Every day, that man would just stand there. He got there early in the morning, hiding his face from my window, moving in little knots of pedestrians. And he would find his regular place at the edge of the plaza, a spot a little to the left of where the ashtray is, and he would sit and smoke, face turned away from my window and towards the rest of the city, looking over it from the elevation of the hill our neighborhood was built on. I don’t know how long he did it before I noticed- I only really noticed when I started getting up earlier in the mornings, giving myself a little more time before I had to head for work. The habit carried over to weekends, too, though it was on a Monday that I first noticed him. I had decided to look out the window of my second story flat, which usually provided a very nice view of the city, its tall buildings and labyrinthine streets. That day, however, I trained my eyes on the plaza, and noticed the man. He stood, nearly unmoving, by the ashtray, and there were thin wisps of smoke rising and wreathing about his head, forming little storms and whirls when mixed with the tepid clouds of his breath in the cold winter air. While the sun was shining, it was still early enough in the morning that the air had a cruel and chilly bite to it, fresh and brisk. His back was turned, and he did nothing except occasionally puff out a little more smoke. When the smoking stopped, and I assume the cigarette ran out, he tossed it carelessly into the ashtray a couple feet away, with an inattentive yet practiced grace. I immediately had the feeling that this was some daily habit, an old and ingrained ritual, even though this was my first observation of it. I watched him with quiet interest till my coffee grew cold, and it was not until I had set out for work, chugging stale coffee with disgust and abandon, that I realized that he had not moved the entire time. It was too late to check on him, though, and I was already going to be somewhat late to work.
When I returned in the evening, he was gone, as he always would be by then. I continued the practice of watching him in the morning the whole week- it was calming to see somebody so seemingly relaxed, or at the very least with little care to anything but this mundane rite of the dawn.
I decided to get up early on Sunday, and spend the day watching him, trying to find when he came and when he left. Thankfully, I had gotten up at about the right time to not make the attempt a waste of precious sleep, as he would come walking by at around six and would leave at ten. Those few other times that I watched him through the day, I saw the exact times vary a little bit, but he never diverged from his daily pilgrimage- it was a habit he practiced more religiously than many do their actual faith.
And so it went, for nearly a year. He would daily walk to his position, as regular as a soldier to his post and as faithfully as a priest to his pulpit, and I would eat breakfast by my window as I looked at him, sipping steaming coffee as he spat out wisps of smoke. This became our kind of secret and shared ritual, distant yet strangely close, true purposes obscured from both of us- not that he knew of my entwined habit, of course.
It had been nearly a year when I deviated from this routine; it was autumn, late autumn, and the air bit and teethed at you in the young mornings, leaving you numb if not suitably protected from the infant winter’s bite.
I had a friend over that morning- I think that was why I changed it up. I rarely entertained people in those days, especially in the morning, but he had been on a motorcycle tour and had asked if he could stay the night at my place. I obliged happily, as I had not seen him in quite a while; we had been quite close before in prior years, and the bond had only slightly frayed.
I fell into my regular habit of watching the man as my friend cooked, and it was not until he brought breakfast to me that he asked about it.
“Oh, him? He comes here every day, just stands there and smokes,” I answered.
I thought about him for a second. “You know, it’s been almost a year, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face.”
“Really?”
I racked my brain, trying to remember ever seeing it- he was close enough that I should have been able to see it if he turned towards me, and I certainly wasn’t the type to forget faces. It was true- I had no memory of ever seeing his face.
“Not that I can remember,” I said with a shrug. “It seems a bit strange, now that I say it.”
“Why don’t you go out there and look? It’s not like he’ll mind.”
I nodded, and started getting my stuff together while I finished my breakfast. I still had a while before work, but I thought that I may as well pack everything for it- that way I could check up on the man while heading to work.
Briefcase, check. Thermos full of coffee, check. Lunch (because the cafeteria had briefly caught fire yesterday, and was out of order), check, and I may as well pack some chocolate, too. Polaroid camera, check, because the xerox machine wasn’t working and the tech guy was out. I had everything.
We watched for a little while longer, but my friend grew somewhat restless, and went off to check on his motorcycle. I had to go to work, so I went down the stairs with him and walked over to the lone smoker who I had made a habit of watching.
As soon as I turned to walk over to him, however, he started shuffling away from his spot. I didn’t think he had ever done that before, so I was quite surprised, but kept on following him anyway. His seeming secrecy only made me more curious.
He kept his head down, hat pulled low, and his ever-present coat was cowled tightly about his neck. I couldn’t see even a lock of hair beneath the layers of clothes. His face wasn’t covered, of course- I’m sure people would have acted a little more surprised when they saw him.
I started walking faster; he sped up as well, even though it was clear that he couldn’t see me. Gripped by curiosity, I started running, and then he broke into an all out sprint.
It took only a second for the chase to excite the crowd, and the semi-orderly procession of the morning pedestrians had turned into an all-out jumble. I could see the man in front of me, weaving through the tumult, feet stamping heavily on the cobblestones, loudly clicking but barely audible over the sounds of the confused and excited crowd. I sped up, nearly overturning a cafe table and a small child before tripping over something. I didn’t look back, but just got up again and kept running, adrenaline and interest spurring me forwards. Shouting apologies that were lost in the din of cars and motorcycles, my breath ragged, I kept close to my quarry, though I kept lagging further and further behind. I nearly gave up when he stole somebody's bike and went hurtling down the road at breakneck speeds, skidding and turning hastily to avoid passerbys, and I had nearly turned back when my friend came up on his motorcycle.
“Need a ride?”, he asked, watching me gasp for breath. I nodded silently, climbed on, and pointed to where the man had gone.
Speeding down the half-full morning streets, we crept closer and closer to the man, who was careening through them dangerously and showed no signs of slowing. He braked suddenly, and we had to jerk to a halt to avoid crashing into him. We almost expected him to stop and turn to us, but instead he just leapt up and ran into a small alley, too narrow for the motorcycle.
“You go cut him off,” I asked. “I’ll run in this way.”
He nodded, revved up the motor, and was gone by the time I turned to face the dark alley.
With only a hint of hesitation I ran in. It was hard to see there, as the sun was at the wrong angle to really illuminate anything in there, but I managed to avoid tripping on anything. I could still see the man’s figure in the alleyway, only a couple yards away though getting further, but knew it was too dark to get a good glimpse of it if I should turn back. In a flash of inspiration, I pulled out my Polaroid camera and kept on running, camera held half in front of my face, so I could still see the ground clearly. I heard my friend come to a stop in front of the alleyway cutoff, and saw the man turn around. I quickly snapped a picture, sudden light blinding me as he pushed past. Already tired, I nearly fell, and it was only by luck that I managed to catch myself and sink slowly to my knees.
My friend continued running, but stopped when he saw me. I held up my camera triumphantly while grabbing my stitch, and managed to pant “I got a picture!”.
We slowly walked into the light of the road, and I got the picture to print out while leaning on him. My pants were covered in grime, and I was burning with exertion, but I didn’t care. We held our breaths as we waited for the picture to come out.
Then I nearly sobbed.
“What is it?,” he asked, clearly confused.
I looked up, enraged.
“It ran out of film.”
I’ve had this flat for three years now. Every day, I keep to the same habit. I make breakfast, get my coffee, and walk over to the window, where I look over the plaza overlooking the rest of the city, and focus on the spot a little to the left of the ashtray.
In all those years, he never came back.