kiss lands between my knuckles. “Today it’s my lucky day. I turn forty,” he says to my knuckles.
Seducer.
Bastard.
The words stick to my teeth like fine coffee grounds.
At the far end of the bar Jose flaps in his water domain. Bruno turns his back to me and takes his time to rearrange some sample jars and featured collectables like original tins of Nash’s and Hills Bros Coffee, Solitaire Cowboy and a couple of Mac Laughlin’s Gem Coffee Bags. Then he washes his hands, repeatedly increasing and reducing the volume of lather.
I prepare to go.
Right then Bruno produces a packet of one hundred percent Guatemalan from a crop that comes once in decades, a crop after a long dry season when even the ocean breeze from Belize gets stuck somewhere along the Gulf Stream, and sailors can hear its distant singing luring them the way the sirens lured Odysseus when he had to wax-tap his crew’s ears. The aromas stay sealed inside the beans fusing to a perfect result.
Bruno opens the packet, lets me sniff it and takes it away. I feel like a child that has lost her ice cream to the family dog. A little Puppe, a red berry princess that has to learn to lose loved ones to death.
Bruno turns his back to me. There are customers flocking in.
Soon the place is full. A younger man comes to take over behind the bar.
Bruno brings his tall cup of coffee and leans against the bar not far away from me and the cup of espresso made with the freshly ground Guatemalan, which he also serves. The fragrance is as strong as Martian winds and makes me feel weak and dizzy. It’s like an invitation to hell.
“You always have it long?” I say matter-of-factly in the direction of his coffee but suddenly aware of my double-edged remark. I try to laugh it off.
He smiles and soon watches me sipping on my coffee that might also need some chewing. “How about you?”
The hot flush caused by my badly concealed excitement gives way to pleasant warmth with a hysterical ingredient which I can’t entirely blame on the bronco kick strength of the coffee. I feel the stranger’s magnetic aura three stools away. I hope he notices more things about me than the five coffee gurus. Like over-sized, hazelnut eyes, a dimple in the chin, more like a coffee bean groove actually; skin that has seen better days, yet maintains a moist, nourished look without me bathing in coffee grounds fermented with pineapple pulp, a Japanese wrinkle killer. I raise my hand to rearrange my hair.
After having a sip that looks more like a mouth rinse, Bruno returns his cup next to my espresso, David and Goliath, sort of, and shifts into the stool next to mine wrapping me in his body warmth. It’s scary and I feel the moist cold coming from the river crawl into my marrow, my teeth chatter, and I clinch them biting on my lower lip. As if it’s the most natural thing to do, he places his hand on my shoulder and caresses my hair with such tenderness and intensity that I experience a meltdown.
Or a déjà vu.
Casanova, Don Juan, Marquis de Sade flash before my eyes. I’m not a prey, I shout silently at this stranger. I want him to feel distraught and 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