Submissions like today’s are always the hardest to write intros for. It’s not because I have nothing to say about it, nor is it that I don’t think this story is worthy of praise or analysis or contextualising. Far from it, this is rich stuff that will reward close reading and closer rereading.
You see the issue is that this work, like so much of
’s fiction is self-contained and creates its own little world for the reader to step into. It is complete. And so I worry that anything I could say would diminish rather than enhancing it, like adding more spice to a meal that is already perfectly seasoned.So all I’ll do then is to present you with this dish and simply say…
‘Enjoy.’
TJB.
“Everything is just so darn expensive in this dump, Soph. Let’s bounce,” the young gentleman in stained Converse shoes told his girlfriend, yanking on her sleeve. “We’ll just order the same thing you want online. Like normal people.”
The two zoomed past the cash register, dropping a quick but polite “Have a nice day” to the owner, who followed the almost-shoppers with a look of indifference. The girl did look back, trying to catch another glimpse of the polka-dot dress she knew she’d never find anywhere else, online or offline.
They could have haggled, Dolores thought to herself. Youngsters, even the most loud-mouthed of them, never did. Customers of their parents’ age would come to her with a shirt missing a button or a pair of shoes with a barely visible scratch, and ask for “a little discount, miss”. She respected that – people ready to stand up for themselves. To her, that was dignity. Meekly “bouncing” after seeing the price tag was the farthest thing from it.
But times were changing faster than the wrinkled face whose reflection she’d catch in the many mirrors around the store. She set them up to see the blind spots, where the shoplifters would ensconce themselves to stuff their handbags with cheap pearl imitations and scarves. Petty thieves were like magpies – attracted to shiny objects but incapable of seeing real value. But the new age got rid of them as well. Everyone was straight-laced and beige, even the teenagers who looked like they sniffed glue from a plastic bag they passed around behind the dumpsters. On days like these, she’d miss the thrill of catching a fallen-from-grace theatre actress getting high on crime. And it had been years since she caught a couple frenching behind the fur coat pile. Where there once was romance, now there was emptiness.
The bell chimed and a woman older than Dolores by a good decade appeared in the doorway, hesitant to step inside the store, with its coat hangers and racks, its dim lighting, and the smell of rather expensive incense, smuggled from the home country thanks to the lax nature of the local post office. After squinting for a few seconds, she finally came in, announcing in a voice that could only be described as lumberjack-like:
“I’ve come to taste your latte! I heard you make an amazing latte!” – of the many ways of butchering the word, she chose the least abhorrent.
Dolores’s niece – the one who went to community college for a social entrepreneurship degree – advised her to set up a “client magnet”. Something that would make people drop in, and make even those folks who were not in the mood to browse a row of vintage dresses check the store out. “Auntie, it’s what everyone does these days. Bookstores sell water tumblers. Drugstores offer lottery tickets. Every newsagent is a glorified tobacco shop. And did you know that cinemas earn more on pick-and-mix than on tickets? Makes you wonder!”
And that’s how the coffee machine (“a sound investment” as the seller, who was also the crafty niece’s boyfriend, told her) appeared behind the counter. It took her liters of spoiled and undrinkable brownish liquid to get a hang of it, but now her coffee, made by pulling on a few levers and pushing a few buttons, was driving old hags to the store.
Not this time, Dolores thought.
“What if I made you a nice cup of Turkish coffee instead?”
“But I heard your lattes were amazing! That’s why I walked two blocks.”
“I promise it’ll be worth your while. It’s on the house as well,” Dolores said pointing at the little table by the window, where all the best dresses hung. “Please, take a seat.”
“If you insist…” the woman concealed a giddy smile at the thought of saving a few coins.
Dolores gave the coffee machine a little pat, whispering “not today”, and turned on the little gas stove that she had installed, skirting a few health code regulations. She poured filtered water into her trusted brass coffee pot, the likes of which tourists brought from their pilgrimages to the Grand Bazaar, only hers was the real thing. She put a teaspoon of coffee she had ground in the morning, giving it one twirl.
“Sugar?” she asked the lady, who was getting comfortable in the soft burgundy armchair.
“No thanks.”
Dolores still added half a teaspoon of sugar to the pot, as there was nothing more off-putting than the grin some of those women made when the first bitter sip hit their palate. Another twirl, gentle, making a little whirlpool, trying not to disturb the subtle balance. She put the pot on the stove, making the fire as low as possible, the tiny blue flames dancing for their lives.
