The Shevchenko Cafe

Ivan peers into the cafe window. In the display case, Varenyky cherry pops of red like winter berries top a fluffy star-shaped strudel, a sprig of mint on top. Syrnyky, miniature pancakes with assorted berries. The nutty smell of coffee. A waft of gasoline.

"Are you open yet? Ivan mouths against the window.

"You know we are not," shouts Natasha.

"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 "B-Sides," a Ukrainian punk band. 

"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 Natasha.

"Traditionally unreliable," replies Ivan.

"Light roast, milk, sugar?"

"How did you know!?"

At that moment, Sofia pops in a bundle of nerves and books, long sandy brown hair, pashmina draped lightly around her neck.

"Can I get a latte, Natasha?"

"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.

"Milk, Sofia?" says Natasha

"Skim. Cinnamon if you have it."

"I see a dinosaur. Maybe that one is an egret...?"

Natasha places Ivan's coffee down in front of him. She waltzes behind the counter, grabs an espresso handle, and begins packing it with ground beans.  She turns the espresso machine on and 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 around the door. She has a baby stroller outside.

"I'm so sorry, Tatianna, but we will not be open for another 45 minutes," says Natasha

"I would make a terrible soldier. I've already decided. I will build roadblocks. Sofia, would you like to join me?" continues Ivan, oblivious to the new congregant.

"I am making Molotov Cocktails," replies Sofia.

Tatianna gives a slight wave to Natasha and leaves.

"Zelensky told us to!" says Sofia.

"Yes, he did."

"I don't know what liquor to use."

"Liquor?"

"Ivan, can you lock the front door?" asks Natasha.

Ivan nods and locks the door before returning to his seat.

"In the cocktail…the Molotov Cocktail. It has liquor in it, correct?"

"Maybe you should build roadblocks, Sofia."

"There is grain alcohol in the thing, the cocktail, to make it explosive. May I have a Varenky, Natasha, as well, please?"

"Of course."

"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."

"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, 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."

"Putin is a revanchist. A philistine Napoleon. He will not stop until he commands all of Europe."

Silence. Natasha walks around the corner, hands Sofia her latte, and places her Varenky 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. Natasha saunters 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, elaborate medieval castles, and bulky, block-long bureaucratic buildings, a relic of the region's Soviet past.

"Did you get your ceiling fixed, Natasha?" asks Ivan.

"Yes, I did! There was a leak in one of the pipes. All patched up."

"Good."

"And how is Pedro, 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 Varenky, carefully dusts the pastry flakes off her pashmina, then scoops the remaining bits off the table into the palm of her hand.

"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."

"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 sprinkles the pastry flakes into the trash, puts her oval sunglasses on, and wraps her pashmina around her neck.

"Ivan?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Your zipper is down. Goodbye, all!"

Ivan turns discreetly away from Natasha, 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."

More silence. Light reflects off the river and sparkles off the tin copper ceiling. Natasha balloons tablecloths which settle over the tables like a gentle snowfall.  

"Is everything ok, Natasha?"

"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.

Natasha stares numbly out the window at the clouds. She sits helplessly next to Ivan.

"My grandmother opened this cafe in 1946 at the war's end. Russian soldiers raided the shelves, raped our workers in the backrooms, helped themselves to everything—food, women, liquor, money. But each morning, my grandmother woke, made coffee, set out the pastries, milk, and sugar, counted the till, opened the cafe, and let the world in. I will not be the one to close shop."

A customer, a middle-aged man, tries vainly to open the locked door. Natasha gives him a slight shrug. He departs.

Shadows move across the cafe as a cloud passes by the sun. Natasha's features are thrown into relief by the shifting light. She is in her mid-forties but looks much older, like many Ukrainian women, a product of the hardships she has faced, yes, but also the soot she was exposed to from local coal mines as a child. Each morning she applies moisturizer to her face to counter the effect of the mines and frequently exfoliates. Vitality and futility fight for dominance in her visage, flickering the corner of her mouth, lifting an eyebrow, and adding a faraway look to her eye.

"Do you want another Varenky, Ivan"

"No thank you. But I truly love your… your… food Natasha. I want you to know that."

"Thank you, Ivan."

Natasha resumes setting up the cafe. An antique clock tick-tocks tick-tocks tick-tocks. Ivan 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, paces with agitation, and strokes his beard.

"I'm sorry. Did I offend you?"

"No."

"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."

"Good day, Natasha!!"

"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."

Ivan stops his pacing.

"I suppose I am attached to the old lady…."

"I knew it!"

