The Taste of Coffee

The Florentine moon shimmered like a mirage. Reflecting off the Arno before finally forming a glint on his glasses. He sighed, shaking the glass in his hand. Ice cubes clinking against each other. Behind him, the revelries continued. Friends new and old, lovers, brothers, sisters, all celebrating him with his own money. He was supposed to be happy, instead, he just felt weary.

It had taken him a while to get here. Three published books and countless rejections. But he was finally a Best-selling author. This soiree, organized by his agent, marked the sale of the 10th Million copy of his latest novel. The penthouse suite was adorned with tables piled high with hardcovers he had to sign by hand.

The hotel stood next to the iconic Piazzale Michelangelo. From his vantage point on the balcony, the whole city lay sprawled out under him. Cobbled streets inviting to be trod upon. As he sipped his drink, he felt the familiar ache. A restless feeling that had propelled him to quit his job as an accountant in Toronto and travel the world. Living out of a backpack, usually in hostels.

He had already been a published author when he left Canada. But his acclaim didn’t extend beyond close friends and family. It was the third book. Written while traveling which brought him financial and critical success. But a few extra zeroes in his bank account and more google hits on his name hadn’t filled the void in his heart.

On his agent’s insistence, he had tried moving into a 5-star loft. It had made him feel caged. Like a malignant deity had plucked him from the rest of humanity. Imprisoning him in a cold metal tower. Without telling anyone, he had picked up his backpack. Stuffing it with wrinkled clothes and worn paperbacks he moved back to the hostel. Where he shared a room with six other travellers. He spent his days buying sandwiches and wine from the grocery store. Sharing them with beggars and street performers when his agent had found him again.

He knew if he stayed to say goodbye, the party guests would keep him here till morning. Draining his glass, he bolted for the fire escape. He would have to be smart about his escape. His agent’s security detail were equipped with walkie-talkies. And they drove big black jeeps. The year-old sneakers he wore could never hope to outrun them.

Hoping to remain inconspicuous, as soon as he reached the street he headed for a narrow alley. It was covered by trees and vines on all sides and once he walked further, the darkness would obscure him. It was well after midnight, he saw one or two people walking in the opposite direction but he was mostly alone. The adrenaline from his escape and the alcohol were giving him a delicious buzz.

He didn’t want to go back to the hostel either, he wanted to get lost in the city somewhere. The alley was going downhill as far as the eye would see. He was still thinking of a direction to take when he saw an alcove partially hidden behind thick vines. Had this been here before? maybe he’d had one drink too many.

Moving closer, he could hear faint sounds of music and low chatter. The vines were thicker inside the alcove but the noises got louder. He found himself in a clearing. There were garden chairs and tables strewn about. Some people were sitting on blankets spread on the grass. Everywhere he looked, there were musical instruments. Some were being played, some rested on laps, the melodies merged to form a pleasant background hum.

In the middle of it all, stood a walk-up bar. A handsome Romani woman of middle age was leaning against the counter. A black cigarette dangled from her lips. He walked up to her, “Can I buy one of those” he said pointing to the cigarette. “We don’t sell them” she replied smiling. “But you look like you could use one” she took out an engraved silver case from under the bar and offered him a cigarette. It was already lit when he put it in his mouth. It tasted like forgotten dreams and a hint of cinnamon. It reminded him of the first cigarette he’d ever had, stolen in the middle of the night from his dad’s stash.

The shelves behind the bar were filled with nameless bottles. Different shapes and sizes with a variety of colors and hues trapped in them. His eyes were drawn to a round bottle with amber liquid inside. “Can I have a glass of that” he pointed. The woman’s eyes followed his “You can try it but it won’t do you much good” she replied with a smirk. “Why don’t you try looking for something inside” she gestured with her head. A wooden door stood there leading to a small cottage.

Nodding to the woman, he walked towards the door. His heart was hammering when he turned the knob. It was much bigger inside than he would’ve thought. It almost felt like a college campus. People were dancing in one corner, colorful clothes whirling about. Another area had canvases and easels, painters running around drawing on them. It felt surreal, he wanted to sit down. Amidst the chaos, his eyes caught a girl walking by with a few books tucked under her arm. He decided to follow her.

He had to walk through the throng of painters and dancers, by the time he came out the other side. His face was marked with streaks of paint and someone had tied a ribbon around his waist. The girl was walking up a flight of narrow metallic stairs. At the top, he found himself in a massive library. Or what he thought was a library, because the walls were lined with books of all shapes and sizes.

The room was filled with plush chairs, begging to be sat upon. The people inside were either reading a book or talking about one. He could tell because they had books open in front of them. He saw some familiar faces, authors he had met, or admired throughout his life. Baffled he took a few steps back. Was this a secret author meeting that he hadn’t been invited to? The smell of roasting coffee brought him back to his senses. Following his nose, he found himself standing in a line.

He felt something in his left hand, he was holding a copy of his latest novel. Had he picked it up at the party? but this wasn’t a hardcover, this looked well-read and dogeared. A gentle nudge came from behind, it was his turn to order. “What would you like?” a smiling face asked. The Barista towered behind the counter. Blonde curls and a bushy beard framed his wide smile. He noticed the same black cigarette tucked between the barista’s lips.

“What do you have?” he stammered, conscious of the line behind him. “Oh Dear, a first-timer?” the barista raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you step aside, I’ll get to you in a moment”. He obediently stood aside. The person behind him stepped up. It was the girl he had followed here. “I’ll have the usual, go easy on the teenage angst this time”, she told the barista.

As she waited for her order, he saw the cover of the topmost book she was holding. Her face stared back at him from the author-bio section. Before he could inquire, she took her coffee and left to find a seat. The barista returned with a latte for him, foam frothing over the edge. “Here you go, I added self-actualization and a few drops of wanderlust for you”. Before he could ask what he meant, the barista had moved to the next person in line.

He found the woman sitting alone by a window. She had a book open in her hand. He sat across from her. She didn’t seem to notice him at first. When she looked up, he smiled at her. She smiled back and took a few sips from her cup. This reminded him of his own coffee sitting untouched. He brought the cup to his lips. The sensation was exhilarating, like a new window opening in his mind. It was like flying over mountains and diving in the sea. It was walking through museums and eating street food with a lover.

He put both hands on the table to stop his head from spinning. “Take it easy,” the woman said, putting her hand on his. “The wanderlust always does that if you drink too fast”. “What is this place” he managed to ask, his head was getting heavy. “Everyone has their own name for it, I call it Konditorei Träume.” his confusion must’ve been visible. “It’s where stories come from” she went on like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Her words didn’t seem to make sense but somehow he understood her meaning. “Did I get here because I’m a best-seller now?” he inquired. She looked at him quizzically, “We all get here in our own time”. He nodded his head and took a long sip. The feeling of vertigo returned with a vengeance. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt himself falling asleep, right there on the table. He heard paper being torn and furious scribbling before passing out.

When he woke up, he was back in his bed at the hostel. His head hurt and his mouth was dry. He had fallen asleep with his shoes on. He went downstairs and ordered an espresso from the cafe around the corner. When he put his hand in his pocket to pay, he found a folded piece of yellow paper. Taking his coffee and sitting down at a table he opened the note. It was written in a quick but clear script.

“You came here because you are one of us. We are story-tellers. Story-tellers are wanderers. In search of the truth. Keep looking… within and without“.

He read it many times before finally, dropping it on the table. He leaned back, Looking at the throngs of passers-by as he took a sip of his coffee. It didn’t taste the same. Perhaps It was missing a few drops of wanderlust.