The Closing Hours of Monsieur Monokandiloss.

“Monsieur Monokandiloss,” one of the grandest places in all of Tallinn, was around five or six minutes away from closing down. It was a very late hour, and so there was barely anyone left on the streets. The evening lights of the old town were blinking up and down on the wet brick of the yellow road. Naala, the renowned owner, together with the two waiters still on their shift, was cleaning up the large hall and the neat little tables and putting everything in order for tomorrow.

Today was a busy day. There were large crowds of people gathered here for around 3 or 4 hours, celebrating a local actor’s birthday by the name of Artur Tuuli. It was an honor for Naala to serve for such a guest. There were family members and friends of his drinking and playing games practically all day, with the smaller kids and their mothers constantly fighting a war of attrition for the overall loudness of the restaurants, and the older men talking about the here’s-and-there’s while indulging themselves with card games and such.

Naala loved her job, very much so, and yet every time she took the smallest of looks at those oh so happy people, those successful and exceptional people, she felt her chest sink as if something was burrowing in it. She thought it absurd and rather silly that she, in her own well-known established, as a woman of respectable age and an even more respectable reputation, with a developed career and family life and everything, would feel so small in comparison.

Some of them had expensive watches. She herself had an expensive watch, but hers was not like theirs, and that bothered her. Some of those people were other actors or poets or musicians, some were directors of companies or business owners - to put it simply, they were all those one would consider successful in life. She wasn’t any worse by that definition, she had a big apartment and quite a good car, and yet she didn’t have some of the things that they do, and that bothered her. They talked of achievements and the great things they accomplished. She recognized that she herself is no louse, with her own enterprise and everything, with many stories to tell, but those stories weren’t like theirs, and that bothered her.

These thoughts lingered as she was putting the chairs in place and wiping the last grease off of the plates. It was time to close house, and yet there was still more work to do.

“Marks, Julia, you’re free to go. I’ll close up myself. You go enjoy the weekend.” - she said to the two waiters

“You sure you’ll manage on your own?” - Marks asked her with visible concern in his voice.

“Of course. There’s only an hour of work or so left to do.” - Naala said with a faint smile.

“Oh, and by the way, Ms. Jekabsone,” - Julia said from under her brow as she was scraping off something under the table - “about March, you do-“

“Yes Julia, I remember your break. I already put it in the schedule.” - Naala replied.

“Alright then, take care!” - Marks said after putting his apron and gloves back where they belong.

“Have a nice weekend!” - Julia followed up.

“See you.” - Naala smiled, only to have that smile fade away immediately after they walked out the door.

Mark’s apartment was fairly nearby, and so he sometimes got to work by bike.

“I wish I could drive a bike” - Naala thought to herself. - “I could never quite find the time for that. Maybe I’m just not good enough.” - she pondered.

And as Marks cycled off, she could see Julia waiting outside, checking her phone from time to time, making sure not to step in the fresh puddles. After a short while, a car parked itself by the road, only to have Julia run to it, open the car door, and sit herself down in the front row. Her and the man driving the car shared the truest and the widest of smiles from what she could see.

“How lovely. How lovely it is for her to get picked up on a Friday night.” - Naala thought. - “I wish I didn’t have to get home by myself.”

As she continued closing house, she reminisced about, well, today. Although one could and should normally be proud of working as hard as she did today and maintaining an establishment that is as worthy of attention as Monsieur Monokandiloss, every time she thought of even the smallest of details, words, or moments that those peculiar people were part of today, that same sinking feeling clawed through her chest.

It happens again and again and again. When she passes by the National Theatre and sees the fancy older public or the tired actors on their smoke breaks, she feels that sinking feeling. When she visits the local gym and hears stories of growth from all of those determined people, or whenever she watches interviews with all of those hardworking athletes or the glamorous pop stars and rock legends, or even when her own husband tells her practically anything interesting from his job as a decorator, the feeling cuts and bites. It is a recurring feeling, one that she herself can’t seem to be able to escape, no matter how much she hates it. It only really makes her feel smaller, no matter what.

She took a glance at the bottle of the single-malt twelve-year whiskey up there, on the shelf in the bar. That bitter, light brown liquid danced around in the bottle under the dim yellow light, as if inviting her for a taste of the poison.

