The Coffee Drinker

Honor has fled these lands. My order was once held in such regard that the crowds upon the city sidewalks would part at my call. Children would swarm me, holding out grocery bags in the hopes of obtaining my signature, and each year I was honored in the Emperor Danzo’s court at the Ceremony of Abundance. I once served the greatest Lords and Ladies in the most distinguished houses in the Empire. Now, I am reduced to catering to the dwindling number of old Loyalists nostalgic for better days. Savage youths see my traditional garb and laugh, spit, flick cigarettes, and after years of disrespect my robes are burned and stained beyond cleansing. It is almost hard to believe there was a time when such affronts would have been punishable by death, though in fact such executions were quite rare, easily whisked away by a modest bribe.

There is hardly enough work to fill the day, so I spend much of my time sipping espresso at the Tortoiseshell Café. I must concede that the legalization of coffee is one change under the new regime that I heartily approve of, though I am careful to limit my intake to only ten cups per day. My doctor always scolds me about my blood pressure, but every morning I meditate and stretch and I am calm. Yes, it’s true my heart isn’t what it used to be, and I admit I wouldn’t have to make as many excursions to the lavatory if––no, there is no if. I’m a coffee drinker and that’s that. 

A beautiful young girl serves me today’s seventh. We exchange smiles and bow, and I return to my table. We have come to see each other quite often, yet have rarely exchanged words beyond those required by our transactions. This is enough for me. I am too old for romance, and she is too young for a fossil like me, too young to even remember a time when the liquid she brews and pours for a living could have landed her in an Imperial prison.

Tingling with caffeine, I make my way up the stairs to Mrs. Hingo’s apartment. My load is only five bags, yet when I reach her floor I am exhausted and perspiring. In my prime, I could carry thirty––nay––forty bags on each arm, but today the stairs behind me yawn like the chasm ahead of us all, and I feel the weight of the years upon my back. 

Mrs. Hingo opens the door before I knock.

“In the light of His wisdom,” I say.

“Yes, yes, the flower of life blooms. Come in, dear, quickly.” She ushers me inside, scans the hallway, and shuts the door.

“I was not followed.”

“You wouldn’t know it if you were,” she says, but seems to take me at my word. Mrs. Hingo’s husband and son died fighting for the Emperor Danzo, and she believes government agents scrutinize her every move. Perhaps they do. But I suspect her excessive caution is merely a clawing effort to keep the memory of her family alive. I put the bags down on the kitchen counter and begin placing everything in the refrigerator and pantry. Mrs. Hingo sniffs the air. 

“You haven’t been drinking coffee, have you?”

“I should say not, though it is conceivable I may have picked up the scent on my way here.”

“My apologies. You can never be too careful these days. I always smell that bitter stench when those thugs have been snooping about.” She plucks a tissue from the box and blows her nose. “Please, I’m afraid I’ve offended you. Won’t you stay for some milk?”

“That is very generous of you Mrs. Hingo, but I’m afraid I must be leaving soon.”

“I insist, please. I’ll fret about it all day if I let you leave without––”

I hold up my hand. “Say no more. I will have some milk, if you insist.”

She fills a pot and sets it over the stove. We take our seats in the sitting room and my mind wanders as Mrs. Hingo gossips about her neighbors. Coffee is one thing I have always been quietly at odds about with people of my generation. Today’s youth drink it openly, in parks, on street corners, even at school, though I am sure the teachers do not approve. But in my boyhood, I drank it only in the privacy of my room, and only when both my mother and father were absent from the house. For years I lived in fear of them returning home early to the gourmet scent of a fine Colombian roast. The shame that would have befallen them, their own son, on track to becoming an Imperial Grocerati––drinking coffee! For all the joy coffee gave me, I paid with long nights wracked with worry and unexpended energy.