Meanwhile, the lady the coffee was meant for was curiously looking around, not quite understanding what sort of mish-mash this place was. Floral dresses up front, little Chinese ivory figurines behind a glass display, a few stuffed oldsquaws suspended on metal wires from the ceiling.
“Mighty cosy… Your store, I mean.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Dolores replied, keeping one eye on the pot, aware of the old adage.
Once the water boiled and the first layers of froth appeared on the surface, trying to escape the pot, Dolores raised the pot for a few seconds. After the froth settled, she put it back on again, giving it another chance at running away. Three more times she repeated the little ritual she had seen her mother perform in that little kitchen of theirs that always smelled of cardamom and cloves, her choice for incense for that day. She carefully poured the coffee into a tiny cup, already resting on an equally tiny saucer. Unlike the pot, the cups were cheap finds, with zero sentimental value.
“Now that’s what I call real coffee!” the lady shopper exclaimed, after touching the surface of the nearly viscous drink with her puffy lips.
“Better than a latte?” Dolores asked, a smile forming in the corners of her mouth. She butchered the word the same way her guest had done, almost instinctively, without any attempt at mockery. Her niece would have applauded her for speaking the customers’ language.
“It’s just so different,” answered the lady, her little cup already almost empty. “Much like your place.”
Before the world had changed, this difference would have meant something. People would have found more reasons to come. Pick a pair of earrings that made the soul sing. Find a locket to put the picture of their future husband in. Or take a glance into the future, the future that still held some hope.
“I source my wares from places most people haven’t heard of. Cities that have lost their former glory. Little towns that were once jewels of empires ruled by ruthless men. Travellers and artisans who call the road their home,” Dolores told the lady, leaning against the wall, feeling a chill run down her spine, a chill she could only attribute to pride.
“Must explain the prices…” the lady muttered to herself, but Dolores didn’t engage with the remark.
“Some of the fabrics here spent decades gathering dust in warehouses abandoned by their former owners, driven out of business by cheaper goods and warlords. I’d like to think that every piece here tells its own story, but it’s the story they tell collectively that matters most.”
The woman looked at her with a puzzled look, trying to make sense of it all. Dolores knew that while she certainly did come for a latte, the woman was equally driven by curiosity. After all, people talked. And curiosity was a commodity she’d happily trade in.
“Could I perhaps read your fortune?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I learned it from my grandmother,” Dolores said, graciously sitting down, cat-like, in front of the lady. “She always told me not to believe the fortune but still have a peek. Sorry, it sounds better in… the language my grandmother spoke.”
The lady looked at her incredulously.
“How will you be reading it?”
“Coffee grounds, my dear. First, I’ll ask you to turn over the cup and put it on the saucer. Then flip it, holding it tightly, and draw three circles clockwise from your heart. Think of a question while you’re doing so, but keep it to yourself.”
Dolores showed the moves, without actually touching her guest’s cup, so as not to add her energy to the grounds, so as not to infuse it with anything external. It wasn’t her fortune after all. She was just the conduit.
The woman obediently albeit clumsily did what she was told.
“Now put it on the table and we’ll wait for a little while,” she smiled and added: “Like all good things in life, magic takes time.”
“Do you do this often?” small talk and fortune-telling didn’t really go hand in hand, yet here they were.
“Often is hard to define,” Dolores replied and fixed her hair. At least the mirror helped with that.
“I’ll read your fortune now. You don’t have to believe it, but it doesn’t hurt to know.”
Dolores lifted the saucer, took the cup in her left hand, keeping it at arm’s length, taking a first glance at the pattern that the coffee grounds left. She could never get behind tea reading – the leaves always left such a mess. But coffee was different, singular like a Rorschach's test, only more difficult to interpret.
Did her sister tell her all these years ago, looking at the bottom of a similar, although undeniably more elegant cup, that she’d leave home, travel to a strange city and serve lattes to bored housewives that are too indecisive and too timid to buy anything that could actually make them feel better about themselves? No, but then again, Carla never had the gift. She only saw shapes but there was more to it. True fortune was ineffable; it was in the electric current between the teller and the asker.
“I see good things on the horizon,” Dolores started, commenting on the more obvious fortune she could register. “Beautiful things. Things that’ll make others admire you but maybe even become jealous of how well you have it.”
