Lunch at The Ogeessa Cafe

Henry was beyond exhausted.  Shuffling along with his cane, occasionally resting against a fence, he had reached the front door of The Ogeessa Café. He had never been to the café but he had managed to find it. The walk there had not seemed long so, it must not have been far.

That morning, Henry had been thinking of the goat rice dish his neighbor, Cherenet, had brought him last week from the café. Or maybe it had been two weeks ago or yesterday. He had a hard time remembering dates and things, but he could clearly recall the juicy fried meat on top of the tasty rice, seasoned with flavors he didn’t know. Very different from anything Peggy, who had been an excellent cook, had ever made for him and Emily. Henry liked the fragrance, the feel, and the taste of this new food and he had decided that he would have lunch at the cafe. It was an adventure for someone who spent most of his day alone with his books, searching for what secrets he might still discover among the countless titles on his many bookshelves.

Cherenet often stopped at the café after work. He had told Henry that many men from his country did so to make evening prayer. For the café was not only a restaurant serving meals from home along with chai afterwards, but it was also a mosque, a library, and a gathering place – all in a maze of backrooms that were apparently tucked away beyond the kitchen. Cherenet praised the imam as a wise man who knew many things and Henry wondered if he might meet him if he came now and then for a meal or cup of chai. He was fascinated by the idea of a wise imam with a hidden library full of who knew what.

Arriving at the entrance of the café, Henry hesitated. What if he wasn’t welcome? There was a wooden bench near the door and Henry slowly lowered himself to sitting. The afternoon was unseasonably warm and sunny for May. The sun felt good on Henry’s face and he decided to close his eyes and rest for a moment while considering what to do next and whether he should tell his daughter about this adventure at all.

‘Dad,’ Emily had told him over the phone, ‘You know you shouldn’t cross Jefferson Street or 23^rd. There’s too much traffic.’

‘Yes, you’re right, dear, of course.’

‘Dad, really. You just need to call me if you need something and I’ll make sure you get it.  And I’ll be there in two weeks for a long visit. I just worry about you, that’s all. What if Mr. Ramirez hadn’t found you last week and brought you home?’

‘Of course, dear. One never knows what one may find close to home so I’ll content myself with that. One doesn’t want to bother the neighbors.’ Though Henry had tried to tell Emily that he and his neighbor, Mr. Ramirez, despite Henry not speaking Spanish and Mr. Ramirez speaking little English, had enjoyed their walk together.

‘Dad, please. Maybe just stay in the yard. Or on the block.’

‘I promise I won’t go anywhere I don’t need to go, Emily, and I will avoid 23^rd as you wish.’

‘Love you so much and miss you, Dad. See you soon.’

‘Love you and miss you, Em.’

Well, the café was on the same side of 23^rd as his home. Henry was pretty certain of that. Since he hadn’t crossed the street maybe he would mention this trip during the next phone call with his daughter.

He was warm and content in the sun. He had no idea how long he had been sitting when he realized that the door to the café had opened and in it stood a man who might have been Cherenet’s father or grandfather. He nodded at Henry and motioned him to enter while speaking a language Henry did not recognize but, to his surprise, he seemed to understand. How odd this was but Henry thought back to his experience as a young corporal in Berlin just after the war.

Henry and Peggy had raised Emily in the house he lived in now, but before that Henry had been raised there too. Then his neighbors were not from Ethiopia or South America or Somalia. There were mostly immigrant or first-generation German families. His mother had told him how he spoke German all the time with playmates as a young boy. Henry didn’t remember this. Yet, years later, to his surprise, he seemed to be able to understand when German was spoken to him. He could even make out stories in the German papers. The mind was a mysterious and wonderful thing indeed but while there was some explanation for his understanding of German, since he spoke it as a child, Henry couldn’t imagine how he had ever come in contact with the language the man was speaking or how Henry could make sense of it.

He must have been resting for a while on the bench, for Henry was no longer tired and easily got up and followed the man into the café. The dining area was a plain, windowless room with high ceilings lit by exposed fluorescent lights. Plastic folding tables and chairs were arranged against the walls. The man seemed to explain that this was for dining but the kitchen was not open yet and would Henry like something else?

‘Yes. If it is allowed, I would like to see the rest of it. My neighbor told me about the mosque and the library. I like books and I would very much like to see your library.’

The man was curious as to what Henry wanted to read.

‘Well, I’ve always read and liked to learn. Mainly that’s what I do now though I sometimes have a hard time remembering things.’

The man looked at Henry and waited.

‘I mean, I’m very old now. I’ve read a lot. I had a full life. Not always easy. And now, it’s silly, but I want to know, did I do it right? Was it worth it? How does anyone know what a good life is? What’s the secret? I think I may know it but I’d like to know for certain, if you get my drift.’

The man took Henry through a doorway in the far corner of the room.

