Synopsis: On the eve of the invasion of Kharkiv, a cafe owner fights to keep her restaurant open against all odds. 15 mins reading time.
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The Ukranian language version is here.
Ivan peers into the cafe window. In the display case, which faces the windows, and sits next to the antique cash register on a counter in the back of the cafe, are rows of varenyky; cherry pops of red raspberries top a fluffy strudel, a sprig of mint on top. Next to the varenyky are rows of syrnyky, miniature pancakes with assorted berries. The nutty smell of coffee wafts about.
“Are you open yet?” Ivan mouths, steaming the window.
“You know we are not,” shouts Natalka, who is busily stocking milk into the low-boy refrigerators. She turns the espresso machine on.
“May I join you anyway?”
“Have I ever convinced you otherwise?”
“Not once.”
“Then please come in and shut the door behind you.”
Ivan walks in, promptly closes the door, and takes a deep breath, savoring the smell of the bakery. He’s lean, 50ish, but looks much younger. He wears a worn sports coat over a t-shirt for the punk band “The B-Sides,” and shivers from the cold. He is chronically unprepared for winter.
“Well, if we are to die, let’s eat pastries, shall we?”
“We are not going to die, Ivan.”
“How do you know?”
“Call it women’s intuition,” shrugs Natalka.
“Traditionally unreliable,” replies Ivan.
“Light roast, milk, sugar?”
“How did you know!?”
At that moment, Sofia pops in a bundle of nerves and books, with long black hair, a fashionable parka, and a pashmina draped lightly around her neck.
“Can I get a latte, Natalka?”
“We are not open, Sofia.”
“But Ivan’s here!”
Sofia flashes a pleading smile.
“No Russians allowed.”
“I am culturally Ukrainian.”
“Fine. Come join the party, Comrade.”
She plops down in a seat by the window and looks out at the clouds. Ivan sits down next to her. For a short moment, the three are so silent that they can hear each other’s breath.
“Why do clouds always look like rabbits?” muses Sofia.
“What type of milk, Sofia?” says Natalka.
“Skim. Cinnamon if you have it.”
“I see a dinosaur. Maybe that one is an egret…?” Ivan says.
“No. All rabbits.”
Natalka places Ivan’s coffee down in front of him. She waltzes behind the long counter, grabs an espresso handle, and begins packing it with ground beans to make Sofia’s latte. She ratchets the handle into the spigot, presses a button, and the machine starts humming to life. A thin stream of espresso trickles into a white porcelain cup.
“So, what is the news? Are the barbarians at the gate? Shall I lock up my women and children?” Ivan says, sipping his coffee.
“You have no wife, Ivan.”
“Then I shall lock myself up in my apartment and call myself a prisoner of time.”
“Word is they are 50 kilometers away.”
“The army is calling for recruits. Ages 18–60. You should go, Ivan.”
A young woman pokes her head in. She tries to muscle the front wheels of her baby stroller through the door.
“I’m so sorry, Tetiana, but we will not be open for another 45 minutes,” says Natalka.
Embarrassed, the woman gives a short wave and closes the door.
“I would make a terrible soldier. I’ve already decided. I will build roadblocks. Sofia, would you like to join me?” continues Ivan.
“I am making Molotov cocktails,” replies Sofia.
An uncomfortable silence.
“Zelensky told us to!”
“Yes, he did.”
“I don’t know what liquor to use.”
“Liquor?”
“Ivan, can you lock the front door?” asks Natalka.
Ivan nods.
“In the cocktail…the Molotov cocktail. It has liquor in it, correct?” whispers Sofia.
“Maybe you should build roadblocks, Sofia,” replies Ivan.
“There is grain alcohol in the thing, the cocktail, to make it explosive. I don’t know which type to use. Please don’t speak to me like I am stupid, Ivan. May I have a varenyky, Natalka?”
“Of course.”
Sofia removes her glasses, rubs the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, then places the glasses back.
“It’s just so awful. I cannot look anyone in the eye. I feel they know I am Russian, even when I don’t say a word.”
“It could be the handbags,” says Ivan.
“I am serious,” replies Sofia.
“As always, as always.”
“How can you take this so lightly, Ivan?! We are almost at war! Russian tanks will be rolling through Kharkiv. People will die. Our homes will be destroyed! Never mind the doves, lapwings, sandpipers, the natural world, bulldozed, crushed.”
“We don’t know what will happen.”
“Are you serious?! 50 kilometers, Ivan! 50 kilometers! I swore I could hear the tanks from my bedroom window.”
“I am not making light of it. War is not profitable. Putin desires money,” says Ivan.
“Putin is a revanchist. A philistine Napoleon. He will not stop until he commands all of Europe.”
Silence. Natalka walks around the corner of the counter, hands Sofia her latte, and places her varenyky in front of her.