“After all, why shouldn’t I just take a drink or two? It’s my place, my rules, my whiskey. “ - she smirked to herself. - “Gotta drive, though. Can’t just drink forever and ever, no matter how much better it would make me feel right now.” - she decided.

As she continued cleaning the place up, she took a second to think about what she’s doing. “How did I even get here?”, she thought. “Why DID I spend my life on this? Why can I not feel special, like they do?”

The process of getting everything in order was by this point automatized for her, but in every nook and cranny of Monsieur Monokandiloss, she saw a flaw here and there. Some of the tables aren’t in perfect condition. The menu could use some updates. Not enough signature drinks in the bar. There could be more paintings on those old walls, and the flooring probably needs an update, too. The list could go on, but with everything she noticed wrong, the thought that she could be better, that she could go harder, that others deserve admiration more so than she does, came back again and again and again. A tear or two fell down her cheeks as the clawing sensation in her chest continued.

Finally, she was done with closing the place down. She sat in her car and prepared to drive away, her eyes tweaking and hands trembling. As she drove through the streets, she thought of every single thing that happened at those places, and again that sense of painful longing came back. The bar right there, near the museum. Not the best of places, but it was good enough for her and her friends way back when. A park here and there. There, in that bigger

one, she had some of the nicest walks in her life, some of the warmest hugs, and the very first kiss even. And right there, in that university, she caught up with Maria, an old childhood friend, after coming back here from Spain where she did her studies. Why couldn’t she feel as good as she did as she did during that specific time in her life was what bothered her. Why was she not as good as them? Why did she not work harder and just…be better? Why is she still here? What reason does she have not to kill herself?

Yes, that was the question that lingered the most, perhaps. She looked at her already sleeping husband, his face and brown hair mushed up against the pillow with the flowery sheets, his mustache getting all messy now, snoring quietly. How silly he looked. If it were months ago, she would have surely gone to bed now without second thoughts…no, no she wouldn’t. This has been going on for months. She always looked at the apartment and thought that it could be in a better place in town, that it could be bigger, that they could have a bigger bed to sleep on and nicer food to eat. They could have a yard for the dogs that they had wanted for so long, they could have a dedicated room for his arts and things like that, they could have a bigger television and a better sound system as to not watch movies on their little black box, their oven could be better, as it breaks down every so often, and so on and so on. These thoughts have been torturing her for much longer than just a day or a month even, she realized.

“Why shouldn’t I just kill myself?”, she thought. “He deserves better. He wouldn’t miss me, would he? No, of course he wouldn’t. I need to work harder to keep him happy, I do, but it seems that I’m just not capable, no matter what I do. I should just kill myself. I’ll never reach the staggering heights of those like Arthur Tuuli and the likes, I’ll never get my youth back to be like Marks or Julia who are taking life by the horns as early as in their twenties, and I’ll never be as creatively adept as he is. I should just kill myself.”

Her eyes glanced over the photograph of her together with her husband, her and his parents behind them. “What a pleasant day that was, huh?”, she thought with a bleak smile on her face. That photo was taken at their wedding. It was a small celebration, nothing special, really, but oh how happy they were that day.

The smile on her now senile father’s face and her late mother’s tears of joy was something she could remember even now, all this time later. “What would mother think?”, she asked herself. “If there’s an afterlife, what would she think?”

“She’d forgive me, hopefully. That’s what a good mother should do. Forgive me for my incompetence to live life.”

She put her suit neatly into the drawer and the golden earrings together with the pearl necklace into the little black box that they had in their bedroom. She couldn’t bear to lay down in bed. She felt that she wasn’t good enough even for sleep.

“Forgive me.” - she quietly whispered in his ear. He was still sleeping as soundly as usual.

Instead of going to bed as per usual, she instead grabbed and put on the first coat she found laying in that room, put on whatever suit her feet at the moment, which were his old slippers that he walked around the house with, and stormed out the front door. She had already made up her mind, it seems. At that moment, as she ran out the apartment, she didn’t care of waking him up or making noise. She didn’t take her phone nor her watch. She strolled where her eyes lead her.

