Rosetta and heart

Bloom II

The man came back to the café the following morning. He was wearing a grey business suit over a crisp white shirt, the collar open at the throat. I hadn’t paid attention to his attire before, but that morning I couldn’t help but notice the way he was dressed.

“Tamura, double espresso,” he said, resting his hands on the counter.

“Double espresso?” I checked. It wasn’t his normal order. Then again, what was normal about this guy?

He made a quick nod with his head. “Double espresso. The name is Tamura.”

Tamura? I thought to myself. The name had a certain ring to it, though I couldn’t say from where.

I took his payment and moved down the counter to begin making his order. It was still early, which meant I was working both the register and coffee machine. A few regulars were already here, sat by the window and reading the paper, but otherwise it was quiet. Soon enough that would change. I would be confined to the coffee machine—a position I desired greatly.

I set the grinder running. The man waited for it to finish before speaking.

“Do you find a double espresso an unnecessary purchase,” the man—Tamura—asked.

“Unnecessary?” I said.

“Do you find the act… boring. Inconsequential.” He spoke without any hint of a question mark.

I had no notion of what he meant or what I should say. “Because there’s no milk?” I offered. “There’s no art in the process? Is that what you mean?” It was the best I could come up with on the spot.

“Yes,” he said, nodding. It was an action he seemed fond of.

I frowned, then held up my forefinger, indicating he was to wait a moment. Removing the portafilter from the fork, I closed my eyes and tamped the grounds, exhaling in the process. When the tamping was complete, I reopened my eyes—to my relief, the surface was perfectly flat.

“I like to think there’s art in all coffee,” I continued, finding that, actually, I did have something to say. “No matter how you make it, there’s art in the process. Espresso, latte, pour-over… someone who doesn’t think when they make a coffee isn’t rewarded by the experience or outcome.” By now I was on a roll, selecting words without thought, like a painter who begins to know precisely which shade of paint to apply to their brush. “An espresso is no different from a long black in this regard. The process may be different, but the goal remains the same.” I had little idea whether what I was saying was true—it was only how I felt, deep down inside.

“Let me see if I understand you,” the man said, leaning forward. “Without thought, the result of any such coffee is inferior.”

“Exactly,” I said, smiling. “Exactly that. It’s like all craft.”

“Like all craft,” the man mused.

He retreated to the brick wall opposite the counter, watching until I had finished making his double espresso. When I was satisfied with the extraction, I handed it to him. He stepped forward, took a sip, and nodded.

“When I drink this coffee,” he began, taking a second sip, “if it was not I who made it, then where am I to find the enjoyment.”

His apparent disregard for question marks made me a little nervous; I had to pause a moment before speaking.

“The job of the barista,” I said, picking up an empty mug and holding it high, as though it might enhance what I was about to say. “The job of the barista is to instil the coffee—temporarily, of course—with a kind of wonder. Something that only you, the recipient, can interpret.” I had never consciously thought about this, but as I spoke I found I believed my words. In fact, had I been asked, I felt certain I could have written a thesis on the subject, right there in the café. “Through our little transaction, that is the role you entrusted in me.”

“That is the role,” he repeated, nodding.

He seemed about to say more, but just then a woman entered. I put down the empty mug, dusted some grounds off the counter and wiped my hands on my jeans, then walked over and smiled and said hello. I didn’t recognise her, though this was nothing unusual—on any given day there were plenty of first-time customers. Cappuccino and flat white, she said. An excellent choice. It would give me opportunity to work on a a difficult yet pleasing design, that of a swan, the lithe curves of the foam offset by the dark crema of the espresso shot.

As I was taking the woman’s order, I was aware of the man still standing there by the brick wall. He watched the exchange I was having, taking the occasional sip of his double espresso. Normally, such a situation would bother me—that of a person observing me speak to someone else—but somehow I felt the opposite: the man’s presence seemed to heighten my awareness. As I chatted to the woman (she was on the way to visit her friend who had just received a promotion), I found myself studying her features. She was in her late twenties, I estimated, with black hair cut in a blunt style and with bangs. She had high cheekbones that bore only the slightest hint of make-up, and on her wrist was a watch with a yellow dial. These were not details I would usually notice or remember about a person, but for some reason, perhaps due to the man’s presence, I couldn’t help but take note.

With the payment complete, I moved back along the counter to the espresso machine. When I glanced back to the wall, the man—Tamura—had left.

*

It was several days before the man came again. I had, of course, failed to ask him about Kōbō Abe, but by now I'd spent enough time reading critiques of Abe’s work that I no longer felt it necessary to discuss the matter. Generally, when I finish a book, I like to immerse myself in online forums and threads of discussion, hoping to find viewpoints counter to my own along with those that resonate. There is something about reading of the dissatisfaction of others—especially in works that I myself enjoy—that is pleasurable. My appreciation of books or films has no doubt been enhanced by this habit. In any case, my thoughts were no longer centred on the plight of Niki Jumpei and the acceptance of his life deep within the dunes. Like the sands he experienced each day, my thoughts had drifted elsewhere.