Yet for all my guilt, I could not understand why coffee was so scorned. I had understood when I was younger, listening in awe to hushed conversations between my parents about our neighborhood’s lost causes and failures. One sip and you might as well have thrown your free will and all your prospects into the fire. But one night, perched at the top of the staircase, I heard how my cousin Charlos had been caught making a macchiato in the shed behind his house. I felt sick. I looked up to Charlos, I had never imagined he would become a coffee drinker! The next morning, Aunt Kita was in our kitchen, drying her eyes with the rag that hung from the handle of our oven. As usual, she ascribed Charlos’ behavior to the absence of his father, my Uncle Lonard, who had left her a couple years prior, and for whose departure she blamed herself. My mother tended to stoke this fire.

“Yes, Kita, it is common for boys Charlos’ age to act out in some form, but coffee drinking! I couldn’t imagine such a thing happening to Tormandus. Charlos needs a father, Kita, that’s the only thing for it. Surely you could have let Lonard stay out playing bocci with the other guards more often, or had dinner ready on time, every time like I always do. But what am I saying? That’s all in the past. We need to get Charlos off of that poison.”

The next day, Aunt Kita and Charlos moved out to the country to stay with my grandfather. I didn’t see them again until the annual Moon Festival, during which the five branches of my family would descend upon my grandfather’s manor to celebrate the benevolence of Lunos, the Moon God. I was excited to see Charlos again, though uncertain as to whether I would. It seemed entirely likely that Aunt Kita might keep him locked in a room somewhere to quarantine his corrupting influence. But when my father rang the doorbell, Charlos answered, polite and healthy as ever, and I felt such joy as if he had made it back alive from a ship lost at sea. Still, my parents tactfully kept me away from him for the rest of the day. 

It wasn't until the following afternoon that our paths crossed once more. I had been instructed by my father to take out the bags of rubbish that had accumulated in the kitchen over the course of the festivities. My father had given me these instructions in front of a number of our relatives, and when he asked if I required any assistance, I proudly declined, as even at that young age I could complete the task in a single trip. Or so I thought. Perhaps if there had been one less bag I might have accomplished it, but as it stood I had to stop and rest a number of times along the way to the rubbish heap, each time pondering whether I should perhaps leave some bags where they lay and come back for them, each time allowing my pride to get the best of me. Eventually the heap came into view, and I made one final charge, my arms and fingers burning with pain until finally I not so much flung as shook the bags off of me onto the pile. I heard cheering coming from the grove. It was Charlos and Thorge, another cousin, applauding my efforts. I gave a grandiloquent bow and they laughed, then resumed chopping wood for the ceremonial bonfire. I watched as they raised their axes to the gray sky and made quick work of enormous logs, their synchronized chops echoing across the estate. Though I wanted to talk to them, I was at that time still very much under my parents’ sway, and walked back to the house reasoning that my cousins were busy with their work and wouldn’t appreciate the interruption.  

That night, after the geese had been roasted and everyone had danced themselves to sleep, I awoke to the smell of something earthy, new, and wonderful. I closed my eyes and let my nose carry me to its source.

“Torm? Are you sleepwalking?”

I opened my eyes. I was deep in the grove. Charlos and Thorge were heating a pot of scented water over a small fire.

“I smelled something good.”

Charlos smiled. “We’re making coffee. Want some?”

I hesitated, but the heavenly scent wafting out of that warm, dark liquid dispelled my fear. He dipped a tin mug into the pot and handed it to me.

“Here you are,” says Mrs. Hingo, handing me my milk. Its smell is strangely familiar, and I notice the box on the counter: Imperial White. The milk powder has to be over twenty years old. I can’t imagine this milk is safe to drink, but cannot find a way to decline her offer without causing offense. If today is to be my last, so be it. I sip, and am transported back to better days, to the morning of my inauguration as a Grocerati Emphatum. Before the grand ceremony where I was bestowed my new title by the Emperor Danzo Himself, my fellow grocerati had decided to throw a celebratory breakfast in my honor. I remember us all in the sunlit sanctum of dining, drinking milk and eating nut cakes, laughing over old stories from our days as novices. 

My bowels churn, and I excuse myself.

