Moretti's Café

Audio tracks add to the reading experience. 

(They are mood synced. Press play when they appear.)

Setting down his book on the table, Malcolm rocked the spoon back and forth in his cup of earl grey, stirring up the contents before he took a long deep sip with closed eyes. 

The shadows cast by the nearby buildings marched forth inch by inch into the little cafe tucked into Piazza di Santa Croce, 14. He shifted his little stool to face the window and sipped away at his tea. The vapours of which rose like clouds of cotton in the dying sunlight. 

It bothered him to not know where everyone on the street was headed. Every pedestrian outside seemed to walk with such a sense of purpose and determination as if they would perish if their feet touched the pavement another second.

Unless one stopped to notice each person’s face and gait, there was no real difference at all. Just cold pillars of such determination wandering aimlessly on the streets. One went left. Two went right. Another left. Then another. 

Apart from the occasional rare sight of tourists visiting to see the Basilica of Santa Croce, life outside the walls of Cafe Moretti’s seemed to flow with a pointlessly fixed pace.

Malcolm let out a deep sigh and set his cup of tea aside. The cafe speakers were playing a gentle instrumental piece of classical piano. On some days, the owner Andre Moretti would switch to his jazz playlist. There was no pattern to when or why this switch would occur. After a few months of believing that it played only on special occasions, Malcolm scrapped that theory when he walked into the cafe one day to ‘Honeysuckle rose’ and the immediate next day to ‘Muddy Trail’. Both days on which Andre seemed to be gleefully humming away behind his Moka pot brewing fresh aromas. A gleeful Andre was a rare sight. 

The randomness of something as insignificant as the change of music mattered much more to Malcolm than it would to others. To him, it was like dipping his head into a bucket of cold water. A sudden reminder of reality.

Monotony had washed his life away, the currents of which he had succumbed to long ago. He knew these disorienting waters were not to be taken lightly. They stripped anyone caught up in it of their willpower to ‘walk with purpose’.

The clouds rumbled and the sky turned to a dark greyish blue. The footsteps of the passersby got faster and the drizzle turned into a full blown rain. 

Chopin’s nocturne was overpowered by the commotion and sounds of the wind and rain. The bells fixed to the door jingled constantly as people without umbrellas poured in to avoid the rain and dry themselves. 

There were so many people in the tiny place now that he had to sit up straight. He could no longer cross his legs and lean back onto the chair let alone read his book in peace. The sudden inflow of customers seemed to make Andre really happy. One could tell by the rude interruption of Chopin’s peaceful symphony by the jazz trumpets.

(pause previous audio tracks if and when necessary) 

After a few minutes, the rain began to die out and the sky was pitch black. Though the crowd at the entrance thinned out, the seats were all full. Aromas of hot lattes and freshly baked biscuits retained most of the refugees of the sudden downpour.

With a gesture that resembled a dip of the hat, Malcolm bowed slightly to Andre and began walking out. Andre responded with barely a nod aimed at his oven as he frantically tried fanning away the dark black smoke billowing from it. In the mad rush, he had burnt a perfectly good batch of biscuits. 

‘Poor fellow’ Malcolm thought to himself absentmindedly. 

Just as he reached out to the door handle, something hit his hand and adrenaline took him over. The tray came crashing down and the teapot shattered into a thousand pieces which flew everywhere. Hot liquid streamed right on his forearm and it felt like needles stabbing his fingers. One could make out the steam rising up from the site of impact on the ground. The cafe reeked of a weird mix of coffee and burnt raisin biscuits. 

Andre was clearly furious at the turn of events. “Oh Merda! non ce la faccio più!”. He stormed back into his pantry cursing under his breath.

Malcolm wrapped his red swollen hand around his coat’s end and held it tight near his thighs groaning in pain. He walked back to the table and looked up to see a woman offering her handkerchief to him which he declined politely.

‘Mi scusi, mi scusi’ , he apologised. The lady sat down on the chair opposite his and took off her raincoat and long boots to let her socks dry out. “Forgive me too monsieur, it was merely an accident.” said the young woman of about 30. She wore a floral dress and had a posh pair of round dreamy glasses with a thin chrome frame. Her gaze was as gentle as her voice, filled with inflections as that of a frenchwoman struggling to pronounce the stresses of Italian words, a relatively sharper language.

“You seem to be hurt very badly. Shall I request someone to get you a pack of ice or something?”