They were in a large space that was bare, with a worn linoleum floor and plain walls like the dining area but full of warm light from skylights high overheard. Colorful small rugs were carefully placed along one wall and Henry knew this must be the mosque. They did not stop there.

The man guided Henry by the arm and they entered another room. This space was smaller, with low ceilings, darker, and musty in a pleasant way that rooms with old books can be.  Rays of sunlight came through small louvered windows to one side of the room, the rays of light seemingly alive as dust particles, passing through the beams, glowed softly golden. On every wall were shelves, floor to ceiling, heavy with books and scrolls.

The man told Henry that this was what he might be seeking and helped him sit at small wooden table in the center of the room. He went to a shelf, selected a slim, battered volume and placed it on the table before Henry. He sat down on the other side of the table.

Henry opened the book and he was not surprised that, as with the German newspapers a lifetime ago, he could somehow understand what he was looking at. The man indicated to Henry that what he was reading was a special text, almost forgotten, written a long time ago but a favorite of those few who came to the library. As Henry attempted to make sense of the text, the man commented on passages and offered explanations to help Henry comprehend the writing.

The rays of sunlight that had provided sufficient light for reading were finally dimming as Henry finished the last page and closed the book. He was tired but excited for he thought he understood what the book had to tell him.

‘I had no idea that I’d find this here,’ he said out loud, as much to himself as to the man. ‘The book, it really does hold the secret to a good life, no?’

The man across the table was mostly in shadows now but he appeared to nod in agreement.

‘Why haven’t I seen anything like this before? Are there other copies or books like this, here or anywhere else? There must be. Everyone should read and know this. I can’t wait to tell Emily.’

The man caught Henry’s gaze and held it. Of course, other books had similar messages, maybe not as clearly stated, but the secret of a good life was not really a secret after all. Henry must have realized that it was something he had known all along even if he had never had just the right words for it.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Henry. ‘But now it is so clear and I can let others know, in just a few simple words really. And I can take stock of myself in a way I couldn’t before I knew this.’

The man looked away for a moment and then back at Henry. Sometimes perhaps Henry’s life reflected his knowledge of the secret, and sometimes not – as is the case for all humans. Humans primarily share their knowledge of the secret through the life they choose to lead. Books are a way to record what humans know, conscious of it or not, to pass knowledge along in the form of words to others.  The books are important but words can be lost or misunderstood and this secret is best made known through deeds. The man guessed that Henry, if Henry came to an accounting of his life, had mostly passed along the secret through his actions. To his daughter and perhaps many others he had encountered over his long life.

Henry was quiet for a few moments.

‘It’s a lot to take in,’ said Henry. ‘I’ll look forward to coming back and reading the book again and understanding more but now I want to tell Em, and others, what I’ve learned today. Whatever my actions have meant, it is so clear and concise in the book, how can I not share the words?’

The man rose from the table. Henry was welcome back to the cafe anytime, but visitors to the library were only allowed one visit due to how fragile the ancient works were. Surely Henry could appreciate that. Still, the man was glad that Henry had gotten something out of his visit and wished him a full and good life.

The man left Henry outside the door to the café, and Henry suddenly felt tired once more. He sat again on the bench as the late afternoon sun began to fade. He closed his eyes for a moment to think about what had happened, when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. He looked up to see a man in a janitor’s uniform carrying a lunchbox. It was Magan, one of Cherenet’s house mates who must have gotten off work and was coming home.

‘Mister Henry, what are doing here? Ah, you liked the food Cherenet brought you, no? But it is too late for lunch and early for dinner here.’

‘Yes, I came for the food but a man showed me your mosque and, oh, the library was amazing. Have you been there?’

‘Oh, Mister Henry, sure I know the mosque. I go later today to pray. The shelf of books in the back, what would you do with those? I know you’re a smart man, but you read the Koran in Arabic or old magazines from my country? You a surprise to me, Mister Henry. Why don’t you come home with Magan. I make sure we both get home and maybe Cherenet and me bring you some goat rice later.’

‘Yes, yes. But wait, I must tell you something important that I learned today. I must tell Cherenet and my Emily too. It’s just,’ Henry said as his voice trailed off.

‘Sure, you tell Magan what you need to say.’’

‘It’s just I can’t remember what it was. This happens to me sometimes. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I know what it is but I can’t quite get it out. I’ll have to write it down when it comes back to me.'

‘No worry, Mister Henry. Maybe the goat rice will help you remember. At least you’ll have a full belly and that’s something.’

‘It is,’ agreed Henry, who wondered why he was so content even though he seemed to have forgotten some very important thing. Something he had known for a long time, even if the words escaped him at the present.

Henry decided not to worry about it. He allowed Magan to help him up from the bench and then Henry had a pleasant chat with his neighbor as he walked slowly home from his lunch at The Ogeessa Café.