At last, my business concludes, and I board the subrail heading North towards the Modoci Market of Food on behalf of my most important client of all, Lady Mucina, widow of Lord Mucci, my former patron. The ride is pleasant. I become lost in reverie gazing out the window at the ruins of the old city uncovered during the subrail’s excavation. Almost two thousand years ago Doralo, as it was known, was buried beneath waves of lava when Mount Brackas erupted and changed the course of history. Much of Doralo remains intact, preserved by the hardened lava, and the subrail has been designed such that its tracks run along the ancient roads, and the stations preserve the old buildings and works of art. Sadly, my fellow passengers are too engrossed in their portable telephones to peer into the past. I suppose to them the fossilized remains of a great and powerful civilization are mere decorations. 

The train stops and the doors open. No one boards or departs, except at the last moment when a youth in baggy clothing squeezes aboard. He is blaring aggressive foreign music from a miniature boombox and drinking from a can of Venti, a new brand of cold brew even I dare not touch as it supposedly contains twenty espressos’ worth of caffeine. He notices my stare and flashes a predatory grin.

“You sick, old man?”

“I’m quite well, thank you,” I say, adjusting my robes.

The youth laughs. “I asked if you like my music, bro.”

“Ah, indeed. Well, it is a bit brash for my taste.”

“Brash?”

“Yes.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Um––”

“You telling me to turn this shit off?”

“Perhaps you might lower the volume, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Man, fuck you!” The youth turns his music up and begins yelling along to it. 

I revert my gaze to the window and breathe deeply, craving another espresso. In the distance, I see something move, shadowy figures sifting through the ruins. What are they doing? Subrail maintenance? Archaeology? Vandalism? They pass by too quickly to decipher. 

The train arrives at Modoci Market. The doors hiss open and I take my leave, though not without a kick in the posterior from that obnoxious youth. I stumble forward but maintain my balance, then turn and glare at him with all the force of my former authority. The youth adopts an expression of perplexed innocence, and no one speaks up in my defense. Not wishing to cause a scene, I forgo the pursuit of justice and hurry up the moving stairs, the youth’s cruel laughter echoing behind me.

I venture out into the blinding light and as my eyes adjust, a voice calls out.

“Tormandus?”

I turn around, squinting. “Ah, Lady Mucina. What a pleasure it is to cross paths with you. I am on my way to Modoci Market to fulfill your order.” 

“But it’s only Wednesday. My order is not to be fulfilled until Monday next week.”

“Is that so?”

“Didn’t my memo reach you?”

“Ah, indeed it did. It simply slipped my mind until this moment.” In fact, I received no such memo, but I have no wish to inflict Lady Mucina’s wrath upon her courier.

“Well, since you’ve come all this way, please, join me for a glass of milk at Mucci Manor.”

“Thank you, Lady Mucina, but I wouldn’t wish to impose upon––”

“Oh, enough of that, Tormandus. Frankly you look rather… anyhow, I think it would do you some good to sit down and take milk with me.”

I wipe the perspiration from my brow and notice my hands are shaking. “Yes, I suppose I have had a bit of a shock––”

“Then it’s settled. Come along!” Lady Mucina strides off into the crowd and I follow her as best I can, barely able to keep her winsome figure in sight.

By the time we reach Mucci Manor, I’ve become so parched that milk has become the sole object of my thoughts. We step through the iron doors and Lady Mucina claps and commands her servants to bring us damp towels.

“A splendid idea,” I say.

“Yes, yes, and the milk! If it is not sitting on the table I shall have a fit!” Lady Mucina presses onward without me as I remove my sandals and place them by the door. Regardless of whether it is my host’s custom, I always remove my footwear upon entering any home of distinction, though as I glance at the host of angels painted upon the ceiling, I regret my decision to cross the foyer barefoot. There were periods during my time at Mucci Manor when Lord Mucci would tire of his concubines and please himself to that very mural, declaring to the angels that someday they would be his. I was often tasked with cleaning the aftermath of these episodes, and though I was always thorough, the memory of what once lay upon the floor has never been possible to scrub away.

“Come along now, Tormandus!”