Malcolm seemed to have forgotten about his swollen hand and blankly stared at her deep blue european eyes. He loved inspecting and noticing details about people he saw, their demeanour, accents, clothes and if they’d make a good impromptu model for him to sketch. But this time, he was neither doing any of that nor tending to his hand. 

“Monsieur? Pardon?” the woman reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Oh, no.. no thank you, I’ll get it.” Malcolm whistled to Andre and gestured for something to wrap his hand around and moved his mouth to signal the word ice to him. (pause previous audio track if necessary) 

“I’m Celine. Celine Blanc.”

“Malcolm, Uh… Just Malcolm.”

The two waited in silence for a minute or so till one of the baristas brought a huge white cloth with flour dust all over it and a plastic bag of ice. “I’m gonna bill you for that!” came a shriek from the back of the serving counter and Malcolm smiled and rolled his eyes at Andre as he tied the ice around his wrist.

“You seem to know the owner well.” she asked. “Yeah. I visit this place every day. I’d suggest you go for the tea here, the coffee is simply not as flavourful.” Malcolm said.

“I realised that as soon as I caught a whiff of the cup. Good thing it spilled over.” she snickered.

“Oh my books!” Malcolm frantically began inspecting his tote bag to see if any of his them were stained. He laid them out on the table and struggled to rummage the bag with one hand. 

“Ooh!” exclaimed Celine. “Nice sketches. May I see?”

“Sure! Each one takes me about 15 to 20 minutes to draw.” he said, with a proud grin on his face. Celine thoroughly looked at each page and even flipped through the empty ones hoping not to miss anything. This made Malcolm very happy. 

“Very artistic! But what makes a man want to read Dostoevsky in a cafe on such an evening?” she said, moving on to the next book on the table.

“He’s brutally real about things. I like that.” “It’s better than going to the library at least. There’s a lot of interesting people who walk by this place if you stop and look. You’re a very good example!” he remarked. 

“And what makes you think I am an ‘interesting person’?” she asked with a tinge of playfulness.

Malcolm blushed out of embarrassment and stuttered a few words. “Oh I don’t know.. Maybe er.. the accent?”

“Ah, the French accent. It’s unmistakable. Almost a handicap to those of us who wish to travel the world and blend in.” she exclaimed, stretching out her arms to signify the scale of the world. “Do you read anything else or only philosophy?”

“Well..” said Malcolm, rearranging the ice pack over to the back of his palm and crossing his legs again. “Other genres don’t really interest me. They sound boring. Especially those romantic fantasies.”

Celine looked at him inquisitively. “Why do you assume?” She came closer and rested her chin onto her hand propped up on the table. Her mouth contorted into a curious smile. 

“They’re childish fantasies! Daydreams of some imaginary lovers who will never exist in the real world in their oh-so perfect form.” he scoffed. 

“Ha! Judging a book by its cover eh. I was hoping to get your opinion on some of the stuff I wrote recently. But looks like they’re all ‘childish fantasies’ anyway. Won’t excite you.” said Celine, imitating Malcolm and pulling her empty hand out of her backpack.

Malcolm, yet again brought upon by guilt and embarrassment muttered in a hurry, “Scusami, that was very rude and… and a bad thing to say. I’d still love to read it, that is… if, if you’re not too offended.”

She pulled out a notebook and slid it across the table to him. The sheets were of handmade paper and the ink was of pristine quality. The handwriting was in beautiful cursive letters so much so that every word was worthy of being a styled signature of its own.

He thoroughly read through each sentence, worried not to embarrass himself again. Maybe she’d be just as impressed if he paid the same level of attention to her work as she did for his. 

“It’s actually quite interesting!” he said. But the truth was, he could barely focus on what was on the paper and worried only if he looked serious enough while reading it.

“Well, I write stuff like this and I’ve been having a writer’s block lately so here I am, touring Europe hoping to find some inspiration.” She said, looking down at her work and then shoving the book down into her backpack, along with several other papers.

“Touring countries just for inspiration? Wish I was as meticulous towards my art as you are. Maybe I’d be famous! Gosh. Do you ever imagine how fame probably feels?”

A waiter walked to their table with a cup of tea and a fresh batch of chocolate raisin cookies. There were only a few customers sitting in the cafe. The rain had stopped completely and the street traffic resumed to normalcy. She thought for a while as she sipped. They both looked outside the window together in silence.