“Hope you’re not talking about me buying a full rack of dresses from your store, miss,” the woman’s lilted laughter filled the room. Dolores could not help but give her a smile, even though fortune-telling was serious business. She continued in the same calm voice:
“These beautiful things might be immaterial, intangible, barely visible to the naked eye,” she smiled widely, looking the lady in the eye. “Or they might be jewels gifted by an admirer willing to win you over.”
“An admirer… gosh, how quaint would it be to have one these days. There were times, of course…”
Under the thick layer of make-up there were the makings of a beautiful woman, Dolores thought to herself. And when death struck her, her family would probably pick a picture of her in her mid-twenties. Or maybe she had already picked a photo from one of the fat albums stacked on a shelf underneath the telly.
“We could look back into those times then, if you prefer.”
“Do the grounds tell stories of the past as well?”
Dolores smiled.
“When one’s heart opens, it tells stories. Foresees visions. Untangles knots… Speaking of knots, I imagine you have tied it with someone.”
The woman sighed.
“I had many suitors.”
Dolores didn’t say anything. People like her guest responded best to silence, not probing.
“Oh, not too many, nothing like that. But I certainly had men asking for my hand, but I was never convinced. I did marry twice but both marriages ended fruitlessly. I wouldn’t even say any of them scarred me. They were like light headaches – I felt something for a while, but when the feeling faded, there was little to remember…”
Dolores thought of the young couple that left the shop without buying anything. Would they ever marry? And if so, would theirs also be a scarless marriage? Young people were an enigma to her.
“I do see scars… I mean, the cup hints at this. It might not be true, of course.”
The woman smiled a sad smile.
“There was this one man.”
That was it, Dolores thought.
“I see a letter. D…”
“Daniel was his name, yes.”
The woman didn’t seem surprised.
“I don’t think the letter refers to his name, though. There’s something more…”
“Well, he did drive a Dodge…”
Dolores looked the woman in the eye and whispered:
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“Daniel was a travelling salesman. He sold socks and stockings to shops. Nothing exquisite, but really fine quality. He was good at his job, too. He had the biggest hands… Sorry, I’m getting carried away, you probably don’t need the whole story.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“He ran away with some redhead. Sent me a postcard saying that he still cares about me and he’ll call when he’s back in town. But he never did.”
“And that was…”
“Thirty-two years ago. He never called.”
The two women shared a moment of silence for broken hearts.
“I always wondered why…”
Dolores had seen worse. Much worse. The pain of regret was a mosquito bite compared to what some had to endure. In the mountains and in the plains, life was full of sorrow. Here, in this dull provincial town, the highest degree of pain known to some women was the pain of losing a travelling sock peddler. Yet, she felt pity for this woman, haunted by a specter of unrealised desire.
“The cup is telling me a story, but I don’t know if you want to hear it…”
Those words were such a cliché, Dolores cringed at herself. She heard her mother use it to swindle baronesses out of pearls and courtesans out of golden anklets. This time, it was all for a better cause, she thought.
“It’s all in good fun, please, do tell.”
“The D I saw was not D for Daniel. It was D for Death. Your lover died, Christina, died a long time ago.”
The woman swallowed, remembering that she never told the shop lady her name. Or maybe she had? How often did people exchange names in this day and age?
“How…”
“He wasn’t a good man either. He sold his soul to the Devil. And then the Devil made him sell more than socks. He sold state secrets, hopping the border with a suitcase filled with stockings and microfilm.”
“How…”
“The redhead he ran away with was a spy sent out to get him. She stabbed him while he was in his sleep, dressed him up like a vagrant, and dumped the body in the river.”
“How… awful.”
The woman sat there, mesmerised.
“Are you sure?”
“A hundred percent? No. But I’m sure of one thing, darling. The scars he left you are nothing compared to what would have been burned into your heart if he had stayed.”
“I think I must go and light a candle in the church for him. Even if it isn’t true.”
“You haven’t mourned him yet.”
“I will now.”
The woman took her purse and stood up in a daze, feeling that she was missing something.
“I need a scarf. A black scarf.”
Dolores pointed toward an elegant bust displaying a silk scarf as black as a raven. The woman looked at the price tag, paid in cash and left, uttering a final “thank you”.
Looking around the empty store, Dolores thought to herself that a sale was a sale. And that she’d need to burn more incense to get rid of the smell of the lady’s perfume and the story she told. Sandalwood, she thought. Sandalwood would do the trick. That, and a bit of rum with her coffee.
So good!!!