Five for dinner

I get the invite to Sam’s farewell dinner in the elevator. It’s a simple text, without frills or any reference to his move: “Mike, I’m excited to see you on Friday – Dinner 7:30 PM at Maila”. The brevity could be his way of protecting himself or of protecting us. In New York, friends from Europe are often transient, temporary visitors. But Sam was different: he made us forget, and he probably forgot himself, that he would one day leave.

That evening, obstacles pile up like in one of those dreams where everything goes wrong: train delayed, shoelaces untied, phone lost or stolen. I make it late to the restaurant but stay right outside the door for a few seconds before entering, my face hidden by my umbrella, my gaze fixed on nothing in particular. “Tonight is for him.”

Inside, Karl is engaged in a lively conversation, which he conducts as he often does. “Mike, you’re joining at exactly the right moment. We were just starting to go around the table.”

“Let me guess: our memories with Sam over the years?” I ask.

“The best memory.”

The question is so typical of Karl. For him, a successful conversation requires everyone to be fully involved in the same topic, and above all that he himself be both a participant and a referee.

Dave volunteers to start the game. “I have a memory in mind.”

Dave is the uncontrolled, explosive force of our group. He usually dives headfirst and drags us along with him.

“I remember June 18, the year you arrived in New York,” he starts, looking Sam straight in the eyes. “We had agreed to meet in the park in the early afternoon. Your friend Peter joined us and you put on your swimsuit just like that, without caring about the family behind you, who could clearly see you. At four o’clock it started to rain. We stayed sheltered under the gutters—you, John, Mike, Peter, and me—our shoulders and feet soaked, watching the summer rain fall. When the sun came out again, Peter left us. We bought a bottle of wine and settled on Mike’s steps, three blocks from the park. We stayed there for hours, drinking rosé till our first Summer day ended and the sun went down.”

“It was as if you had always been part of the group,” adds John, who is always searching for the right word.

I decide to jump in, perhaps to make up for my lateness.

“I have a memory too.” Sam’s hazel eyes turn toward me.

“It was autumn. I had just landed in New York after my mother’s funeral. My life was supposed to start again; I had work the next day. Sam sent me a message—not to politely ask how I was doing, but to offer to come over for dinner.”

I see in Karl’s eyes a mix of compassion and curiosity. He’s the kind of friend who instinctively feels what others are feeling, and who at the same time likes to find himself— intentionally or by accident—in the middle of it all. The idea of a dinner between Sam and me, at such an intimate moment, perhaps makes him a spectator and a witness, he who so loves being a host.

“We had an everyday conversation. Sam understood that I wanted to talk about life, about happy things. For one evening, I put the weeks in the hospital aside and found a bit of strength for what was to come next.”

“I think you mostly liked my fried rice,” Sam replies with a smile.

“And your lychees too!”

I feel John’s hand, who’s on my right, rest on my arm. “I blamed myself for not being there during those weeks.” John was in California for two months for a shoot at that time. His absence made space for Sam and me. I like to think that the shoot was a gift, a chance for my heart to beat a little stronger.

“Don’t say that—you followed your dream, and you kept calling me!”

 

“Excuse me, who ordered the gnocchi?” The arrival of the dishes interrupts our conversation for a moment. Karl, who always has a gargantuan appetite, gathers around his plate appetizers and sides that are meant to be shared. Sam placed the order for the five of us, leaving John to choose the wine.

“Don’t hesitate to order more if it’s not enough,” he already worries. “This meal is my gift, my way of saying thank you to all of you.”

“Maybe a way to make it up to us too?” Dave teases, always quick with a comeback. “You’re leaving a year earlier than planned—that wasn’t in the original contract.” Sam was indeed supposed to work four years for the embassy before moving on to another four-year post. The world had other plans.

“No, that’s true,” Sam replies with a hint of sadness in his voice. “Will you accept my gnocchi as damages?” he adds to change the subject.

“With pleasure,” Dave answers, laughing as he grabs the dish.

Karl already worries about his structured conversation going sideways: “Who hasn’t shared their memory yet?”

John, who had been quietly tasting his wine, volunteers. “I think it’s my turn,” he begins. “My story isn’t really a memory—more of an impression.”

“A psychological analysis?” Sam interjects, knowing John’s love of Proust.

