“So, young man,” Bernhard said, “I
hear you’re quite the troublemaker?” The young man looked at him, but said
nothing. “Don't feel like talking, huh?” Bernhard said. “That's alright, don't
worry. Sometimes I don't feel like talking either. And you know what I do then?
I keep quiet, just like you do. Some people can't do that, you know. They can't
handle silence. They have to talk and talk and talk. But what they don't
understand is that part of talking is to shut up every once in a while. That's
what makes it a conversation. So, in that respect you're a good conversationalist.”
The
rogue looked at Bernhard and managed a little smile. He didn't say anything,
but his smile was genuine. Bernhard liked that about him. He thought he had met
too many people in his life who didn't know how to act genuinely, without
trying to impress anyone, especially him.
Bernhard
was a respectable senior, now retired, but his opinion was still reputable in
his firm. For almost forty years he worked at a publishing house. As a
university student he had landed an internship for one of their weekly papers.
It was badly written and barely read, but that didn't matter to him. Soon he
worked his way up from errand boy to assistant reporter. He was an eager young writer,
always sitting on the edge of his chair, waiting for one good story, that one
scoop that would catapult him into a secure position at the paper. Then, one
day in spring, he was at the right place at the right time and saw a huge fight
near the court house. He sensed a story and approached the scene with his
notepad and pencil in his hands. He found out what had happened and wrote about
it on his bus ride home. As soon as he arrived he typed his story and faxed it
to the chief editor. The head of the local police station was attacked by some
criminals he had put behind bars, and Bernhard was the first to cover the spectacle.
His draft was forwarded to the main paper of the publishing house and earned
him a temporary desk. As it turned out, the mayor had made some bad moves, and
for the following months there was plenty material to cover. Bernhard worked
hard and ended up with a permanent job at the paper.
“Still
don't want to talk?” he asked. Troublemaker shook his head. “Fair enough,” said
the old man. “I can’t make you talk, can I? It’s not like we’re in some
sort of complicated hostage situation or a political debate where everyone
would expect you to have an argument prepared, with all the necessary
background information and enough statements to stand tall against anything
that is used against you. You have to calculate, and act strategically and
logically.”
He pulled a block of
chocolate from his jacket pocket and carefully removed the packaging. The
rustling sound made the scoundrel look out the window nervously, which Bernhard,
of course, noticed. “You know,” he said, “chocolate is chocolate everywhere in
the world. I learned that from an Italian gentleman a long time ago. I was
sitting in a café and one of the waiters said that to a French girl who looked
very sad.”
He broke off a piece,
looked at his quiet interlocutor and handed it to him. He took it and said
thank you with his eyes. He didn't eat it right away, but waited until Bernhard
took his first bite. Again, Bernhard noticed the gesture. He started to like
the rogue. The two of them sat in silence, enjoying small pieces of Belgian
milk chocolate.
Suddenly
a woman walked through the door and approached Bernhard’s table. “I’m really
sorry, sir. Did he cause you any trouble?”
“No, not at all,” he
answered. “We had a great talk. As far as I can tell, he is a very thoughtful young
man. He’s perhaps a bit on the quiet side, but that doesn’t make him a bad
person. If anything, it makes him a good listener.”
“Well,” said the woman, “for
a baby of thirteen months he is certainly not always quiet. But we’re expecting
his first words soon. Thank you again, sir, for looking after him.”
Bernhard smiled and
said: “Please, don’t worry. It was my pleasure. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
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