The man’s pattern of coming in for coffee was, to the best of my judgement, sporadic. He would come in and order a coffee, leaving his name; the name would, of course, be different each time. More than different, it would be unusual or obscure: Sixsmith, Mord, Flask, to name a few examples. There was something strange about these names, as if a flavour had been placed on my tongue but I was unable to decipher its precise origin.

During this time, we began to establish a routine. I would make his coffee and, provided I wasn’t too busy, he would ask me about what I was reading. These discussions became something I looked forward to with great joy. For many years, books had been the closest companion in my life, and here I could share that interest with someone else. Yet, whatever book I happened to mention, the man had already read it, a fact that I found hard to believe. It was as though he was always one book ahead of me and had intimate knowledge of my reading list.

“I think I’m going to read The Demon next,” I declared one time, about three weeks after we’d first met. It was the weekend and there was a short lull before the brunch rush. One of the wait staff had just whisked away a latte I’d prepared and I was commencing the man’s order. His name that day was Isandòrno. Somewhat exotic, I thought. When he spoke, his voice took on an altogether different tone.

“Ah, Lermontov,” Isandòrno said. “You do well in the breadth of your reading.”

I was stumped. I’d deliberately picked The Demon off the back of a friend’s recommendation, her mother being Russian and having grown up with Russian literature and saying that no finer writers existed or exist; secretly, I’d hoped that this choice would finally be something the man hadn’t read.

“You’ve read it, then?” I asked, knowing full well his answer.

“Of course,” he said, then proceeded to quote a line that I assumed must come from the book. “‘What, without you is life eternal.’ A fine piece of poetry. The tormented and moody hero. Almost Byronic in his manner.”

Almost Byronic? I shook my head and continued making his order.

*

One day, the man didn't leave a name. He just stood there, waiting for his order, his back to the brick wall. As I was frothing the milk, attuning my palm to the temperature of the pitcher and imagining the many millions of bubbles that were being formed, I tried to catch his eye. But he was wasn't looking at me. His gaze seemed fixed on some faraway place. It was as if he wasn't in a café at all but on some beach or mountain or deep within a forest.

“Write,” he said, startling me from my thoughts.

“Write?” I asked, confused. My palm sensed that the milk was now at the optimal temperature. I withdrew the nozzle of the steam wand, switching it off in the process—an act that had by now become automatic—and proceeded to pour his flat white, choosing a fluid wave design that was quick and efficient yet still imparting beauty.

He nodded, then reached over the counter and placed a pen into my shirt pocket.

“I'm sorry, I don’t—”

“You must leave and write,” he said, without letting me finish. He picked up his coffee and walked out, not saying another word.

*

That evening, I sat at my desk with a glass of whiskey—a Hakushu single malt, which has to be the perfect accompaniment to a night alone—and stared at the pen. It was a fountain pen, of no discernible make. The ink inside was full. It had been many years since I had held a fountain pen. Thinking on it, it had been many years since I’d held a pen with any sense of seriousness or intent. Signing forms, filling in the occasional details at an office… such small tasks were the extent of my pen usage. To sit and hold a pen for the precise act of writing felt entirely foreign. For a long time I simply held it, pinching it between my finger and thumb, poised like a fencer holding the foil before commencing a duel.

In the drawer of my desk there was a journal. It had been a birthday gift from a friend several years prior. I’d never written in it. I took it out, opened it to the first page and rested my palm on the paper, letting the nib of the fountain pen touch the blank white canvas.

*

Anyway, so that’s how this all began. This process. That’s how you’ve come to read this. I handed in my notice the following day, my mind set on an entirely new goal. There was a surety in my action. I was entirely without doubt.

I never did see the man again. Whether he came back to the café or not, I don’t know, though I can’t help but suspect that his final nameless visit was truly that—final. His presence during my time working in the café as a barista remains a mystery, but a mystery that I am happy to have been a part of. He’s part of my story—part of this story, if you will.

The café isn't there anymore. I never found out why it closed down. It was always busy and, as I have said, it was a café that had the right components. I visited the suburb a little while ago. The train station remains—its vines and bushes waiting patiently to claim the structure for themselves—but the café itself is gone, replaced now by an apartment block. I still think about my time there. I still think of all of the coffees I made and my love for the simplicity of that act and what I could impart through each transaction. I wonder on the regulars and where they are, to which café they had to move themselves to. And I wonder on the man with so many names and the gift that he bestowed.

---

Thank you for reading. This was the conclusion to a piece I started in my last post, here. For whatever reason, it’s taken me a long time to finish this. I felt a certain block in my writing, a certain constriction in the flow of words. But at the weekend I found myself in a café by a train station and I sat and wrote, and wrote and wrote, and the well refilled and it was a beautiful relief.

Photo by Joshua Michaels on Unsplash