By   Michael W. Shurgot

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                       Tourists were everywhere in London this fall, especially in its spacious parks and gardens. As he walked through Queen Elizabeth Gate, Paul wondered if 2009 would set a record for visitors to London. Strolling slowly along he heard the usual cacophony of tongues—Italian, French, German, Spanish, “American English,” and, he noted especially, many Arabic tongues as well—dancing among the dozens of strollers and bicycle riders. The huge plane trees caressing the road and the many paths through Hyde Park welcomed autumn with their yellow and red canopies, while small children ran gleefully through scattered leaves that had tumbled to the grass. Amid the unmistakable signs of changing seasons, London bristled with life.

About four o’clock Paul spotted the Dell Restaurant that overlooks The Serpentine, the narrow, tranquil lake that graces the center of the park. He had often lingered at this charming spot for coffee and a pastry during his many visits to London. This time he had not intended to stop, as that night he had a ticket for a 7:30 concert at Royal Festival Hall, and he did not want to risk being late. But the Dell was a favorite place, and this day, like so many others he had spent in London, had been lovely. Besides, he could always grab a sandwich in the Festival Hall lobby. Having thus rationalized temptation, he turned left off the road toward the restaurant.

As he expected, the Dell was quite crowded. Tantalized by the aroma of strong coffee, Paul ambled among the many indoor tables and, finding none available, headed toward the back of the restaurant and noticed that a large, round table was vacant on the outdoor patio just beyond the glass doors. With all the other tables occupied, he decided to sit at this one, even though it was obviously intended for several people. He walked to the table, removed his jacket, and draped it over the back of a chair facing the meandering waters of The Serpentine that glistened in the warm, lingering sun of the late September afternoon.

Rather than wait for a server, Paul walked inside to the bar and ordered a large cup of black coffee and, although he had told himself he shouldn’t, an apple strudel. Dreadfully delicious, he thought! As he walked back toward the doors carrying his selections he thought momentarily that he was heading in the wrong direction. For sitting around the table where he was sure he had left his jacket were six women, all in black or white hijab. On the table were several tea pots, and the women were sharing what looked like bread or pastries from several small bundles neatly wrapped in napkins. Bewildered, Paul stopped, and spotting his jacket on the chair where he had left it, realized what had happened. These women must have come to the table just as he walked into the restaurant. They are six, he thought, and they must have noticed that this table was vacant, assembled a few more chairs around it, moved aside the chair bearing his jacket, and then gone inside to order their tea. So they had spotted the table before I did, Paul thought; fair enough. Perhaps they thought someone had left his jacket and would return for it.

He pushed open the glass doors and gingerly approached the table. “Excuse me,” he said. “I do not wish to disturb you. I’ll just move this chair somewhere else.”

“You were sitting here?” an older woman asked.

“No, actually I was not. Well, I was going to, and I had placed my jacket on this chair before going inside to order, but I see you are many and so you should have this table. I am sure I can find a place elsewhere.”

“No, No! You sit with us, it’s all right. Really. The restaurant is very crowded. Maybe you do not find another place to eat.”

“Well, but I do not want to intrude,” Paul protested.

“No, no. You do not intrude,” replied the woman. “Please, sit with us.”

 “Well, if you insist. Thank you.”

Paul sat down, embarrassed at having presumed that he could have had so large a table all to himself, and looked around at the six women. Although they all wore hijab, their faces were uncovered, and Paul quickly surmised that they were of different ages. Two were obviously much older than the rest; three, he thought, were perhaps in their mid-to-late thirties; and one seemed much younger, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties. An odd grouping, he thought. And traveling alone, with no male companions. He thought that unusual for Muslim women, although perhaps in London one should not be surprised at seeing this. American and European women, he reflected, travel alone frequently, especially in large, cosmopolitan cities. Why not Muslim women as well? Perhaps they imagined that they were free to travel among themselves in European cities, even to go about without wearing veils or the more restrictive chador.

“You are drinking tea?” one of the older women to his left asked. “We have many pots as you can see.”

“No, coffee,” Paul said. “But thank you anyway.”

“You are American, right? I can tell by your accent you are not English.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Paul responded. “I guess in London it is very easy to tell an American. All we have to do is open our mouths and we give ourselves away.”

A few of the women smiled and laughed softly. “You come to London often?” asked a younger woman across the table.

“I have been here often, yes. I have taught in London twice for my college, and I visit often to see plays at The Globe.”

“You like Shakespeare then?”  another younger woman continued. “We know of Shakespeare in our country.”  Another older woman, sitting on Paul’s right, began unwrapping a napkin and took from it several small cookies.

”Would you like one? We brought these with us.” She handed Paul three small cookies and a napkin.

”Oh, that’s extremely kind of you. Are you sure?”

”Yes,” replied the woman. “Please, enjoy.”

Paul pushed aside the apple strudel, embarrassed that he could not readily share it, and bit into one of the cookies.

