The cafĆ© sat between a second-hand furniture store and a hairdresser in the shopping area of an older inner-city suburb. It had occupied this site for several decades and its ragged faƧade was showing the puckered nicks and marks that betray years of fluctuating care and maintenance. The cafĆ©ās large awning stretched out over a wide concrete pavement and its frontage was lined by an untidy row of tables and chairs. A constant flow of pedestrians filed under the awning walking back and forth from a railway station five minutes away. A large āCafĆ© Capriā sign hung across the top of the awning and a faded mural of an Italian village decorated the wall in between its two large windows.
Entering inside the first impression was one of confusion. In the back areas dim lighting made it difficult to follow staff activities and in the front areas bright light streaming in from the windows dazzled the gaze when looking outwards. Small tables of varying styles were scattered haphazardly throughout the space, each surrounded by a random collection of steel and wooden chairs. Eight years ago, the cafĆ© owners had leased the shop next door which had enabled them to knock a connecting archway between the two spaces and to fill the new area with additional tables. The differences in style and dĆ©cor between the two areas further enhanced the cafĆ©ās chaotic informality.
It was mid-morning when an old man carrying a battered leather satchel entered the cafĆ©, waved to the woman behind the till and hobbled through the connecting arch to sit at the table in the far corner by the window of the ānewerā part of the cafĆ©. This was his usual place and it allowed him to both watch the goings and comings and to stare outside as the sunlight travelled across the walls of adjacent buildings. Regular customers understood this table as his table, and they would never consider occupying it themselves, especially in the mornings. Occasionally a casual visitor might have unknowingly sat at it but, when the old man arrived, unperturbed, he would sit at a nearby table patiently waiting for the invader to depart.
āThank you,ā he muttered as his coffee and a piece of cake were placed beside him.
āJust yell out if you need anything,ā commented the young waitress.
Most mornings the old man was content to sit sipping his coffee and biding his time either staring out the window at the passing bustle or burying himself in the papers and books which he pulled out of his battered leather satchel. At other times one of the regular patrons might join him to speak about an issue or a worry. He would listen attentively, encourage them with reassurance and advice and sometimes assist them in devising solutions. While he enjoyed these discussions, he was equally content to sit alone, staring out the window or reading through his papers.
The old man, now in his late seventies, had been coming to CafƩ Capri for over twelve years.1 His morning routine started a decade earlier after he retired from his work as a physician at the local hospital. Since then his clothing had become progressively shabbier and his appearance more unkempt. Despite his scruffy appearance, other patrons still felt drawn to him, particularly when they noticed his warm smile and the flashes of intelligence and mischief in his eyes. He was a familiar and accepted sight. The cafƩ waiters knew automatically how he liked his coffee and which biscuit or cakes he preferred. They also knew when he was likely to arrive, and they made sure his table was clear well before his morning visit.
The old manās main companion was an old Labrador-Boxer cross named Soren. He lay outside under the awning below the cafĆ© window with his back against the warm stucco wall. From his table the old man could see the dogās legs splayed out across the pavement and he could keep an eye on him in case of pestering from other dogs or children. He had loosely tied Sorenās leash to a rail but, whether tied or not, he knew Soren was content to lie there with little interest in wandering.
This Monday morning was the start of an unusually busy week for the old man. Besides his normal discussions with Monique and Dorothy, he was also about to meet someone new; someone who would engage him in intense discussions for some time to come.
Jarrod had stopped off for a coffee on his way to the library at the college where he was studying. He had been visiting the cafƩ regularly in the last few weeks for respite from study pressure. He was also charmed by its rambling familiarity and he liked observing the wide range of different people who came in. He strode confidently over to the counter and ordered a coffee. He was dressed in jeans and a black tee-shirt with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. As he carried his coffee through the connecting arch, his tall lean body moved effortlessly into the new part of the CafƩ where he picked out an empty table on the dark side against the inside wall. He sat down and pulled out a textbook from his shoulder bag.
During several of Jarrodās previous visits, while sipping his coffee and scanning the room, he had found his eyes drawn to this scruffily dressed old man in the corner by the window. He noticed how he sometimes had someone sitting with him and he had become increasingly curious about what they were discussing. At times he imagined the old man was a Marxist agitator and that his visitors were all part of his revolutionary cell. At other times he thought of them as relatives trying to convince him to move into a rest home; but that seemed unlikely given the quiet intensity of the conversations. On this morning, burning with inquisitiveness, Jarrod resolved to approach the old man and strike up a conversation and see if he could decipher more about him.
