Walk the Walk

We had dinner last night with our dear friends Pierre-Yves and Marylen.

They took us under their wings when we first arrived here; and whenever we have a problem we immediately get on the telephone and ask Pierre-Yves to solve it for us.

The two of them had long careers with Air France, and speak perfect English. Pierre-Yves was the head purser on the Concorde for years. He’s organized and very efficient. When he promises you he’ll do something, it always gets done.

Pierre-Yves has always been an inspiration to everyone he meets. My brother sat down with him for only a half –an-hour two years ago, and the experience changed his life. My brother started working out daily. At the age of seventy-five, Pierre-Yves ran two HOURS a day, every day. My brother, who’s a divorced pilot, now a jet setting playboy, told me that until he heard Pierre-Yves talk lovingly about Marylen, he didn’t believe that love existed within marriages.

Pierre-Yves has pursued an exemplary healthy lifestyle. He has never imbibed alcohol except for the one time his father forced him to drink a glass of wine; admonishing him that Pierre-Yves couldn’t call himself a French man if he didn’t drink.

Pierre-Yves has never smoked.

He doesn’t eat foods that have been fermented. So when I have him over for dinner I must be careful to leave out all mustards and vinegars . . . and that means that most of my cooking repertoire is of no use. He purchases his bread from a biologique baker. His duck comes from a biologique producer. His granola is special ordered from an organic French monastery.

So it was a great shock to everyone when Pierre-Yves was diagnosed with lung cancer last year. He probably got it from being exposed to all that second-hand smoke in the small cabin of the Concorde.

He no longer runs. He now takes short walks in the morning. He walks with a limp from when he fell last summer and broke his hip. He won’t tell you what his condition is . . . he won’t even tell his wife. Sometimes when you’re talking with him, and you touch on the subject of his only grandchild, or he speaks about the days when he used to run, tears well up in his eyes. But other than that, he puts on a brave front.

I keep thinking that I need to say something monumental to Pierre-Yves. He’s facing death and I feel that I must offer some brilliant words of solace. But I have none.

After our pleasant, joyful dinner last night, I realized that any words I would utter would be awkward and meaningless.

It was enough just to be in each others’ good company. My actions now and in the past are what matters.

I did tell Pierre-Yves that I loved him when I hugged him good night.