uneasy over his frivolous behaviour, over the fact that he is a cat’s paw of the money-making machine called the Secret Society of the Coffee Sommeliers. The society whose first cell was established more than a century ago in Brazil. A country that maintained slavery longer than any other country in the Western hemisphere because growers and politicians fought together against abolition. “Brazil is coffee,” one member of the Brazilian parliament announced arrogantly in 1880, “and coffee is the Negro.”
Yet I sit there, not moving, afraid that it might be over. A stray cat, scratched between the ears, baring her claws, arching her back, pushing for more.
“You must be new around… ” he begins, removing his hand. “Our friend there, Paul.” He makes a gesture towards the young man, the new shift behind the counter. “He is not only a barista. He is also an artist.”
“An artist?” I try to fake interest.
A group of rowdy girls invade a table not far away from us, nagging for fatty, fruity, creamy coffee derivates. Soon Paul is swamped by the girls, his round face gleaming. I see that he is not mean with the syrupy, creamy stuff he is using to decorate the four tall glasses showing a teaspoon of coffee visible in each.
Bruno follows my glance and smiles. One of the girls, a fresh, peach-skinned beauty, returns his smile.
The pang of jealousy sobers me. What am I doing here? Facing my second worst fear; that one day, I might get involved. My first, inherited from my mother Margherita, is that one night I might run out of coffee. I feel uneasy. Every year, millions of young girls, millions of fresh new faces, claim their places under the sun and scream for attention. I drag some money from my pocket and place it on the bar, then make a move to dismount from the stool. It’s time for me to go and anesthetise my wounded self somewhere where they mix cocktails with exotic names like Bula Mamma or Piranha.
Bruno is in the way, so I manoeuvre to the other side.
He makes no move to stop me and continues to lap his black soup, his eyes somewhere up on the shelves with the coffee sample jars.
“Paul’s idea to perform live coffee-themed paintings by famous artists might turn into a big attraction and this shop can one day become a coffee shrine.” His voice is like a head wind, causing me to shudder and abort my attempt to run away. “And what can possibly be a better choice than a cafe-and-coffee animal like Van Gogh? It’s sad that you are leaving. All good things are short, like your espresso, Ms…?”
“Stefan,” I utter feebly and his voice mellows into a whisper.
“Arnya, don’t go!” His hand moves snugly on the nape of my neck. “Come with me.” The words moisten my ear. “Come with me.”
A déjà vu. A mind-blowing déjà vu.
He helps me out of the stool and waves to Paul. His hand is now under my elbow; a rudder directing me to a specific angle to cross The Coffee Animals on the way out.
On the street, he holds my hand, sheltering it from the rain inside the sleeve of his black trench coat. From a street vendor around a primitive charcoal grill he buys scorching hot chestnuts, the fruit bursting with flavour under the burnt shell and lets me hold them for warmth, scooping my hands in his.
We cross the Rhine in the cable boat. The ferryman — this time a young girl, a tomboy — is rough and the boat jerks. Soon she touches the opposite pier and her scraggy hull scrapes heavily against it. The screechy sound ripples the water.
I cringe.
Bruno looks at me. There is concern on his face.
“I’m all right,” I hesitantly assure him.
For a while, we walk along the streets in the heart of the city. Now and then I stop to admire the architecture of a 13th century house and take mental notes of the museums and galleries to visit the following day. The stroll ceases to seem aimless when somewhere behind the Ruemelinsplatz and the windows of Bergli Books we stop in front of a small shop the size of a horse float. Slim, dark-skinned, the woman behind the counter in her bright coloured cotton wrap would have looked recklessly exposed to the humid chill if not for her activity around two small fires. On one she roasts green coffee beans in a hand-forged copper pan stirring them occasionally with a spoon. On the other, a copper jug with water is heating — boiling water turns the hard carrot soft, the fragile egg hard and brings out all the aroma and beauty of the placid coffee beans — as the old saying goes. As they roast, the beans hiss and pop. The woman empties the pan, and taking her time, pounds the beans in a mortar. Then she slips the content into a clay long-necked jar, adds the boiling water, taps the jar and leaves it to seep. Now she looks up at us. Her eyes give a sign of acknowledgement at the sight of Bruno, but her lips don’t move. Her hands are quick and agile, stirring a new lot of beans, now tossing them in the air and catching them in the pan in one efficient, show-off gesture. I watch the tapped clay jar, steam and aroma escape through a designed hole and reach me. I start to get high, finally completely forgetting the now distant withdrawal symptoms, the uneven heartbeat, cold sweats, dry, parched lips.
Soon we drink in silence, the coffee made the way they used to make it in Africa a thousand of years ago. The hypnotic liquid slips around my tongue, hangs on my palate, the aroma fumes out of my nostrils, bringing mist to my eyes.
I want to return to my empty hotel room.
I leave the chestnuts with the woman in the bright coloured cotton wrap and take Bruno with me. We walk in silence. His fingers are tracing mine as if reading the Braille alphabet.
I remember that I have to hate him.
“Bruno,” I begin, but it doesn’t work. My initial emotional charge has subsided, shrunk, vanished. My screams, whines and sobs are suppressed, squashed, desiccated. Hours ago, I was ready to grieve for my humiliation, for the burial of my cherished dream to break into the Secret Society of the Coffee Sommeliers; I wanted to throw myself onto the floor and go into a trance or a tantrum. Not now. The moment has passed, leaving me an unexploded shell in care of the sappers, leaving me with the bitterness and tingling anticipation of a night with a barista, an executor of the coffee industry’s blunt greed for money. Coffee money.
We walk side-by-side. The few streets are just a teaser.
Anonymous, oblivious, we step into each other’s lives sex-hungry and impatient. Soon, we are like two moles, blind to the sun, hidden in underground tunnels, listening to the howling wilderness. The termite monoliths are like tombstones in the Land of the Lots of Time where the Afghan cameleer postman travels for days to deliver a letter. For one name.
Bruno. The enemy.
He lies spent, his cock, moist, shiny and limp, still responding to my hand like a sleepy pet.
“Today I learnt an Ethiopian prayer,” he says and with his eyes closed he chants, “Coffee pot, give us peace,/ coffee pot, let children grow,/ let our wealth swell,/ please protect us from evils… ”
I sigh. Our family coffee pot in Sofia didn’t protect us from evil.
There’s something banal about making love to a stranger in a hotel room full of the ghosts of previous lovers. You can almost hear their moans of pleasure or subdued squabbles, the pop of champagne or beer bottles, the surfing of the adults-only channels, desire like a certificate for being alive, genuine or commercial.
I kiss Bruno’s closed eyes. My thoughts are like migrating birds that find sanctuary in a field of
