At some of the names he lit up as if he used to meet with them here himself, though they’d lived fifty or a hundred years before, or even earlier. He knew a lot about them. In many cases he knew who used to sit at which table. And if they’d been alone or with someone. Whether they drank coffee or tea, or if they preferred wine, and what kind. Which cakes they most liked, or if they didn’t like cakes.
There’d also been someone who used to sit at the table we were at. It was the first time I’d heard the name. You knew him? So you know what work he did. That was the only name that stuck in my memory, of all the ones he mentioned. Maybe because, like you just said, he worked on dreams.
Later I bought a book about those dreams of his. We could find ourselves in there too. You, me. Anyone. Supposedly they were just his dreams, but really they were dreams about people. Apparently he would come to the cafe every day. And always at the same time. No more than a minute earlier or later. You could have set your watch by him. Actually, he’d always take out his pocket watch and check whether he’d arrived punctually. And everyone else in the cafe would take out their watches and check they were running right. Some days he’d drink coffee after coffee, especially when he was making notes on a paper napkin. Other times he’d only ask for a glass of water as he sat there lost in thought.
“Was he waiting for someone maybe?” I asked, trying to show I was listening.
Because you have to agree that when you don’t arrange to meet someone but you want to see them, then every day at the same time you’ll go to the place where you usually meet with them. As if the place itself were capable of making them appear. It’s a mistaken belief, that places are more constant than time and death.
“That I don’t know,” he said. “Waiting is a permanent condition within us. You know, often we don’t realize that from birth to death we live in a state of expectation. He’d probably grown attached to the cafe, this table. Those kinds of attachment are often stronger than to other people.”
I didn’t say anything. I simply didn’t understand that anyone could get attached to a cafe, let alone a table.
So when he came into the cafe and saw that his table was occupied, he’d leave right away, even if other tables were free. The proprietor would have to send him an apology and assure him it would never happen again. He was even capable of scolding whoever had taken the table. Once he struck the table with his cane. Two young people were sitting at it, it may have been the first time they’d been in the cafe and they had no idea it was his table. Besides, like all young people, the world still belonged to them, including some table in some cafe or other. So they refused to move to another table, why should they. Everyone knows that cafes are for everyone and that anyone can sit at any table they like. Whoever sits there first, it’s their table. And here someone was claiming they’d occupied his table. If I were them, I’d not have moved. Maybe if he’d asked politely, said that he couldn’t sit at any other table, because the coffee or tea would taste different. That I’d understand. But he evicted them from the table like he was throwing them out of his own apartment.
One time he slapped someone in the face with his glove because they’d had the temerity to sit at his table. It would surely have ended in a duel, because the other man responded by throwing down his own glove, which meant he was demanding satisfaction. Fortunately the proprietor of the cafe picked the glove up and somehow managed to smooth things over.
After that incident a card was stuck in the napkin holder saying the table was reserved. But he never came back.
Then suddenly the other man said something that made me think:
“The proprietor of the cafe died. His son took over the place. Then his son after him. But on that table, in the napkin holder, the whole time there was a card to say the table was reserved. Perhaps if he’d known it was reserved, that it was waiting for him … Then war broke out, and before it ended the cafe was taken over by soldiers. They didn’t care whose table was whose, if one of them was reserved or not, because all the tables were theirs. They sat wherever they flopped down, they’d even put their feet up on the tables.”
All at once he asked me if I’d like some cake.
“Gladly,” I said, though I avoided cakes, just like I wasn’t supposed to drink coffee. At that time I had a duodenal ulcer. He beckoned the waitress. She brought over a tray with various cakes, she smiled at him, she evidently knew him, because it wasn’t the usual smile you get from a waitress. He looked the tray over and said:
“You should take one of those. They don’t have them anywhere else.”
I nodded to say that was fine. He chose the same thing for himself. When the waitress took the tongs and was about to put the cake on his plate first, he directed her to my plate and only then let her serve him.
“Delicious, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed, though I didn’t really like it, it had too much cream.
But what else can be said about a cake … So we both fell silent. It was my turn to say something. He’d told me all about the cafe, and I hadn’t spoken a word. But I didn’t know what to talk about. I wasn’t particularly disposed toward conversation. Maybe I was overwhelmed by the fact that after greeting each other by mistake on the street, now we were sitting together like old friends, but in fact we didn’t know one another. Besides, I was starting to feel a slight pain in my right side, below the ribs, which was a clear consequence of the coffee I’d had, and perhaps also of the cake. I was afraid that the pain would flare up for real, because if that happened I’d be in no state to come up with anything at all to say. Normally when the pain would get worse and worse, all I could ever do was remain silent. Though at moments like that even silence cost me dearly. True, I had my tablets with me, but I wasn’t going to start swallowing tablets in front of a stranger. He might ask what was wrong with me. And the conversation would move to duodenal ulcers. Then if he had some illness too, we’d spend the whole of the rest of the time talking about illnesses. Illnesses help out any conversation, as you know. But had we really greeted one another on the street by mistake just so we could talk about illnesses? He’d even claimed it wasn’t chance. I preferred not to say anything at all. I put in a word from time to time, but it was more to agree with what he was saying, like with the cake, when he said it was delicious and I said absolutely.