“Suddenly, I am not so hungry,”
“Eat, Sofia.”
Sofia cups her hands around the warm cup, savoring the smell of the espresso in her latte. Natalka saunters back behind the counter and grabs some linen tablecloths. Ivan twirls the tip of his beard with his fingers. Sofia looks out the window again and wonders if humanity deserves the beauty and tranquility of the natural world. Outside, the Kharkiv River winds its way through this city of monastic, gold-domed cathedrals, and bulky, block-long bureaucratic buildings, a relic of the region’s Soviet past.
“Did you get your ceiling fixed, Natalka?” asks Ivan.
“Yes, I did! There was a leak in one of the pipes. All patched up.”
“Good.”
“And how is Petro, Sofia?”
“Studying for his finals. So busy. Until all this,” Sofia says with a wave of her hand. She nibbles her pastry and sips her latte.
“Psycho..neuro..what is it?”
“Neuropsychology. His dissertation is on the neuroplasticity of receptors in the brains of autistic children.”
“Neuroplasticity…such a lovely word. Neuro-plastic-i-ty,” says Ivan, miming each syllable slowly.
A squad of fast, blaring police cars goes by the window.
Sofia takes one more bite of her varenyky, places it back on the table carefully, reaches in her pocket for some lip balm, and applies it carefully to her lips.
“Well, I am off. Where to, I don’t know. Mostly, I wander.”
“The women are making Molotov cocktails at the library, Sofia. And camouflage nets,” says Natalka, wiping the milk steamer clean on the espresso machine.
“Excellent. I will go directly there. After my wander. I very much hope I will see you all again.”
“You will, Sofia. You will.”
“Goodbye, Ivan.”
“Take care of yourself, Sofia.”
“Thank you.”
She wraps her pashmina around her neck with the panache of an actress.
“Ivan?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Your zipper is down. Goodbye, all!”
Ivan turns discreetly away from Natalka, zips himself up, and covers up his embarrassment by pretending to look out the window.
“The clouds do look like rabbits most of the time.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed, Ivan.”
“Embarrassed about what?”
“Your open zipper. I didn’t see anything.”
“There is nothing to see.”
“You said it, not me.”
Light reflects off the river and sparkles off the tin copper ceiling. Natalka balloons tablecloths which settle over the tables like a gentle snowfall.
“Is everything ok, Natalka?”
“Why would things be ok? Don’t be silly, Ivan.”
“Yes. And yet you are opening the cafe. Do you think you will have business today?”
A rumbling sound faintly heard becomes more prominent. A slow grinding sound, odd whizzing, and humming. A large cacophonous T-72 tank rattles by, shaking silverware, salt and pepper shakers, and the storefront windows. A handful of forks fall off the tables, hitting the floor with odd synchronicity.
Natalka sits helplessly next to Ivan.
“When Communism ended, all our subsidies stopped, and we were destitute. My parents sold pastries and coffee on the sidewalk to make ends meet. Eventually, as the economy improved, they opened the cafe, even when we had little to eat. My mom set out the pastries, milk, and sugar, counted the till, opened the cafe, and let the world in, day after day. I will not be the one to close shop.”
A customer, a middle-aged man, tries vainly to open the locked door. Natalka gives him a slight shrug. He departs.
“The Russians are coming, but everyone still needs their coffee,” she muses.
Shadows move across the cafe as a cloud passes by the sun. Natalka’s features are thrown into relief by the shifting light. She is in her mid-forties but looks somewhat older. Each morning she applies moisturizer to her face and frequently exfoliates. Vitality and futility fight for dominance in her visage, flickering the corner of her mouth or lifting an eyebrow.
“Do you want another varenyky, Ivan”
“No, thank you.”
An antique clock tick-tocks tick-tocks tick-tocks. Ivan silently counts the seconds.
“I’m not exactly sure how to set up a roadblock. Are there instructions? On the internet? Can a tank pass through a car? If I park mine in the middle of the road?
“Yours, certainly.”
“It’s a Mercedes.”
“From 1982.”
“A vintage year.”
“The bumper is held up with tape.”
“She is an honored compatriot.”
“She is tank fodder.”
Ivan stands up suddenly and strokes his beard.
“I’m sorry. Did I offend you?”
“No. Well, you are quite sarcastic today, Natalka.”
“I was joking. Ivan, it’s a car.”
“I am not upset about MY CAR.”
“Of course not. Your relationship with her sounds rather intimate, though.”
“Hey, if you want me to leave. I’ll leave.”
“Oh no, Ivan! No! I am just having fun with you. You don’t have to leave. I am sorry. I will not make fun of you or your car anymore. Promise.”
“I suppose I am attached to the old lady….”
“I knew it!”
Another loud rumbling. Ivan catches a sugar packet as it falls off a table. Then a fork. A plate dances perilously close to the edge.