I hurry toward the milk room, imagining my feet becoming more adhesive with every step. 

The milk table, once surrounded by ornate plush chairs, each with a history of their own, is now accompanied by only two simple wooden chairs. Indeed, many of the frills of Mucci Manor were carted away when the Revolutionary Guard “liberated” the property. A servant arrives with our towels and I bury my face in mine and lose track of time in the cool, dark relief from the summer heat. When I remove the towel, I notice Lady Mucina still has hers draped over her eyes. Far from throwing a fit, she seems to be making the most of the delay in the arrival of the milk. I, however, cannot wait, so I seize the moment to wring my towel out over my mouth. This strategy does not produce as much water as I had hoped, and just as I begin to chew out the remaining moisture, Lady Mucina removes her towel and sighs.

“Does this not feel just like the old days?” she asks.

“Yes indeed, though I do find myself missing the wit of your eminent husband.”

“Oh Tormandus, please stop. Why after all these years must you continue to feign reverence toward him?”

“My Lady, I was merely attempting to employ the device of sarcasm. I do apologize for any unpleasant memories I may have...”

I consider it wise to stop speaking as Lady Mucina puts her hand to her forehead and slumps forward in a tired fashion.

“You haven’t changed at all, Tormandus. And I don’t feel as though I’ve especially changed either. Yet how we could have been close in those days is a mystery to me.”

I am silent, and somewhat hurt. The servant returns with a decanter of raw milk. He pours us both a glass and leaves with our towels. We toast and drink. I make a most unfortunate slurping noise and cough as the milk spills over into my windpipe. Lady Mucina watches unmoved. 

I clear my throat. “Perhaps, our… indiscretion, was a necessity brought about by the circumstances of our lives.”

“Yes, my husband was so dreadful that I suppose at the time anyone would have done.”

“Yet it was I you became close to.”

Lady Mucina takes a long sip.

“And in the end, when the revolution came. Does it not strike you that I was better suited than anyone else to bargain with the Revolutionary Guard?”

“Let us not speak of that matter.” She finishes her glass and pours us each another, but I stand up without touching mine.

“I shall see you again on Monday.”

“Oh Tormandus, I do miss you at times. Just not when you are here.”

“I shall see you on Monday.” I walk back out into the foyer, and as I put my sandals on I hear Lady Mucina weeping.

My last patron of the day is Mr. Mugard, though I still address him as Colonel. He long ago traded his uniform for a suit and tie, but he still keeps his medals pinned beneath his jacket. This week, he has ordered thrice his usual. While obtaining six cans of beans from the top shelf, I inadvertently knock all of the others down onto the tiled floor. I quickly restock them and make my escape. As I push my cart into the next aisle, I breathe a sigh of relief that there were no witnesses to my accident or to my cleanup operation. I find it difficult to move on from embarrassing mistakes, and the presence of another person would have caused the incident to plague my thoughts for the rest of the day, if not the rest of my life.

On my first day as an apprentice grocerati, I was so caught up in my excitement that I dropped a sack containing scores of eggs. I received fifteen lashes, and have not dropped any eggs since. Yet every time a patron requests eggs, when I read the word on their list, I see the yolk pooling out in the dirt, enveloping the spilled straw until each stem begins to float.

Or take the first time I entered the Tortoiseshell Café. Seduced and distracted by the sultry scent of their fine espresso, my robes caught on the door hinge and I fell with a crash, my posterior exposed. A group of young women at the nearest table toppled out of their chairs laughing, and a young man sporting the insignia of the Revolutionary Guard on his leather jacket poured his, thankfully, iced coffee on my exposed skin to successfully impress the girl hanging on his arm. As I got to my feet, a hand haloed by a ceiling light reached down and took mine. It belonged to the barista. She handed me a rag and returned to her register. No one else has shown me such warmth since The Fall.

I carefully place each item onto the counter and hand the clerk Mr. Mugard’s patronage card. The clerk sighs as he enacts the necessary digital protocols to charge the order to Mr. Mugard’s account.

“Any day now, your time is up,” he mumbles.