āExcuse me,ā he remarked politely, āwould you have the time please?ā
The old man checked his watch. āHmmā¦ half elevenā¦ā He lifted his gaze to look out the window. āNot a bad day out there.ā
āNo, I mean yesā¦ Itās great; a great day to be out.ā
āAhhā¦ out?ā queries the old man as he looked back up at Jarrod. āWhat do you get up to in late summer when youāre āoutā?ā
āOh, I like to get out of the city, into the forests or by the sea. Thatās where Iād go on a day like this.ā
āSo why arenāt you there?ā
āIām stuck with the first assignments of my course, Iām afraid. Iāve got to study; got to keep focused. I come in here for a break.ā Jarrod stood awkwardly by the table, unsure whether the conversation had run its course.
āYou donāt have to keep standing there, young man. Sit down and tell me more about your studies.ā
Without any further hesitation Jarrod pulled the chair out opposite and slid nimbly into position. āBy the way, Iām Jarrod,ā he declared with a shy smile.
āGood morning Jarrod, Iām Bernard.ā
āSo, what should I call you?ā
āOh, I donāt particularly mind what you call me. You can call me āold manā or āold codgerā or āOld Bernardā for all I care.ā
āBernard?ā It had a nice ring to it. āOkay, Bernardā¦ itās good to meet you.ā He felt slightly awkward talking this way to a stranger, particularly one much his senior.
Bernard spotted Jarrodās embarrassment and, in response, a myriad of wrinkles spread across his face as he smiled benignly back and reached out to shake Jarrodās hand.
Jarrod smiled back nervously unsure how to respond to Bernardās off-hand references to youth and aging.
āSo, Jarrod, fill me in on what youāre studying?ā
āOh, Iām in my third year of study for a communications degree at the College. This is my last semester; not long to go now, thank God.ā
āWhat? Donāt you like what youāre studying?ā
āNo, I donāt mind it, but I want to move on. I want to get out and start doing things: earning a living, take on responsibilities, learning about the worldā¦ Study is all Iāve done so far.ā
The conversation continued and Jarrod found Bernard an attentive listener. He soon lost himself in free and open disclosure of a wide range of aspects of his life. He spoke about how he was brought up with his family in a small mining town over a hundred miles from this city, how heād escaped from there to enroll in a degree, how he was having problems with the three other students with whom he shared an apartment, how heād met and started dating an attractive young womenā¦ He was surprised how easy it was to talk candidly with this old man. None of the older members of his family had ever listened to him so closely. It felt like sailing out from an enclosed harbor into the wide-open sea.
Then, suddenly, Jarrod paused and looked with horror at his watch. āOh, drat, Iām late; Iāve missed my media lecture.ā He frowned then in one athletic movement stood up, picked up his shoulder bag and turned to leave. Equally abruptly he halted and swiveled his head around. āAh, Bernard, Iām sorry, Iām gonna have to take off now.ā
āDonāt apologize. It was good to hear all about whatās going on. Take care, and maybe weāll carry this on another time.ā
Tuesday morning and Bernard had only just managed to settle at his table with a coffee and some papers when he glanced up to see the young man bounding directly toward him. āAh, Jarrod, good to see you again.ā
Jarrod responded with a preoccupied nod and sat down opposite him. āLook, Iām sorry. I ended our conversation so rudely yesterday. Itās been bothering me ever since. I just had to call in to apologize.ā
āI understand,ā stated Bernard as he took a first sip of his coffee. āItās certainly not good to miss out on your classes.ā
āBut itās more than that. I only talked about myself; I didnāt ask you anything!ā
āNo, truly, I was interested in what you had to say. My lifeās so slow and boring compared to yourās.ā Bernard beamed at him with a reassuring smile. āBut, look, you ask me something, anything, and Iāll fill you in.ā
āWellā¦ā Jarrod glanced down at the table. āI couldnāt help noticing all the papers and books youāre working through,ā commented Jarrod hesitantly. āItās like youāre studying for an exam?ā
āOh no, Iām too old for that,ā said Bernard, his chortle moving onto a raspy cough.