“You know,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “they make the cakes here according to recipes that are as old as the cafe itself. Don’t you think the coffee tastes differently here than in other cafes?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
“Yes, the way coffee used to taste,” he said, yielding to some kind of nostalgia.
I didn’t know what he meant by “the way coffee used to taste,” because from my own childhood I only ever remembered ersatz coffee with milk. And then the coffee at school after the war, without milk or sugar, it had the taste of bitter water.
“That’s why I come here from time to time,” he said. “I wonder how they make it? I asked the owner once, he only said he was glad I liked it. Funny that even cafes have their secrets. The way coffee used to taste …” He grew pensive. Then he suddenly snapped out of it: “Have you ever thought about how powerfully we’re bound to the past? Not necessarily our own. Besides, what’s our past? Where are its boundaries? It’s something like an undefined longing, but for what? Is it not for something that never was, but nevertheless has passed? The past is just our imagination, and the imagination needs longing, it actually feeds on longing. The past, my dear sir, has nothing to do with time, despite what people think. Besides, what is time anyway? Does something like time even exist outside of calendars and clocks? We use ourselves up, that’s all it boils down to. Like everything else around us. Life is energy, not survival, and energy gets consumed. As for the past, it never goes away, since we’re constantly making it anew. It’s created by our imagination, that’s what determines our memory, gives it its characteristics, dictates its choices, not the othe
r way around. Imagination is the ground of our existence. Memory is no more than a function of our imagination. Imagination is the one place we feel connected to, where we can be certain that that’s where we actually live. Then when we come to die, we also die in it. Along with all those who have ever died before, and who help us die in turn.”
He abruptly reached into the inside pocket of his coat and took out his wallet.
“Will you let me take care of this?” I said, thinking that he meant to settle the bill, and that by the same token he was indicating that our meeting was over.
“Out of the question,” he said. “It was me who invited you. You’re my guest, remember? But actually I was going to show you something.”
He began rummaging through the compartments of his wallet, taking out various photos, business cards, documents, folded pieces of paper, tickets. He tossed it all on the table and something fell on the floor, but before I could reach down he swooped like a hawk and got there before me.
“Could it be that it’s not there? How could that have happened? I always have it on me,” he said with worried self-reproach. “I don’t have it. I actually don’t have it. I don’t understand. I’m terribly sorry.” He replaced the wallet here, in his breast pocket. “Would you like a glass of liqueur?” he asked suddenly, as if forgetting what he had meant to show me. “They have an excellent almond liqueur. Then wine, perhaps? Too bad. No, I won’t take any on my own. If I were alone it would be a different matter. Though I don’t know whether in that case I’d feel like drinking anything. You have to have some purpose to also have the desire. That applies just as much to the desire for life. Where are you from?” he asked out of the blue.
I was taken aback. We’d been sitting there quite a while, our cups were empty, there were nothing but crumbs on the plates. In such situations I was usually asked at the very beginning where I was from. That was understandable, you could tell from the way I talked. The moment I opened my mouth it became natural to ask where I was from.
“I thought so,” he said. “Actually, I was certain of it. Right back then, on the street, when you apologized. But I was the one who greeted you first. Who knows if I wasn’t sure of it the moment I saw you reaching for your hat. My face couldn’t have looked familiar to you, but yours could to me. It appeared to me in a brief flash. I immediately started asking myself where and when. Then all of a sudden it came to me – of course!”
“You’ve been there?” I asked, though it may have been rude on my part to interrupt. Yet I had the impression it was expected, he might even have been intending for me to do so.
“No, never,” he responded brusquely, almost as if he were brushing my question away. “Pity they don’t allow smoking in here,” he said. “I don’t smoke, but there are moments when I feel like a cigarette. Do you smoke?”
“No,” I said. “I used to. Gave it up.”
“Good for you. Really. It’s not good for your health.” He suddenly stared at something with a fixed gaze.
I wondered if maybe he’d seen one of those people who’d come there over the previous two hundred years. Maybe he’d even seen the man who used to sit at our table, standing in the doorway. I expected him to jump up in a moment and say, excuse us, we’re just leaving. Then, in a quiet, blank voice he said:
“My father was there.”
“Oh, then maybe you went with your father one time,” I put in encouragingly, pleased at the chance to contribute more to the conversation.
“During the war,” he said, breaking in.
His words had a strange effect on me. Perhaps because I was already immersed in what I’d been planning to say, since I had the opportunity, and as if speaking over his words I said:
“It’s always nicer to go with someone who’s been there before. Especially your own father.”
“My father is dead,” he said, cutting short my enthusiasm.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea. Please accept my condolences.”
