Mini Prose: Sweet

Danilo drinks his coffee black and in a porcelain mug. In terms of sugar, he gets his supplies during his numerous trips abroad. He grabs the individual packets provided at the table. He slips them discreetly in the messenger bag which contains his traveler gear: wallet, notebook, pen, postcards. That way, back at home, he spices his coffee with a folkloric touch.

He spices his coffee with a folkloric touch.

Danilo wakes up early this morning. Humming, he heads to the kitchen and puts the water on to boil. After a visit to the bathroom, he switches off the stove top, pours the simmering water into the coffeemaker. Then, he stands on tiptoe to reach the box hosting the sugar sachets. It's time to hit the road, he thinks. Indeed, there is only a handful left. Danilo chooses a Russian. He places it next to the cup and lets the memories flow.

It was in July, three years ago. Saint Petersburg. Mild weather allowed for a brisk walk. He remembers Saint Basil's cathedral, a true fairy-tale castle with its blue, pink, and yellow domes; and the canals, like streets, between classically structured edifices.

Danilo fills the cup with coffee. He sees himself at the Grand Hotel again, sitting at a round table, his breakfast laid out on the white tablecloth. The immense room gleams with a cordial elegance. Plants lean lazily along the walls, bristling towards the emerald stained glass of the vault.

Hum… Danilo shakes his head. No. Now that he thinks of it, the hotel’s sugar was stamped with the palace's monogram. The sachet that Danilo selected today originates from a modest establishment that he entered one afternoon. The memory clears up. Danilo remembers the deep-green walls adorned with paneling. Settled in a red velvet sofa, he had ordered sbiten. At a nearby table, a group of men in suits was sharing a lively discussion.

A waiter in uniform brought the spicy drink on a silver tray along with sugar packets in a small dish. What was odd, Danilo now recalls it perfectly, is that after an exclamation at the business men's table, the waiter had promptly appeared to swap Danilo's dish for his neighbors'. Perhaps there were two qualities of sugar.

Danilo had filched a sachet before the first dish vanished. In the secret of his room, he had compared the two pouches. Even though he used the ultraflat magnifying glass he kept in his book, he noted no difference.

And now this morning, as Danilo tears the paper printed with Cyrillic characters over the steaming coffee, the phone rings. He picks up, pours the sachet's contents into the cup. The crystals sparkle brilliantly, but he doesn't notice. They disappear in the opaque beverage. On the phone, it's Noemie. At the last minute, an employee is not coming in. Could Danilo replace him? When can he get to the agency?

Danilo needs to hurry. He grasps the mug and empties it all at once in his mouth. Ouch! Just like sand, he thinks. It takes him a fraction of a second to decide to swallow anyway. He wants to leave immediately, but not without coffee. Hardened sugar won't stop him.

A few hours later, after completing a stunning route, a dozen minuscule diamonds end up in the sewer, forever captive of the foul muck.