Jarrod waited for his coughing to subside. āSo, what are you reading?ā
āWell,ā said Bernard leaning back and studying the young man carefully. āWell, itās an important area for me.ā He maintained a steady gaze. āEver since I retired from work at the hospital, Iāve been pursuing a quest.ā
āA quest?ā queried Jarrod with mind exploding with possibilities.
āYes, Iām on a quest to understand something better. Iāve wanted for some time to know what people are doing when they talk about spiritual encounters.ā
Jarrod paused. He had not expected this from the old man. The phrase āspiritual encountersā buzzed around in his mind triggering off a wild range of associations. āAh, Iā¦ā He was unclear as to how to respond.
Bernard locked into his gaze and could see anxiety and uncertainty flickering across the young manās face. āNo, go on, say what youāre going to say.ā
āHmmā¦. well, Iāve really no idea what you mean by āspiritual encountersā.ā
āUm, I understand them as small or large events when people feel they have formed some sort of connection with something bigger and more meaningful than their own individual lives.ā
Jarrod paused again. He was feeling himself sliding on a slippery slope in a direction he did not wish to proceed. āA āconnectionā?ā
āYes, a sense people have of being part of a wider spiritual or religious realm.ā
āAh, lookā¦ I donāt mean to be rude, butā¦ But donāt you think spiritual encounters are just ordinary explainable events which people have somehow persuaded themselves involve extra or special meanings?ā
āMaybe; maybe from the outside they donāt mean much, but inside, for people who have them, a spiritual encounter can be the most important event in their lives.ā
āBut I can have important dreams or important ideas, or even important hallucinations. This doesnāt make them any more real.ā2
Bernard cast a quizzical glance across the table. He was surprised by how frank this young man could be so early in their acquaintance. He seemed to have very strong views on this topic. Perhaps he needed to approach him from a different angle. āBefore retiring, I worked as a doctor in the hospital specializing in helping people with terminal illnesses.ā He took a long sip from his coffee. āSo, for me, the focus was much more on caring than curing; we had no solutions except empathic listening and pain relief. This meant much more of our energy was focused on the mind and the soul. And, you know, over time, what impressed me the most was how important discussions of spirituality could be during this last period of life.ā
Jarrod shifted awkwardly in his seat and fiddled with a teaspoon.
Bernard continued, āIt didnāt matter whether they talked about spirituality in terms of God or the universe or nature or love, or even angels. Some had difficulty finding ways to speak. Some had never talked this way before. For others it was mixed up with sadness, grief and fear.ā He stared intensely across at Jarrod. āBut it seemed to me nearly everyone wanted to venture into this territory in some form or otherā¦ And whatās more, their talking had an effect. The more experience I had, the more I talking with them about spirituality, the more I saw it helping them find places of calm and meaning.ā
āBut you haveā¦ā
āNow, hold on,ā interrupted Bernard softly. āMaybe the spirituality they talk of isnāt ārealā in the sense you were meaning. Maybe itās made up; a reassuring fantasy or a comforting delusionā¦ who knows. But Iām damn sure of one thing, in their situation, facing their ultimate removal from this world, their talk of spirituality had a real impact; a realer impact than any of the pills and therapies we could offer.ā
āOkay, I see all that,ā said Jarrod in a matching soft voice; ābut your argument is unfair because youāve focused on an extreme situation. Of course, things are different when youāre dying. But in everyday life, for most people, I donāt think spirituality matters that much.ā
āHmm, since leaving the hospital and thinking more about this, I see it differently. I think our spiritual connections and our spiritual encounters are very important. And it concerns me deeply how seldom and how few opportunities people have to access that side of themselves.ā
Jarrod looked across at Bernard and could see the intensity burning in his eyes. He recognized this was not a good time to carry on disagreeing with this earnest old man. Perhaps there will be other times to argue it through. āAh, well Bernard, all I can say is I beg to differ.ā He leaned forward in his seat. āLook, I only meant to pop in briefly to apologize. Maybe we can continue this discussion another time?ā
On Wednesday morning Bernard was sitting at his table half expecting Jarrod to reappear. He was genuinely interested in what the young man had to say because his life seemed full of many of the same issues and dilemmas that he grappled with at a similar age. He sensed someoneās presence and looked up to see the slim, fit figure of Monique standing over him.
Monique, a woman in her mid-thirties, had first met Bernard about three months earlier. They had struck up a conversation after her eight-year-old daughter had taken an interest in the old man who kept smiling at her as she ran around the tables. Since then she had made a point of call...