“I don’t really believe that fame matters if you want to be content with what you do..” she replied.

Malcolm set out to prove her wrong. “I differ. Look outside, that’s Dante Alighieri.” he said, pointing to the statue lit with brilliant spotlights from the Church walls. “If you’re famous, people build statues of you. You become a demigod of society and whatnot. Surely that feels good?”

Celine chuckled and gave no reply. 

“I must be holding you up! Weren’t you leaving a while ago?” she asked.

“Oh no. This cafe is almost my second home. Might as well hang around here a little longer. No worries.”

“Do you live alone?”

Malcolm shrugged and adjusted himself on his chair uncomfortably. “Yes.. now I live alone.. Yes.”

“Oh I see.” Celine sensed his uneasiness and decided not to ask about the topic any more. They sat in silence for a long while and stared outside. He couldn't help but ask her opinion on the pedestrians and if it bothered her too. (pause previous audio track if necessary) 

“I think it’s quite beautiful. The chaotic harmony of it.” Celine said.

“Harmony?! All I see are hats and coats of  grey, blue and brown walking around with a farce sense of purpose. It’s almost like white noise to my eyes” he said. “The moment I walk out of here and stand over there, I’d be just another figment of the white noise. An ordinary man with nothing extraordinary about the way I look, walk or dress. Just a faded grey trench coat gliding across the street, perhaps slower than the rest.”

Celine turned to Malcolm and gave him a bewildered smile. “My oh my, that is probably the gloomiest way to look at it. Do you not see people underneath those mere ‘coats’?”

 “When you look at them long enough, the people fade away I guess.” Malcolm thought for a while and said pensively.

“Well I see people.” she asserted. “People who are completely unrelated but probably walk past each other every day, brushing shoulders and walking side by side. That lady might be going home after a long day of work. Maybe that man is just starting his! When you put yourself in their shoes, it ceases to be just soulless coats gliding along the street.”

He chuckled and said, “You sure know how to romanticise things don’t you?” 

“What can I say? I write a lot indeed.”

The two stared through the window in silence. Andre’s jazz playlist was nearing its last few songs. There weren’t very many people left and the waiter was busy wiping empty tables and putting the high top wooden stools on them. Andre counted the cash from the register eagerly.

The last customer was a redhead woman apparently in a hurry to get home. She soon walked out the door of the cafe, leaving behind the jingle of the doorbell. Now, the pair were the only ones left along with some staff cleaning up. 

Malcolm had never stayed back till closing time. ‘Funny how staying back an hour can turn a familiar place into something so strange’ he thought to himself. The cafe looked deserted and soulless. The music had stopped and all lights and fans were being switched off. The silence was louder than any jazz song Andre could play. 

Just then, Celine began putting on her backpack and he got up with her. “So, where are you staying?” he asked politely.

“Oh just nearby, are you familiar with the Hotel Savoy?” she asked, pointing to a vague direction away from the church square. Malcolm offered to accompany her to the hotel and they both walked out of the cafe along with a few waiters who were also going home. 

The pavement was lined with incandescent street lamps, some broken ones and some brighter than the rest. Some flickering.

After a minute or two, their pace slowed down to take in the cool moisture laden air along the river Arno. The breeze whistled past the thin alleyways of Florence and blanketed the pair. Blowing and weaving through the curls of her hair as if playing with it.

“Have you had any pets?” Celine asked casually to break the silence. (pause previous audio track if necessary) 

Malcolm looked down at the pavement bricks and kicked a stray pebble out of the way before answering, “Snowy, a Samoyed… She died a few years ago.”

“Oh I’m so sorry.” Celine said, turning to him and walked closer to hear him better.

“She was the most perfect.. playful and happiest little cloud of fur… I miss her a lot.” Malcolm’s eyes swelled up with tears. He wiped them off and gave a soft smile turning to Celine. “It’s fine I guess, she’s with my wife now. Happy.”

Celine stuttered a few words and then went quiet. The occasional sounds of sirens from the city and the whispers of the breeze took over the ears for a minute or so till Celine interrupted them. 

“Feelings are funny little things aren’t they?”. Her gaze was fixed to her sandals and she rubbed her arms to warm them up. “I love romanticising feelings in what I write but come to think of it, they’re mere chemicals in the brain that go all fuzzy for a few minutes. But they have such permanent effects.”

Malcolm nodded and added to it. 