“I beg your pardon?”

The clerk grins. “I’ve got a friend in high echelon. Says the old system’s a nuisance and a liability, not to mention unpatriotic. Says they’re gonna phase you all out.”

“The way you speak is shameful,” I say. “To think they let people like you work at a Market of Food.”

“It’s called a grocery mart, old man.” He returns the patronage card and I take my bags and leave. I am at the limits of my capacity, and I despair at the admittedly short walk ahead of me.

“In the light of His wisdom.” 

I turn around to find a bespectacled bald young man smiling down at me.

“The flower of life blooms,” I say, managing a bow.

“May I be of any assistance?” 

It wounds my pride to accept, but I am quite relieved by his offer and hand him half my load.

“I saw what happened in there,” he says. “Truly a disgrace. Honor has fled these lands.”

“Yes! Yes it has. Each day I find this country increasingly unrecognizable. Yet it heartens me to see young people such as yourself behaving with respect toward the old ways.”

“You flatter me,” says the young man. “But it is merely the right thing to do. And there are many more of us than it may appear.” 

We reach Mr. Mugard’s building and I thank him for his help.

“It was no trouble at all, the pleasure is mine. And rest assured, sir, the day of reckoning is coming.” 

I resume full command of my bags and the young man leaves. I look up at Mr. Mugard’s apartment and am thankful his building has a lift.

I knock. Footsteps pound on wood, locks rattle, and Mr. Mugard rushes me in even faster than Mrs. Hingo. He tries to disguise his fear as excitement to see me.

“Old friend, old friend, come in. Place them on the floor by the bureau, I’ll attend to them later.” It is my sworn duty to deliver from shelf to shelf, and a failure to perform was once punishable with twenty lashes and a hefty fine. But there is no one for Mr. Mugard to report me to, and I suspect he calls me “old friend” because he does not remember my name, so at his request, I take a seat on one of the centuries-old sofas in the parlor. A plate of biscuits sits on the mahogany table gifted to him by the late and valiant General Winzico. I take one.

“Those biscuits,” he warns me. “They are Australian. I hope you do not mind.”

“Not at all, Colonel. I have had Australian biscuits a number of times since The Fall.”

He grins. “They are my one vice, these days. It pains me to say it, but access to Australian biscuits is one change that I do not mind so much.”

The biscuits are indeed quite pleasant, so much so that I almost tell him of my agreement with the new regime’s policy on coffee, but think better of it. I change the subject to the latest cricket scores. The conversation then drifts to the comings and goings of a mutual acquaintance from the old days whom Mr. Mugard believes I knew much better than I did. Finally, he asks if I encountered any difficulties on the job today.

“None that obstructed my work. However, the clerks at the Market of Food have grown quite uncivil as of late.”

He asks me what happened and I tell him. His face grows stern, and I feel he would have seen to it that the rude clerk be stripped of his job had he been present. Yet at the end of my telling, he relaxes into his sofa and lights a cigar. 

“Have no fear,” he says between puffs. “Your duty in life will not vanish any time soon.” His lips stretch into a sly grin that tells me there is more to his words than mere encouragement.

It is still light outside, so I head to the Tortoiseshell Café for one more espresso. On my way I pass the old Imperial Palace, now a museum, built by the Emperor Issimo I after overthrowing King Popo VI, last of the Yobim Dynasty. I still remember the beautiful music that sounded throughout the throne room on the few occasions I was permitted to enter. It was like heaven.

Originally, the throne room was built directly above the dungeons, as the Emperor Issimo I delighted in listening to the screams of his enemies throughout the day. However, his son, the Emperor Issimo II, was determined to be nothing like his father, and installed a network of brass pipes beneath the floor. The vibrations of the prisoners’ screams would cause the pipes to resonate in perfect harmony and drown out the unpleasantness below. Though the dungeons have long been out of use, the throne room is still filled with music to this day, and a museum guide will inform one that it simply occurs on its own, the pipes unable to cease vibrating after hundreds of years. 