“In a way,” John replies. “It was the night we first met. Dave had invited you to the costume party Karl was hosting. Half the guests barely played along. You arrived dressed as an athlete…”

“A pole vaulter,” Karl specifies.

“But without the pole,” Dave adds, snickering.

“I had a pole! It was the stick in my hand!” Sam protests.

“Let’s say you had a symbolic pole,” John continues. “That night, I noticed of course your outfit which was—how should I put it—revealing.”

“Very revealing,” Karl adds mischievously.

“I think you cheated a little,” Dave piles on.

“But I also noticed your smile,” John continues. “It wasn’t the smile of a polite guy or the smile of seductive guy”

Sam pretends to be offended. “You mean I have no charm?”

“It was the smile of a guy who listens and understands,” John continues.

Karl and Dave let out an affectionate “Oh.” Sam smiles.

“I’m serious. It was an open, contagious smile. Like a mirror for the conversation you were having, like an invitation to talk and to get to know you.” After a short pause: “In this city, this kind of smile is rare.”

“What a compliment,” I admit, looking at Sam.

“You can always count on John for raising the bar”, Dave jokes, perhaps a little envious.

“Did something happen between you that night?” Karl dares to ask, never one to give up on unearthing a new gem.

“No, but not for lack of trying,” John shoots back teasingly, prompting a short, loud laugh from Sam.

“Sam, what’s your version of the story?” Karl continues.

“I was intimidated that night. I’d just arrived from Amsterdam, where people are generally reserved. Arriving at your place, I was dazzled by the confidence that radiated from all the guys there. You looked like you’d won the lottery or received great news. That’s probably why I was smiling so much.”

“No one in particular caught your attention that night?” Karl insists.

“It’s not a competition,” Dave protests.

“And it doesn’t really matter,” Sam adds.

“On the contrary, first impressions matter! They often say a lot. At the very least, they’re fun,” Karl insists.

“Yes,” Sam replies, to my surprise. “In that case… I’d say Mike.” His gaze is fixed on Karl, but I feel the warmth of his words on my cheek.

Dave and Karl let out an audible “Ah!”, of the kind you’d hear in a school’s playground.

“Do you remember what you noticed about Mike at that moment?” John asks. “Aside from his voluminous hair, of course,” he adds, winking in my direction.

Sam thinks for a moment, still not looking at me.

“I noticed what you were saying about me, I think. I noticed his smile.”

“Excuse me, would you all like another bottle of white?” asks the waitress, who had clearly been waiting for the right moment. Glasses are refilled and plates cleared. The restaurant is now quieter, half the tables around ours having emptied.

 

“I regret to inform you that my memory is a bit less romantic,” Karl announces. His declaration provokes laughter around the table.

“Does the memory involve the infamous glass of red wine?” Dave guesses, having heard the story many times.

“That Sam spilled entirely into his bag without noticing!” Karl blurts out, triggering another wave of laughter.

Our small group knows the incident well, so Karl doesn’t bother retelling the whole story, but instead pulls out his phone to show us videos from that night.

When dessert arrives, Sam, now a little emotional, speaks up.

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to participate in this game,” he says first toward Karl and then to all of us.

“You have my permission,” Karl replies, laughing.

“But I’d like to say a few words before we go dancing—and while my brain is still functioning,” Sam continues. “When I think of each of you, I see the four elements. Karl, you are fire, or the sun. When you sit at a table, the planets start to orbit, and everyone feels illuminated and seen.”

“We sleep when you’re not there,” Dave quips, making Karl laugh.

“Dave, you are air. With you everything is movement. You propel the group forward; you always come up with the most off-the-wall ideas and adventures, and your energy is contagious.”

“It’s pathological,” Karl adds, teasing him.

“John, you are water. In your books, you see reflections that no one else sees.”

“Are you calling me a narcissist?” John asks, smiling.

“You’re above all the person the group turns to in order to recharge or to change perspective. Without you, we’d just go in circles.”

John answers with a quiet smile.

“And you, Mike—you are earth. These past three years would have been baseless without you. You have a strength and constancy that inspire and reassure me. In you I see the lifelong friendship, even the family, I might have had.”

A silence passes.

“And you, Sam, in all this?” Dave asks.

John delivers the line: “It’s like in the movie. Sam is love. The fifth element.”