As Naala strided through the dark streets of Tallinn enveloped by March’s breezy night, blinks and pieces of everything she’s ever seen or done appeared before her very eyes. The old kindergarten, her mom and dad, still young and lively by that point, the school she went to and all those little things that bothered her which seemed so gigantic at that point, her first job, her second job, her third, her friends, new and old, growing older as the years go, all of the both pleasant and awful conversations she’s had during her considerable amount of years on this planet, all of these things, no matter how many, appeared before her eyes. When she passed by Monsieur Monokandiloss, which was close to the bridge, her tears started to roll one after the other. “Am I really doing this?”, she thought, shaking and gasping. She wept quietly to an audience of one and kept on going towards the bridge.

Right in the middle of the bridge, as she was looking down at the black river below her in preparation to jump, an older woman bumped into her by accident. Naala was deep in thought, so she jumped a bit because of that.

“Sorry, sorry.” - the older woman said. - “I didn’t step on your feet, did I?”

Huh? N-no, no.” - Naala shook her head in denial, her tears ruining the little makeup she had. She forgot to wash it off after coming home. It was the last of her concerns at that point.

“Excuse me, if I may ask, why are you so sad?” - the grandma asked, panting from the weight of the two heavy bags in her hands. - “It’s not because of me, is it?”

Naala again shook her head in denial, her arms crossed as to keep her warm.

The older woman already started to walk away, but then, upon thinking for a second or two, turned around and again walked up to Naala.

“If I may ask, what are you doing here in such a late hour?” - she asked, her big eyes looking up to her through the round glasses.

“I could ask y-you the same thing.” - Naala replied, shivering.

“Well, dearie, I just got done with work, you see. I work at the local market, I usually finish up late, well with the closing and such. - she said with a wide smile. - “And still, tell me, what is a beaufiful young woman such as yourself doing all the way here at such an hour, dressed the way you are?”

Did Naala hear that right? “Beautiful young woman”? For some reason, hearing something so…genuinely nice sent a warmth through her heart. It came from a total stranger no less, it was such a small little thing, but it lightened her up at that point, more so than any of the “greater” things she did in life.

“I…I…” - as she tried to reply, tears rolled down her cheek again. Why was this random grandma so nice to her for no reason? What did she ever do to deserve this.

“Oh, darling, don’t cry, please. Do you need something to wipe the tears with, hm? Take it, please.” - the old woman handed her an ornamental handkerchief.

Naala bedrudgingly took the handkerchief from her hands and started removing the tears along with the ruined eyeshadow.

“There you go, there you go, wipe those tears away. A pretty and wise face like yours is easily ruined by sadness, dearie. I can tell when someone’s wise and smart and vice versa. After you’ve been around for some time, it comes natural. - she chuckled a bit as she helped the weeping Naala wipe away her tears. - “I used to be a crier like you - hell, I still get worked up over things even in my 80’s. You know what they always used to say to me when I cried? «Whatever it is you’re sad about’s probably all in your head.» Can you believe that, dear? What a load of crap, hm?”

“W-why are you making time for me?” - Naala weeped and sniffled.

“How could I not? You seem like such a good young woman, clearly in distress. As an aunt and a wife, it’s my duty to help you younger ones, especially because you remind me a bit of my niece. And besides, we were always taught to help others, weren’t we?” - she smiled. - “It’s a small little good, but it’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

“Y-You’re not a mother then?” - she asked, no longer weeping as badly.

“No, never could have kids. Doesn’t mean my motherly instincts don’t kick in from time to time, dear.”- she said as she was covering with a blanket that she took from one of the big bags. - “Maybe they aren’t motherly instincts at all, who knows? Maybe I just enjoy helping others. Anywhoo, are you going to continue standing here or what?” - she chuckled.

“N-no, I should probably go. Thank you.” - she replied quietly.

“Keep the blanket for now.” - the older woman said as Naala was giving it back to her. - “It’ll keep you warm for now. I work at the local central market, as I said. Bring it back when you can, alright? You are resting tomorrow, yes?”

“Y-yes, yes. Thank you. I should go.” - she mumbled and stormed off in the opposite direction.

As she ran back home through the puddles and the cold night winds, the things that older woman said resonated again and again in her head. Why would she be so nice so her, for seemingly no reason at all? Why would she call her beautiful or smart or anything else despite the fact that to her, she was no more than a weeping mess dressed in home clothes? She could’ve been a hobo or a junkie for all she could know. Although, perhaps that wouldn’t have stopped that woman.