“But you didn’t know my father,” he said, almost bridling. “Still, thank you.”
I felt uncomfortable. I sensed a slight pressure beneath my ribs on the right side, the pain in my duodenum was showing signs of flaring up again. That was how it usually began, initially just a faint pressure under the ribs on the right. Sometimes it went away, like a moment ago after the coffee and cake. But now it seemed more substantial, it was starting to spread around my side to my lower back. I began to worry that if it kept increasing, in a short while it would be unbearable. I’d turn pale, start sweating, and it would be hard for him not to notice.
“Are you not feeling well?” he’d ask. And what on earth could I say to him then? That it was because of the coffee and cake? The coffee was excellent, the cake was delicious, I’d said so myself. No, no, please continue, it wouldn’t have been right to say that either, because it wouldn’t have been right in general to admit I was ill. Especially at such a moment, he starts telling me about his father, and I respond that I have a duodenal ulcer? You have to admit it would be awkward to say the least. One pain should never be pitted against another. Each pain is unique to itself.
I was wondering how I could slip my hand under my jacket without him noticing, so I could put some pressure on the rising pain, because that sometimes helped. I often saved myself in company in such a way. Or in the night, for instance. The worst pain would usually come in the night. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I’d get out of bed, squat down, and kind of push the pain into myself with my hand, pressing on it with my whole being, my chin doubled over to my knees. Sometimes I spent all night like that, it was the only thing that brought relief. And that was how I lived with it. Since when? It started on one of the building sites. At first it was only in spring and fall. Once in a while I thought about going to a doctor. But in summer or in winter it would pass and I’d forget. I got skinny as a rake. Everyone kept asking me, what’s up, you look awful. Are you sick? No, I’m not sick, this is just how I look.
I couldn’t stand anyone’s sympathy. If I happened not to be in pain, and someone expressed sympathy, it would start to hurt right away. I did take flaxseed oil, you bet. I did just like you said. I’d dissolve a tablespoon of it in lukewarm water in the evening, then drink it on an empty stomach in the morning. It helped a little. I hardly ever drank vodka anymore. And I tried to eat only boiled food, nothing greasy. Later I went on a very restricted diet. On the advice of a buddy, the pianist in the band. He’d had the same thing. Though he’d gone to the doctor.
You’ll find this hard to believe, but when I played it never hurt. We’d play till late at night, often into morning, and it never hurt. Can you imagine, for a guy of my height I weighed forty-five pounds less than I should have. My jawbone jutted out from my face like it had no flesh on it, my cheeks were hollow, my nose grew longer. Later, much later, when I got over it and put on some weight, my wife confessed to me one time that as she looked at me she thought there’d come a time when my jaw and my cheekbones would grow level with each other.
When I had a tuxedo made for my wedding, the tailor took all my measurements and after a pause said:
“Pardon the comment, but you’re awfully slim. Oh well, I’ll leave some room in the seams if you should ever want to alter it. When you make a tuxedo it’s not just for a single occasion.”
I guessed that he’d been going to say “skinny,” but used the word “slim” out of professional courtesy. Besides, how could I not be skinny given how little I ate. Whenever I ate anything at all, right away it hurt. I’d already stopped drinking wine and beer. At a party for instance, everyone else would be eating and drinking and I’d ask for a glass of milk. Milk was the only thing I could still drink. No one could understand. He’s healthy, there’s nothing wrong with him, and here he’s drinking milk. They’d try to persuade me, give me advice, they made jokes at my expense, raised a toast to me, and I’d raise my glass of milk in return. All I wanted was for them to leave me alone, forget I was there.
; It was through the milk that I met my future wife. The double bass player in the band was having a birthday party, and I asked for my usual glass of milk. The milk attracted her attention. I hadn’t noticed her till that point. Besides, when you’re in pain you don’t even see beautiful women. It was another matter that there was a big crowd at the party. I was standing to one side, and she emerged out of the mass of people and came up to me.
“You like milk? Me too.”
“I can ask for another glass,” I said.
“No,” she said. “I’ll have a sip from yours. Can I?” After that we danced together.
Subsequently I went to various doctors, I spent six months in the hospital, they examined me and in the end they declared that an operation was the only thing. I refused. So they gave me injections and tablets. I still remember one of the medications was called “Robuden.” For a year I felt better. But then I had a relapse, it was worse than before. I thought it was all over for me. My wife cried, in secret, though from her eyes I knew right away she’d been crying. With some eyes, you can’t tell they’ve been crying. You just need to wipe them. But with others, the tears linger long after the crying. Hers were like that.
I pretended not to have seen anything. But one day I came home late from the club and she was still awake. She looked at me, and I had a suspicion.
“You’ve been crying,” I said.
“No I haven’t. Why do you say that? I have no reason to.”
“With me you’ll always have a reason,” I said. “You made a bad choice. That glass of milk let you down.”
A Treatise on Shelling Beans Page 27