“Oh, God! It’s another tank! A big one.”
Natalka dashes around the room frantically, determining what to secure first. She reaches for a large cake plate on a high shelf above the counter and tips it back into place just as it is about to fall. Two ornate glass plates are not so fortunate and crash to the ground as three tanks roar past the window, shaking its panes.
The grinding of the tank’s continuous track fades. Natalka takes the cake plate and pulls it off the shelf. She places it down on the counter, puts her elbows on top of the counter, rests her head in her hands, and rubs her temples.
“Ivan, I think I need… a moment…to myself. To think.”
“Of course. Of course.”
Ivan doesn’t move.
The light shifts imperceptibly in the café. A cloud moves over the sun, casting a shadow over the cash register and a vintage cabinet.
Natalka stares vacantly into the distance, deep in a trance.
“I don’t have anything for you. I don’t have anything for you, to take, to take for…”
“Natalka, what do you mean…?
“As a gift. For you. I don’t have anything. We may not see each other for a while.”
Natalka looks about the café looking for a gift.
“I don’t need anything, Natalka.”
“But…something…something you can take….! There must be something.”
Ivan walks over to her. Lays his hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t need anything, Natalka. Please just think of yourself. Please.”
Natalka reaches into her pants pocket and fishes out a few pieces of lint. She takes Ivan’s hand and places the lint in his palm.
“Magic rabbit dust. From the clouds.”
She looks around the café. Memories flood her; how she whispered customers’ names in her grandfather’s ear so he could greet them with his customary panache. Her mother, puffs of flour whitening her cheeks and hair, kneading dough while humming “What a Moonlit Night” and “Oh, in the Cherry Orchard.” Soccer on the T.V. Napoli, mainly, until Ukraine formed their team in the 1990s. And the smell of the place! Honeyed babka, tart apple cake, during the holidays’ sugar-covered perekladanets.
Natalka covers her mouth and closes her eyes to shut out the world.
Ivan hunkers next to her on the counter. He rubs her back to soothe her.
“You must go, Natalka. You must go.”
“Where will I go?!” she says, pulling her sleeve over her hand to wipe away her tears. “Bulgaria!? Poland!? No way! My life is here.”
“I have an uncle in Krakow. He will take you in. Until I can come. He will….”
“Until you can come!?” she says. “Do you think I need to be taken care of!? That I am helpless!? Is that what you think?
“No! No! Not at all…”
“..that I am a schoolgirl…”
“NO!”
“…waiting to be rescued..”
“No, Natalka, never…I just meant…I just meant…that….that”
“You do not need to rescue me. I can rescue myself.”
“Of course. Of course.”
She wipes her nose and cheeks with a paper napkin.
“Look at me blubbering like a little… well.. schoolgirl…fuck..fuck….”
Natalka takes a few deep breaths. Silence again. The antique clock ticks. The whirring of the motor in the low boy refrigerator.
“I want to help you. I will do whatever you need,” says Ivan.
Natalka turns to him. She wonders if it’s possible that this internet technician, this crypto enthusiast, this part-time novelist, this tinkerer, this divorcee, this man who has so clearly been in love with her since the moment he set foot in the café years ago, might this broken man be a great soldier? A great man?
“Stranger things have happened,” she thinks.
She leans forward and kisses him softly on the cheek. She takes his head in her hands.
“If you patronize me again, I will kick your ass. No matter how sweet you are.”
Ivan smiles broadly.
“Understood.”
“Natalka…”
She puts her finger to his lips.
“Not now. I know,” she says.
Ivan looks down at the counter as if he can’t bear the intimacy. She lifts his head. “What delicious dread,” he thinks. Natalka kisses him softly on the lips. Then again. She closes her eyes as he wraps his arms around her, savoring his embrace, and marvels at his strength, despite his lanky, unimposing stature.
“Will you give me a ride to the library?”
“With pleasure.”
“Can you give me a moment?”
“Of course. Yes, of course.”
“Thank you.”
Ivan leaves. He lights a vape on the sidewalk outside the store. Natalka watches the blue light wax and wane with each of his puffs. She walks through the broken plate pieces behind the counter to an empty milk crate where she keeps her purse and brown puffer jacket. She puts her coat on, reaches into her pocket for some lip balm, and applies it, smacking her lips. Sunglasses, of course.
She strides through the broken glass plate pieces again and swishes her hips around the copper café tables as she enters the dining area. She thinks of broken shards, crystal-like memory, and how our understanding of ourselves is distorted and beatified by the past. As she reaches the door, she takes a breath, turns the knob, and walks out into the bedazzling mid-morning light.
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Welcome to the live read of "Down Chuska Mountain" by Jeffrey Delano Davis. The reading will take approximately 35… https://t.co/htJqfb19gH