It’s such a small little thing, and yet it makes Naala feel so warm. It’s a feeling similar to her wedding day way back when, or the days when Monsieur Monokandiloss was just some cafe in the city center, or…the list can go on.

“How could I even think of it? What in the world is wrong with me? How could I? How could I?” - she thought whilst running back home.

She could think of nothing other than what such an act meant as she was getting back home. She was so utterly confused, and yet, strangely, she felt needed. Appreciated. Fulfilled. All because of such a small little thing, something so seemingly inconsequeantial, the opposite of grandiose and deserving of praise, yet so kind, so impactful, so…human. Perhaps that is what makes one’s life colourful in the first place? Maybe it’s all of those little things and nice little genuine words, and not the mountains one moves and the books one writes?

She came back home to see her husband, who looked like he had just seen a ghost. He was in the middle of a phone call, walking back and forth, whilst waiting for a response, but then, as soon as he saw her come in, he immediately ended the call with the words “Sorry, false call.” and ran to her, embracing her in his arms as she cried on his shoulder.

“How could I be so stupid?” - she thought as the tears flowed.

~~~

Saturday came swiftly. Naala didn’t quite explain everything to her husband, only saying that it was stupid of her. The thoughts of the last few months still lingered in her mind, but they were now conflicting with the warmth of yesterday.

She knew one thing for sure - things had to change. Her approach was to be changed. She can’t keep living like this. She can’t keep seeing things the way she does, that she got. She needs to allow herself rest if she ever wants to feel that abstract thing that happiness is. She swore to herself that she’ll try to find her own happiness not in some great achievements or some made up domination over others, but in the very real tiny things she has everywhere around her. They are what makes one human, after all. They are the things that bind us to humanity in the first place. A human wouldn’t quite be a human if the only things in one’s life would be endless work and proving oneself to everyone, would he? No, he wouldn’t. That would either be a perfect machine with no flaws whatsoever, or a burnt out mess with no desire to live.

As promised, Naala came to the central market to return the blanket. In the distance, Naala could see her. Sitting on a wooden bench and managing her small stand with different handmade goods was that same old lady. The old lady was happy to see her, smiling as she noticed her, and so, whether consciously or uncosciously, Naala smiled back.

They talked for hours that day. Naala had explained her situation, talking of Monsieur Monokandiloss, her greatest work, her pride, or, at least, what she considered her greatest work, of what she had been feeling and why she was on that bridge in the first place.

The older woman told her about her own life and the things she had seen throughout. There was so much to be told, so much that was told, so much so that Naala could barely follow at times. Nevertheless, it was refreshing to have a genuine conversation for once, a conversation with someone who is as genuine as one could be. They talked and talked of things both small and big, and at that moment, Naala began to understand something. It seems absurd how even a woman of her age and reputation could still have so many things in this world that she just cannot seem to fully understand, and yet here she is. It seems absurd to her that she denies herself happiness now, that she perceives herself as unloved or as one without talent.

There was work to be done about it all, sure. She would need to reconsider her priorities and see things differently, be a little less tense and a bit more easy-going. In others words, she would need to be more like that older woman.

Before evening came, Naala drove back home, but not before passing Monsieur Monokandiloss. It didn’t seem so grand in her eyes now. A restaurant like any other, she thought, and that wasn’t really a bad thing. It was still special to her, to many, but it was really no more than a restaurant. Restaurants change not only the menus and the decor inside or outside or even the services they offer but also their owners and their staff almost all the time.

And again, that isn’t really a bad thing. That is just how things are, how they always have been, and how they probably will be. It is not the owner or the current lineup of foods that matters to most, after all. She could sell the place for all she knows, and yet there would be things still that would always remain. There’s no denying that it brought many people, including Naala herself, joy. It doesn’t really matter what happened before or after to the guests, it is those little moments of joy that do.

Yes, perhaps, someday, she will sell the place if that thought persists. Maybe she will pursue something else - too long has she lived in such a way where one lives work without ever thinking about living to live. Until then, though, it will remain her pride and joy. Not the greatest joy nor pride, but certainly one of many. Monsieur Monokandiloss’s last closing hours have not come yet.