven't seen you around here in a while," she continued. "I was wondering if you were OK."
My fingers gripped the pen a little tighter.
Why are you still talking? Why?
"I was traveling, and I just got back," I mumbled, my voice barely audible. Indeed, I had only returned from Casablanca the week before.
Why did I say that? I could have just nodded again. But no, now she thinks we’re having a conversation.
Desperate to escape, I glanced at my watch, pretending I had something urgent to do. I gathered my things, mumbled a quick "au revoir," and hurried to the cash counter to pay. My half-full macchiato sat abandoned on the table.
On my walk home, I replayed my brief exchange with the Princess, feeling both uneasy and oddly comforted. It was like she saw me in that unspoken way that happens whenever I run into one of Montel’s characters. No words, no eye contact, yet we recognize each other.
I bet they’ve all got a nickname for me, too.
