Street Symphony (21 page)

“I’ll have a latte this morning, please,” she said to Terry when Sara had taken her mug to her usual seat.

“You won the lottery?” the boy asked.

“Kind of,” she replied.

The only Italian notes in the Caffè Italia were the jar of biscotti and the word written in silver on the coffee machine. Jurgen, the owner, simply said he liked the name. The customers were beginning to drift in, bringing cold air with them when they opened the door. Arthur would be here soon. He’d moved from Vancouver to retire and seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders some days. His deafness led to him calling her Ellie when she’d told him her name was Fiona Ellis. He’d built a life for her too. She would for now continue to be sad Ellie, mother of Marybell and Lincoln. One day she would break it to him gently that they were cats, killed by smoke when her apartment caught fire. She’d cried that morning, cried out of guilt because humans were supposed to save their pets from disaster. And Lincoln had been hers for twelve years. She’d been too upset and incoherent at the time to explain the truth to a stranger.

She hadn’t come into the café for weeks after that bleak day. Too busy sorting out the mess, moving. And by the time she returned, there were other things to talk about and she’d accepted Arthur’s unspoken sympathy with unspoken gratitude. When she showed interest in his travellers’ tales, and pretended to believe in the ‘office’ he had to get to, he’d begun to share her table and she hadn’t minded. It filled a gap.

There was a comfort in the daily appearance of the regulars, as if life could go on like this forever. Soft rock, Gloria Estefan this morning, added background sound to the start of the café’s day. As she came in, Kate nodded a greeting and put her backpack on her chair by the fireplace.

Fiona looked out the café window and saw the cheese guy moving his car into a single space. This man, a man she’d crossed paths with a few times but had never
seen
, that head, that face, the past she’d endowed it with, all were hers now and she couldn’t wait to get to her studio and make the first sketch. And perhaps he was kind to his mother or his cat. Maybe he too had
seen
something, a hint of her thoughts, a picture of himself in her eyes. Who knew? From now on, whether he liked it or not, she would always smile at him when they passed, and he would take her smile for the gratitude of a simple woman and would not smile back.

2. Here. Or to go

My name is Kate Gillian Brent.
Tikki-tikki-tap-tap. In comes the blond on her high heels. But oh, what has become of her? Previous upswept golden hair is now a neat, dark cap. Previous cross look replaced by a smile. She actually thanks Terry. She’s up to something. Or has she finally dipped her toes in the Sea of Awareness? Arthur moves closer but is rebuffed. Hardly a rebuff, though, as she pays no attention to him. And Fiona is sitting with Another. Arthur is Distressed/Dispossessed. Poetry in repetitive sounds. Painter hides in corner, almost lying down. Afraid of her? I wouldn’t want to rile the now ex-blondie either. She hands her Thermos to Terry and waits. Up gets old Arthur. He asks how I am. “How ya doing, Kate?” I tell him another lie. “Fine, thank you.” Do I feel a song coming on? John leans over and offers me his paper. He knows I’m not okay. When he gets up to go to the counter for his second cup, he puts a heavy hand on my shoulder, expressing silent sympathy. I refrain from taking his hand and biting it. The day will come.

One mug of coffee lasts me the hour. Final drops are cold. Could afford a refill. But won’t. Some places it’s free. The refill. Two years now since I followed Arthur in here planning to shout,
J’accuse!
Didn’t shout. Kept quiet. My life changed and I acquired the café habit. This is my scene now and I will preserve the peaceful atmosphere.

Arthur fancies ex-blond but is too old. He inclines towards her as if blown in that direction. She doesn’t look at him or at me. She cares not, neither does she spin, though that is likely untrue. She tippy-taps off to spin straw, the straw off her head maybe, into false gold. But who am I? Kate Ignored. Kate Ignorant. Kate Furious. That’s me. At any rate Blondie who is now Brunette drives a three-year-old Honda cream sedan with a sunroof. I know that car. A good machine. Not showy. Fair mileage.

