Monsieur et Madamme Chiffon at Lake Como (Tribute to Ralph Eugene Meatyard).
No one saw them arrive.
One morning, they were simply there—standing by the shore of Lake Como, side by side, silent beneath their long-nosed masks. Strangers in their pressed shirts and quiet posture. Locals called them “les Chiffons,” though whether that was their name or just the way they moved—softly, like forgotten cloth—no one could say.
They never spoke. Not to each other, not to the curious tourists, not even when the children tossed pebbles at their feet and whispered dares. They just watched the lake, hour after hour, as if waiting for something to surface. A memory. A boat. A name.
Some said they came from Saint-Mystère, that cloistered village where silence isn’t a choice but a condition. Others claimed they were only passing through, looking for a reflection that once belonged to them.
At sunset, when the light grew soft and gold and the wind folded gently through the ivy, Monsieur Chiffon would shift ever so slightly closer. Madame never moved.
By morning, they were gone. Only footprints in the grass remained—two sets, side by side—facing the water.
And the lake, as always, kept their secret.