“Scars.. They scar your head and keep it messed up long after they’re gone. You can’t walk by that path in your head again without having to look at all those… Stains on the path. Path down memory lane.”

“Well it’s not all stains.. There’s probably some pretty colourful graffiti in there too.” she said. “We obsess so much over past suffering, it causes life to drag on at a painfully slow speed. But when you learn to let go. It’s all so fleeting!”

“Only if it were so easy to learn it.” he scoffed. Celine remained silent.

“Even if it was, I’m not sure I want to…” he said with a dull tone in his voice. “You know… to let go.”

“Well..” she said with a playful smile, still looking down at the pavement. “For someone so keen on holding onto feelings,  you seemed to have forgotten about the fact that I burnt your hand and didn’t even apologise properly.”

Malcolm’s cheeks flushed red and after a few seconds of muttering some filler words, he turned to her and asked “Wait, wasn’t I the one to run into you?”

“Doesn’t the act of  ‘running into someone’ always happen to two?” She turned to him and smiled wide.

The pair took the turn into a busy street and weaved through the rush of pedestrians. They had to weave around an angry couple arguing in front of a fruit vendor. The point of argument seemed to be something totally unrelated to fruits though. 

“There, you see? Chemicals of the brain live in action. Not exactly a pretty sight is it? How come your mind seems to be filled with happy graffiti all the time?” he asked inquisitively. 

“It isn’t.” she said in a contemplative tone. “No one’s is.. You just..” 

“You just have to know which memories are meaningful to visit once in a while. And eventually those begin defining the new ones you make.”

“Oh Andiamo! You create fantasy out of even gloomy stuff for a living. Must be easier for you to cherry pick memories you want to relive. Not for me.” He chuckled in a somewhat reserved way.

Celine was visibly upset at the remark. “That has nothing to do with it.. I think you’ve gotten stuck in the misery loop.”

“What loop again? Well, work has gotten pretty monotono-”

“No! not that. You know how it’s hard to walk down a beautiful pathway and actually admire things when you’re miserable and gloomy? You know why? It’s because suffering domesticates us. We start finding comfort in memory lane just because it’s so familiar.” she said in a serious tone. But her face was as relaxed as when she smiled. 

“The way I see it, we can only let go of our lust for petty comfort. Actual memories stay with us forever.. It’s impossible to scrub a perfectly white canvas life throws at you after you’ve stained it with black paint from your previous experiences!”

“But you can paint over it. Witty!” Malcolm said, breaking into a smile. Something about her words were so whimsical and did more to uplift his soul than anything till then.  It was a very long time since he had smiled that wide. “Keep writing and you’re gonna taste fame one day.” he said.

They strode past the hotel’s private restaurant windows. The curtains were a velvety blue and the light inside was dimly lit and posh. Men wore formal suits and women, glittery dresses which hugged their bodies.  

Celine walked up two marble stairs of the building’s entrance while Malcolm stood on the pavement. There were guided vines running down the sides of the glass doors and windows were bordered by intricate carvings. A man waiting by the entrance wished her, “Buona sera signora. Any bags to carry?”  

The wrist watch Celine wore shimmered in the lights when she shook her hand to signal ‘no’ to the concierge. Only in the bright busy street ambience did Malcolm realise how pretty and young she looked when she turned around to look at him.

 “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked. 

“Maybe, maybe not. Unpredictability is such a charm isn’t it?” she replied with a cheeky smile. (pause previous audio track if necessary) 

The next day, at precisely 5 in the evening, Malcolm walked in and sat at the same spot in the cafe nervously looking at his watch.

The calm vibe was interrupted by a loud shriek of his name. It was Andre. He walked up to the table and left a box with the words ‘Just Malcolm’ written on it in a familiar handwriting. Malcolm chuckled and opened the box slowly. 

In it was a thick book with a purplish blue cover and the words ‘Daydreams of Corsica.’ written in French. It had a bestselling award’s sticker right above Celine’s name.

He opened the book to find a small handwritten letter resembling a bookmark made of the same paper as the one he held the previous day. The words ‘let go.’ were written in the same beautiful cursive as Celine’s. 

Stapled to it was a folded sheet of printed names and at the bottom of the sheet, was his name. It was an application to state interest in adoptions at a nearby dog pound. Malcolm smiled as wide as he could and found himself tapping his foot to the beat of  mellow jazz.