Arthur doesn’t recognize me and I’m not ready to deal with him yet. I recognized him from the photos in the paper and the face on TV at the time of the accident: the project manager. He’d been absent that day but was responsible for the safety of the site. The painter’s back at work. Proportions are wild. Fiona could teach him a thing or two. He’s a plain sort of guy. Maybe forty. Not-quite-made-it-yet written in his bearing. Still some hope maybe of a great leap forward. Dark hair. Broody look. Grandparents, parents, from Ireland, Brittany or some other Celtic spot perhaps.

The two noisy women who look as though they’ve been to the gym come in now. One of them angry. And then the girl I’ve seen in the big box store when I go for my giant bottle of Tylenol arrives. She chats to Arthur and he loves it.

I don’t bring my iPad here or my cellphone with its little
qwerty
keyboard. These folk are nosy and feel they’re entitled to information, so I write on a scrap of paper as if I’m making a shopping list. Anything interesting here? Hardly likely, you’d think. But look around. Local artists get to hang pictures for sale, including the fellow messing up the window with red and green and glitter. That’s what Christmas is now. Red and green and glitter. And food. Muffins are made fresh here. Cookies. Croissants. Coffee. Ordinaries of life. Staff. of. Life. That’s what there is in here, in this small container of people.

Yesterday in the doctor’s waiting room, I blogged:
She sat aware that at any moment her life, when he said what he had to say, could be shattered. Five long words that meant cancer is spreading from breast to lymph nodes. Meant death.
My blog-pals like my cryptic style.

Once I came here later in the day when the chairs are occupied by a different cast entirely, old couples, mothers with kids, teachers on their way home, students writing. But we, the early customers, make the non-Italian Caffè Italia what it is. Sara for instance is often here before 7:00 a.m., before the door opens – one of the desperate. We bring our memories with us, our anxieties, our unhappiness, our small triumphs, into this one small room at the start of the day. Scientists could seal us up in a time capsule. This was our world on Friday, November 19, 2010 at 7:25 a.m. These were our thoughts.

My main thought today:
I negotiated my dealings with the world badly and ended up a loser.
Thus I am here every morning looking for a little bit of comfort and a splash of cream in my coffee, and trying to figure out a way to explain myself to anyone who might care – like my daughter. Oh yes, it was arrogant of me to take off with my slight qualifications and think I could be useful in a place where famine and death ruled. But I danced and sang on the way to what I perceived as my future.

Developer starts like
dev
il. We didn’t have a meeting and agree to shun him but, without discussion, we, Caffè Italia, share a dislike of what his company, an Asian conglomerate based on the Mainland, is planning to do in this town. So no one says hello, how are you? No one even gives him a bit of a smile. He is unaware of this disapproval. And wouldn’t care. Broad-chested fellow, wide face, clean-shaven, pleased with himself. Spends his time thinking of money I shouldn’t wonder, and doesn’t give a damn about ruining a place of quiet beauty.

Heigh-ho, what do we know! Friendly chat between Fiona and the bad man. Looks as if she’s trying to sell him something. He doesn’t push her away. Shakes her hand. Takes his shiny Thermos full of dark roast. Leaves. Arthur looks like a jilted lover. So anyway, this place. Artwork on the walls. Landscapes of nearby beauty spots. A still life. Artificial flowers on the tables. Four armchairs near the fireplace, one of them mine. Six tables with chairs spread around. Bench and tables along the wall. Toilet down the hallway there. Two tables outside for smokers. And in comes the kindly one. I call her that because she has a nice smile, but I sense cruelty, pleasure in torment. She will sit with me sensing, wrongly, loneliness. Fortunately she only comes in now and then. “Hello Hilary. Cold out there.”

“Kate. Good to see you. How are you, sweetie?”

I would like to tell her that the last person who called me sweetie ended up in landfill, but she doesn’t wait for a response. Goes to get her coffee. One day perhaps I’ll unravel my story for her and allow her to be kind. Meanwhile, she sits down and I listen to her tale of trouble at work. Lousy management. Bad atmosphere.
How lucky for me, she is thinking. Lucky for Kate that she is out of the maelstrom. Or whatever she would call it. Stress of daily life. I resist the temptation to jog the table and spill her coffee. Can’t punish
her for imagined thoughts. My life, as she sees it, empty. Blank page.