When I arrive at the café, my order proceeds as usual, no words exchanged except those necessary for the transaction. But as I drain the last dark drops from my cup, something tugs at me, compels me to stand up, push my chair in, and walk back to the counter.

“Another?” asks the barista.

I bow my head. “I love your coffee and hope I may continue to honor the Tortoiseshell Café with my loyal patronage for the rest of my days.” My heart falls into my stomach and I perspire. Perhaps everything is ruined. I tell myself to look up and my neck obeys. The barista raises an eyebrow and smiles.

“That’s sweet,” she says. “I hope you’ll keep coming around, too.” She turns to make my espresso and I put my coins on the counter. When it’s ready, I drink it in one gulp and leave.

Home is how I left it. My umbrella is still in its stand, the foyer light is still burned out, and the portrait of Kar Ying, founder of our once proud order, still hangs above the shrine. The air smells of coffee. I turn on the kitchen light and am unsurprised to see Detective Norin sitting with his feet on the table. I have been serving him for nearly three years because, in his words, and despite the agreement I reached with the Revolutionary Guard, he is the only thing standing between me and a People’s Tribunal. Many of my patrons remain on government watchlists, and Detective Norin finds value in the information I provide.

“You visited Colonel Mugard today?”

“Yes, a young man helped me with my bags.”

“I’m aware.” 

We sit in silence for a moment. 

“Well?”

I reflect carefully. “We talked about cricket scores and Australian biscuits.”

“Australian biscuits?”

“He likes them. I happen to as well.”

The detective laughs and takes his feet down. “Colonel Mugard likes Australian biscuits. Classic old-guard hypocrisy. What else did you discuss?”

“He told me my job was safe.”

“Why would he say that?”

I recount the events that transpired at the market and Colonel Mugard’s reaction to them.

Detective Norin rests his chin on his fist and nods. “Interesting. And how is our friend Mrs. Hingo?”

I open my mouth to answer, but he just laughs and stands up. “It’s time I left you be. When will you next visit the Colonel?”

“I am unsure. He ordered thrice as many groceries as usual.”

“How many is that?”

I sigh. “Three times as many.”

He ponders it. “Very well.” He pushes his chair in and leaves through the back door. I notice my french press has been left out on the drying rack, and sure enough, a mound of soggy grounds crowns the rubbish in the bin.

A woman screams and glass breaks. Light flickers across my wall. Motorcycles rev their engines. Suddenly I am on my front steps, still in my night robe. The city is on fire. I run down the street, ignoring the sirens and gunshots. When I reach Roymo Park, I see the helpful young man dressed in black with the old flag emblazoned on his shoulders. He holds a pistol to the head of another man kneeling on the pavement, his hands behind his neck, his eyes without fear. I crouch behind a bush and watch through the leaves. The doomed man is a member of the Revolutionary Guard. He is the one who poured iced coffee on me. The pistol fires and I shut my eyes with such force my whole face hurts. I do not open them again until I hear the man in black start his motorcycle and drive away. Were it not for the blood pooling into the gutter, I might have mistaken the body in the street for a sleeping drunk. I stand up on trembling legs and press onward.

As I cut through Roymo Park, I begin to notice figures creeping around me in the darkness, hiding behind trees, laughing on benches, kissing in the gazebo. I hurry past them, focusing on the sounds of my breathing and my sandals clacking on the hard dirt. 

In the plaza, the statue of the Revolutionary Leader stands beheaded before an overturned trolley car, as if his last act had been to knock it over. Aeroplanes roar overhead, firing at each other, and as my eyes follow the blazing streaks I realize I am standing beneath Mr. Mugard’s building. All the lights are off except for his and the wind carries music and laughter and the clinking of glasses down to the street. Had this day come years ago, I would have gone up in a heartbeat, drunk with joy. But my destiny lies elsewhere. 

When I arrive at the Tortoiseshell Café the air is thick with wood smoke and a year’s worth of coffee beans. It is long after closing, but there is still a chance she is inside. I pass beneath the frame into the flames, holding my robes close lest they snag on the molten hinges.