"Oh, Natasha! What trifles! What trifles we talk about on a…"

Another loud rumbling. Ivan catches sugar packets as they fall off a table. Then a fork. More silverware falls, and a plate dances perilously close to the edge. 

"Oh, God! It's another tank! A big one."

Natasha dashes around the room frantically, with no particular purpose, trying to determine what to secure first. She reaches for a large cake plate sitting on a high shelf and tips it back into place just as it is about to fall. Two other plates are not so fortunate and crash to the ground just as the tank rumbles past the window, shaking its panes.

Natasha places the cake plate down on the counter, puts her elbows on the top of the counter, and rubs her temples.

"Ivan, I think I need… a moment…to myself. To think."

"Of course. Of course."

The light shifts imperceptibly in the café. A cloud moves over the sun, casting a shadow over the 100-year-old wooden cash register on the counter and the vintage cabinet in the corner. 

Natasha 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..."

"Natasha, what do you mean...?

"As a gift. For you. I don't have anything. We may not see each other for a while."

Natasha looks about the café looking for a gift.

"I don't need anything, Natasha.”

"I have it! I have it! Please wait. Wait."

She disappears into the back of the cafe. The sound of the back door opening. Shuffling feet, curses. Finally, she emerges, pushing against the door with her back. 

She holds a mammoth potted sunflower. It scrapes against the ceiling as she staggers a bit about the café floor.

"Dear God, Natasha," Ivan runs over and grabs the flower by its giant stem.

"I… I've been keeping it in the parking lot behind the cafe...she doesn't fit in my apartment anymore…I call her Frenchie… from the…American movie... with John Travolta…."

The two shuffle about, trying to grip the pot as the sunflower wipes the ceiling clean with its pedals.

Suddenly, it knocks hard against the dangling crystals on a chandelier hanging by the counter. The chandelier begins to spin on its chain.

Ivan tries to steady it with his free hand, but the plant knocks into the crystals again, doubling its spin. It starts to unscrew. 

"Watch it! On no!!" shouts Natasha.

They both take cover as the chandelier pulls a chunk of drywall out of the ceiling and crashes down on the counter, sending crystal shards everywhere.

Shocked silence. The gentle hum of the ceiling fan.

"Kharkiv's first casualty," says Natasha, with a wry smile. She sits.

"I'm so sorry," says Ivan. "Was it your grandmother's?"

"No. I got it off Rozetka. So please don't worry."

"I will pay for it. And the sunflower. Here, here."

Ivan starts to dig in his pockets.

"Please put your money away, Ivan; you are an old customer, an old friend."

"I insist," Ivan says, putting a wad of wrinkled Hryvnia on the counter, avoiding the shattered crystal. "Take it. And I will help you clean up."

"No."

Ivan begins to tiptoe around the crystal toward the stock room.

"Yes. Yes. I insist."

"Ivan."

"We just need a broom, some trash bags."

"Ivan..."

"I don't know who will be collecting the garbage now that the Russians are close."

"Ivan, stop!"

Ivan, embarrassed, puts his hands in his pockets, a habit from adolescence. He bites his lip a bit. Kicks a few shards of crystal with his foot. Then, he pulls his hands out of his pocket. Natasha notices them quake.

He stretches his fingers out, then balls them into fists, trying to dispel the tension.

"Leave it here. Leave it all here," she says.

She looks around the café. Memories flood her; how she napped on sacks of flour in the back of the café when she was a child, how she whispered customers' names in her grandfather's ear so he could greet them with his customary panache. Later, when her parents took over the cafe, 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 perekladantes.

Natasha covers her mouth and closes her eyes to shut out the world. 

Ivan walks over to the sunflower, hoists it up by its stem, and weaves through the broken glass to Natasha's chair. He sits down next to her, placing the potted plant between his feet.

"Will you give me a ride to the library?" asks Natasha.

"With pleasure"

Ivan reaches a hand to Natasha to help her to her feet. Natasha looks directly into his eyes and sees a determination there she's never seen before, and 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 takes his hand, stands, and gently kisses his cheek.

"I'm taking your money. You owe me for the fan."

Ivan smiles broadly.

"I'll give you a moment," he says.

"Thank you."

Ivan leaves, taking the sunflower with him. He stands a little way off from the door on the sidewalk and lights a vape. Natasha carefully walks through the broken glass 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 again and swishes her hips around the copper café tables as she makes her way through the dining area. She thinks of broken shards, crystal-like memory, and how our reflection is distorted and beatified by the past. "Will the pieces come together?" she thinks as she reaches for the door, takes a breath, turns the knob, and walks out into the bedazzling mid-morning light.