Line going through my head as she talks,
A woman up. A woman down. The see-saw of life. I see. You saw.
Remember it for later. From such lines whole pages spring. Then she asks how I’ll be spending Christmas. I shrink. Is she about to suggest a joint activity, a social event, a nightmare of some kind?

“I’m going to be spending it with my daughter.”

“In Oregon?”

“She’s coming to Vancouver. I’ll meet her there.”

“How lovely for you.”

“Thank you.”

Gone and taken her smile with her. No Cheshire cat she.

I look at the wooden walls of this small building and see fragility. One tornado, but they’re rare here, hardly ever happen, would wipe out the café and all of us too. A great loss? In cosmic terms, a speck of a loss! A nice space for the developer. A small apartment building or maybe a superstore could replace this old strip of stores: Hairdresser, Deli, Pizza Place, Florist, Grocery. Something for everyone.

Owner entering. Jurgen Hansson. Terry moves to look alert behind the counter. Sets down the muffin he’d nibbled. I can imagine sleeping with Jurgen. Mid-forties. Decent. I can’t imagine that this place makes enough revenue to keep him and two staff plus rent. Other pies for his fingers maybe. But why subsidize this shabby place for these shabby people? Is he a philanthropist? Does he see it as a public service? A tax writeoff? I could, if I wanted, raise funds and buy him out, put down a sizable amount anyway. But I’d only own it in order to blow it up. Empty of customers or full? Not a good question at this time of the morning. But truly, I wish these people no harm. Except for the one.

When we’re in here, we’re real. We’re expected to be here. If I don’t turn up, Elise who works here Tuesday to Thursday worries that I’ve died. Before long, that will be true. When I get home, I’ll mark a date on the calendar, a date not far off: The first of December.
Arthur day.
I’ll make him turn round and really look at me, at the scar on my head hidden under my cap. Perhaps I’ll stick a knife in him as I say, “Anderton Towers! Remember me?” More likely, I’ll simply grab his cane and push him over. Whatever. It’ll give me something to look forward to while I sit in the clinic this afternoon with a needle in my arm.

“Your name is Kate Gillian Brent. Your date of birth is August 4, 1961.” They say that to make sure it’s me before they start dripping terrifying chemicals into my body. We’ll joke, the nurse and I. Can’t you make it a martini, please? And I think to myself that a couple of cocktails might be just as effective, and more fun. But that’s heresy. We must have faith. Faith is belief in the unreal, the unsubstantiated. Like hope, it’s as necessary to us as water. Charity follows on behind at a great distance.
You sit in your garden admiring azaleas while aware of the hardships of others.

“How was your weekend?” Terry asks every other customer, but doesn’t listen to the answers. When they give their orders, he says, “Here or to go?”

How was my weekend?
If you find me dead, please call the following numbers. My name is Kate Gillian Brent, if found dead…
I scrawled. That was my weekend! Feeling quite well, I went over to the Mainland. Had a ticket for a concert at the Orpheum. Didn’t make it. I wasn’t sure what to write next on the note. Hardly fair to ask the hotel management to call several different people all of whom might be out: Simon, Mary, Derek, Evan, Alison, Dr. Fairweather. Sit up straight and breathe. Thought processes slowed down. No sharp synaptic leaps, just groping crawls. Hesitations. Fog. Pulse freakish. Put Mary’s name and number on the note. Only brother Simon would panic, just as he had when I fell in the playground and broke my leg. He trotted off home. Didn’t even mention it to Mother. Ran in and got a glass of juice from the fridge. He always shied away from distress and is loved by all for his bonhomous approach to life.

When I
am
found dead, Mary will make her way from Portland, thoughtfully, possibly making lists. Grieving and making lists, making phone calls. Mary making things right for her mother. Mary is sturdy of mind and unsentimental; therefore her love is precious and real, even when it’s couched in stern words. Only last week, she’d offered yet again to make a space in her home for me. But that’s one border I will not cross again.

Evan might be resentful if he were not contacted. After all, there’d been seven years of sex and brief talk of love. He kept in touch, wanting to help me now “in this difficult time.” But he was an insubstantial man who sang songs about the moon. We parted when he began his stern crusade about the evils of eating animal flesh. There ought to be a law!
Then the circumpolar peoples would have died out long ago, sweetheart.