“Oh my, that’s truly delicious,” Paul exclaimed. “Thank you, oh thank you! What an extraordinary delight! Delicate, yet so rich. I am amazed that such pronounced flavors could be contained in so small a pastry. Ginger I think, and some lemon. Am I right?”

“Yes, ginger, lemon, and of course sugar. Just the right amount,” the same woman replied, smiling broadly. “You recognized the flavors. Good!”

Paul finished the first one, then immediately began nibbling the second before stopping to look around the table at the six smiling women who obviously enjoyed watching him savor their gift.

“You are welcome,” said the older women to his right. “They are very popular in Iraq. Even though you invaded our country, we share our food with you.”

Paul froze. Startled by the older woman’s remark, the others now stared directly at him.  Of course, he realized suddenly. Their different ages. Traveling together, alone. Husbands, fathers, brothers, sons!

”I am so very sorry,” Paul said softly, afraid to speak further and unsure if all of the women had heard him. He bowed his head, unwilling to face the riveting stares that he nonetheless felt intensely.

From amid the terrifying, seemingly endless silence surrounding the table, one of the younger women gently spoke. “We know you did not do it. Your government did. But we did not ask your country to invade ours.”

Paul fiddled with his napkin, still unable to face the women. He tried to imagine what they were feeling at this moment, facing a man from the country that had devastated theirs. Here, he thought, sitting in front of him in a charming London café, worlds away from lethal weapons, were the invisible wounds of war.

Another younger woman, sitting on Paul’s right, slowly unwrapped her napkin. Then, without looking at any of her companions, she pushed the napkin toward him. “Would you like more sweets?” she asked softly. “We have many we could share.” As if relieved, all of the women then began opening their napkins and, suddenly smiling at one another, they began passing them around the table. Each time a different napkin came to the older woman to Paul’s right she removed one of its delicacies and offered it to him. In just a few minutes he had several in front of him. The youngest woman began pouring tea into white porcelain cups and handing them around to her companions, who graciously accepted the tea that now had been steeping for several minutes.

             “You would now like tea?” she asked.

             “No,” Paul replied. “I still have coffee left. But thank you.”

Paul sampled all of the delicacies moving around the table. Thoughts of dinner, or a sandwich at Festival Hall, receded as he savored the array of rich, complex pastries. When the older woman handed him a slightly larger chocolate cookie, Paul sat back in his chair and smiled.

 “You are all too kind,” he insisted. “These goodies, as we would call them in America, are extraordinary. I cannot thank you enough.”

The younger woman who had first offered him her sweets looked up from her tea cup.  “You are welcome,” she said. “We would be rude if we did not share with you. Besides, you were planning to sit at this table first.”

Feeling a bit more relaxed, Paul responded, “Well, that’s really nice of you . But after all, you needed this table more than I did. By the way, will you be staying in London long?”

 “We will be here now,” replied one of the middle aged women. “We cannot return to Iraq.”

 Suddenly embarrassed and angry that he had asked the wrong question, Paul again looked down. Fool, he thought; to what would they return?  To whom?  How much they must have lost! Homes, families, loved ones, a way of life! Feeling again their silent stares, and trying to imagine the horrors that must plague their memories, Paul picked up a remaining piece of the larger chocolate cookie. He was about to dunk it into his coffee when he suddenly stopped, looked up, and glanced around the table.

“Does one dip sweets into coffee in Iraq?”

Several of the women laughed, and one said, “Of course! Especially if you like to do that.” The same younger women to Paul’s left picked up her chocolate cookie, dipped it just slightly into her tea, and giggled.

“Look!” said a woman to her left, “Now we are dipping chocolates into our tea!” Around the table the women laughed and began speaking rapidly in Arabic, presumably, Paul thought, about the joys of dipping delicate Iraqi chocolates into English tea.

“We share our food with you, and now laughter. We were six, but now we are seven.”

Paul smiled broadly. “Yes, you have shared your food, and we have laughed together,” he replied. “Perhaps in the future we shall share more together.”

“Yes, perhaps . . . .” The older woman to his right did not finish her sentence.

Paul glanced around the table. The six women were again staring straight at him. He wondered what they might have been thinking. What else might the older woman have said? But she said nothing more.

“Let us hope,” Paul replied softly. He reached behind his chair, slipped into his jacket, pushed back from the table, and stood. “I must leave now. Thank you again for sharing your table and your hospitality. The cookies were truly delicious. And the laughter was lovely.” Then, almost as an afterthought, and sensing that no farewell could possibly suffice, he added, “I wish you well in London. Bye now.” The women nodded, smiled, and several replied “Thank you.”

Paul carried his coffee cup inside, walked out the front door of the restaurant, and headed up the road toward The Round Pond and Kensington Palace. The September sun lingered just long enough above the trees at the far end of the lake to paint a golden sheen on The Serpentine and to fire the leaves on the plane trees to his right. Walking amid this early autumn splendor, Paul suddenly remembered that he had left the untouched apple strudel on the table. Perhaps, he thought, the women will share it. Perhaps.