Sweet • Moods

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.

Photo © Louis Hansel

The Bag

Behind his counter, the cashier waited for the customer's cooperation.

The latter would have to interrupt his phone conversation in order to conclude the transaction. Customer service sometimes required juggling diplomacy and priorities. Even though the customer was always right, Jonas made sure the rule did not only apply to the first in line. He pointed to the queue, and the man redirected his attention.

Jonas seized the opportunity to ask:

“Would you like a bag?”

“Uh ... yes.”

The person paid and left. After him came a man in his forties. Today, Ronald was wearing a yellow polo shirt. Usually he wore a suit, but since yesterday evening, he had been on vacation. He placed a book on the counter.

“Good morning!” said Jonas.

“Good morning!”

“It is twenty-two even.”

“Perfect.”

Ronald took his wallet out of his pocket and brandished a credit card.

“Go ahead,” said Jonas, indicating the bank terminal.

Moments later he added:

“Shall I give you a bag?”

Ronald did not know. Usually, he demanded a bag, even if he was heading straight to his car. To begin with, you could always use one, especially since some shops did not give them anymore. Also, the business man in him accepted everything multinational companies offered. It was something anyway. They could afford it, in view of their profits. Besides, the planet would not decline because he, Ronald, allowed himself a bag. When factories stopped pouring their waste into the rivers, one would discuss it again.

He looked the cashier in the eye and answered:

“Yes, please.”

Jonas grabbed a bag between his thumb and forefinger and opened it with a flick of the wrist. Gazing at the scene, Ronald immersed himself in other reflections. After all, did he really need a bag? It was the first day of his vacation. Outside, the sun shone, and a period of freedom lay before him, still full of promise. Perhaps he would read his book in a park or—why not?—at that café terrace by which he walked every morning. He never took the time to stop there. Then he could wander about. Perhaps he would chance on the ideal birthday gift for his sister, with whom he got along so well. He would even buy the ingredients to make a pie. She would be surprised, that's for sure! A smile on his lips, Ronald decided that, assuredly, he did not need a bag.

… Meanwhile, the cashier had stuffed the book in a small bag. Back to reality, Ronald turned around rapidly. Behind him, three other customers waited. He gauged the situation. Could he change his mind? It wasn't very considerate of him. Yes, no, yes, no ... And these people were still waiting. He had better hurry. Disappointed, Ronald grasped his purchase and addressed furtive thanks to the cashier.

He would not read his book at the café.





photo © https://unsplash.com/photos/POZAPiiPxGk

Each to Their Own Century

A rustling of bushes drifts through the ajar window. Alfred opens his eyes and examines the ruby wallpaper with golden patterns. He takes his time to stretch. Then he leaves the canopy bed and wraps himself in his thick dressing gown. The water is warm in the hearth; he fills the percolator. In the bathroom, Alfred turns the taps on the clawfoot bathtub. By the time the coffee is ready, so is the bath. He sinks into it with his book and his drink.

Last night, he finished reading The Three Musketeers. The phonograph played Liszt's symphonic poems—their grandiose elegance, combined with the tender glow of candlelight, seemed to lift the words off the page.

Last night, he finished reading The Three Musketeers.

Today, Alfred begins a work by someone named Edgar Poe. The bookseller sang his praises: a story about a manor whose owner suffers from anxiety. Alongside the narrator, Alfred strolls toward a gloomy swamp. Suddenly, the cuckoo bursts out from the clock on the wall. Good heavens!

Alfred immediately leaps from the bath. He dries off and dons his starched uniform. With the last sips of his coffee, he wolfs down a brioche and hurries into the street. Hurry up! To catch the number 36 bus, he'll have to pick up the pace.





Photo © Stephen Packwood

Pleasure for All • Moods

I  gingerly unfolded my stiff legs and stood up. No need to turn off the computer: I would not be gone for long. A little housekeeping?

The impeccable floor testified to my care; I had also put away the dishes. The dirty laundry, piled up in the wicker basket, would not suffice to load the washer. I opted for the recycling. The half-filled bag was so small that it needed to be emptied on a regular basis. That would do the trick, I thought, grabbing my set of keys. I slipped on a pair of shoes and closed the apartment door. The corridor had a hotel's discreet elegance, and I was still admiring the building's quietness as I entered the elevator.

Intrigued, I opened it.

I turned on the lights in the basement. The waste containers waited patiently, lined up next to each other. A cardboard box sat on one of the lids. Yes! I loved examining the items left by other residents; some sort of barter system connected us anonymously. One day, I had discovered a pile of reusable bags, unsoiled and neatly folded. They came from the most high-end stores in town, and I enjoyed using them.
After transferring my recycling, I looked inside the box. Pocket books exhibited the colorful covers typical of anglophone editors. Two adventure novels, an English-Spanish dictionary, and a volume on plants. Only one publication remained mysterious: white wrapping paper concealed its cover. Intrigued, I opened it. L'Orgasme féminin. I couldn't help but smile. I often welcome what is offered on a silver platter. There was only one step left: making sure it did not have a musty odor. Well, not only did it smell like clean, old paper, it also emanated a subtle trace of female perfume. Sold.

The next season, I was done studying the essay; my marriage was going better than ever. To whom could I forward the precious document? One of my colleagues had brought up the subject recently. I liked her, and felt sufficiently comfortable to pass it to her one day—along with a wink.

As Lola did not speak French well enough, she gave me back the book. It would have been simple to dispose of it. However, my gratitude toward its exquisite pages drove me to place it in my handbag. I would leave it on a bench on my way home, for a lucky stranger to pick up.
We had guests that evening, and I thought about the chocolate cake I had cooked the day before. Among its magical ingredients were mashed blueberries and whole wheat flour; I pictured our visitors' surprise. Only in front of our apartment block did I remember the book. The solution was obvious. I went in through the basement and left it on a garbage lid.

When I brought down the recycling the following day, L'Orgasme féminin was gone. Was it at the bottom of a dumpster? Did it captivate new beneficiaries? This second theory turned out to be true, because the tiny book reappeared after several months. Thus it was, punctually, for the three succeeding years, which caused me amusement, along with great joy. One day, it disappeared for good, but perhaps it pursues its course outside the building.

Photo © Ricky Kharawala