Café Con Miel

It’s strange to think that I’m going to see you again after all this time.

I wish I could say I haven’t thought of you in a long time. I think of you often. As soon as the weather warms and spring gives way to summer, my mind always turns to Paris. To a particular moment.

Paris in July was crowded and hot, with the midday sun keeping the summer crowds from being too dense. I thought I was going to step off the street, out of the summer heat, into that cafe and you would be there.

I recall the sound of those little bells that warn the waiter of a new arrival as I stepped through the front door. The murmur of conversation fought to balance with music piping through the speakers. A female voice sings an acoustic version of Pink Floyd.

You did love acoustic covers.

I feel the scent as much as I remember it. That scent is you. I have never encountered anything like it before or since. 

You were gone. The scent was too weak, an echo of your presence, already succumbing to the cafe’s natural smells of coffee and food. A coffee cup on the table bore the mark of your lipstick, a tribute to the waiter’s lack of diligence rather than indicating your lingering presence, out of sight around the corner. That didn’t stop me hoping.

I sat at your table, claiming the chair you left askew, trying to see what you saw, think what you thought.

“Can I help you sir?” Asked the waiter, “you can have a clean table if you like.”

“This is fine,” I told the waiter. I remember searching for the words in French. “Whatever the lady who left this had, bring me a cup of the same.”

Une tasse de la même chose. It sounds poetic in French.

Then the moment. The poetry of the drink on the taste buds. As unique as your scent. A Café con Miel, with honey and spices from Spain, a touch of cinnamon, and a hint of nutmeg. Who knew? How delightful.

So I sat and thought of Madrid while I sipped. Leant back against the wall, and watched summer in Paris stroll by the window. 

There.

That’s how the memories start. From there it unfolds.

—

“Have you been to Madrid before?”

I can’t exactly recall our first conversation.

I’d been told to introduce myself to you following the keynote at the first in a series of conferences on Human Resourcing in the 21st century.

You shook your head, looking at me sideways, and I realised how much that sounded like a line. That had not been my intent.

“No? You must see the Prado!”

That was worse.

As if this wasn’t my second trip myself. As if I knew anything about Madrid.

“If you can find time and the right company, go to Plaza Mayor, it’s more of an experience than a sight!”

What was wrong with me?

“I’m sorry, I’m doing this all wrong, I’m really not trying to hit on you. I’ve heard you’re a talented photographer, my firm is interested in your work!”

And now I’ve gone from creepy to lame.

“Oh, what a shame.”

We laughed.

As it turned out, I was the right company. 

That evening we ditched networking drinks early to head to the Plaza together. That was as much of Madrid outside your hotel room as either of us experienced.

—

Madrid is perfect in May. 

The weather is warm, but yet to gather the full power of Spanish summer. Spring’s freshness lingers like the aftertaste of good tapas.

The ideal time and place for a beginning, don’t you think? 

The series of conferences on “Human Resourcing in the 21st century” were scheduled across the summer. Madrid, Budapest, Paris, Moscow and Berlin. I had been registered by my firm as an attendee for the first two. My expectations for the summer were low.

Then I met you. You had projects to check in on in all four cities, as well as the conferences themselves.

And if two young lovers like ourselves perhaps didn’t attend all the seminars, who can’t find a soft spot in their hearts for young, lovesick fools?

Doesn’t it almost sound like fate? Perfect. Too perfect.

From being thankful I would only need to attend two, I regretted that I would miss Paris and Moscow. I was smitten.

You were so different to everyone I worked with, everyone I knew. So idealistic, wanting to work with small companies against what you saw as a rigged game. I worked for the rigged game, I just hoped you didn’t think I was a complete sellout.

I thought I’d missed you in Budapest. 

Panic set in when I couldn't find you. Then your colleagues handed me the pamphlet you’d left behind. “The best cafe’s of Budapest”, and a name circled.

I sat in that cafe overlooking the Danube for hours in the June sun. 

Your text that it would be dinnertime before you would arrive didn’t deter me. I wasn’t really interested in Human Resources in the 21st Century. The coffee was delicious, the summer sun was shining. People around me were smiling and I was happy. 

Taking the afternoon for myself felt so empowering. Sitting there felt like freedom. To this day the smell of Linden trees takes me back to the feeling of that Budapest afternoon.

I was so happy to see you.

Would I have done anything differently if I’d known Budapest would be the last time I saw you?

I searched for you, in Paris, in Moscow. 

I recall the hurt, sitting in that Moscow cafe. Feeling like a fool. Wanting to tell you how angry I was. At the same time hoping you’d walk through the front door and make it all make sense.

They didn’t even know how to make my Café con Miel. 

My attempts to explain only resulted in a sickly sweet honey vanilla mess. Even the stick of cinnamon poked apologetically from the mug as if in embarrassment.

Russia is famous for its winters. In my mind Moscow is forever August. The days that last a little too long, trying too hard to cling to summer. Unable to bring itself to surrender its grip to inevitable autumn and winter days.

I still don’t know how you managed it.

My boss, Peter, and I had barely sat down to lunch in Budapest. I’d  just told him that I’d dropped off the USB stick from Madrid when you called. Of course I stepped out to take the call. You hung up.

By the time I got back to the table, Peter was dead. 

A syringe of poison to the neck, and all that remained as he fell forward into his last meal was the scent of your perfume.

—

“How do you see these things?”

An idle question, I was sprawled in your bed, half draped in the hotel bed sheet, flipping through the photos on your nightstand. 

It was June in Budapest, summer not yet at its zenith. The soft breeze of evening air through the window was pleasantly cool on the skin, relieving the warmth of the day. A cover of a song called “Flame Trees” played in the background, an Australian songstress mourned an old relationship.

If only I’d known.

“See what things?”

Your return to the bed was slow. Languid strides offering me the opportunity admire your athletic body, barely obscured by a silk robe. You carried a glass of iced water in each hand. 

“Well, this one,” I said, plucking a photo from a series she’s taken down the Spree River in Berlin, “is a photo of Berlinerdom cathedral. But two old people are in the corner, one laughs, one is storming away. It is not a photo of the old people, it is a photo of the cathedral, but by being there, they change the story. It’s captivating.” 

“I want to know how their story ends!”

We laughed.

“Ah,” you said, “well,” your fingers were dragging an ice cube down my chest. Maybe not just weapons against the heat then,, “it may sound rather mundane, but you find something changing, point the camera at it. Change is beautiful. Then you print only the beautiful one.”

Maybe I should have challenged the way you were oversimplifying, directing my attention elsewhere. But by then your fingers had released the ice, and I was captivated by where they were directing me.

—

It took a long time to convince my masters that they could trust me after Budapest.

First, that I had not been in on your plans. Do you know how shameful that is, in our line of work? To admit you’ve been completely played?

Second, that I was competent. Our romance had been a perfect cover for me. Being the  go-between to deliver data from Madrid to Budapest felt so exciting. I was so proud of my cover.

Of course, I was your cover too.

In my lowest moments, it even hurt that I hadn’t been worth killing, like Peter.

Perhaps I should have realised when the hacker who had given me the USB in Madrid, relapsed and overdose on heroin between the keynote where I met you and networking drinks where I really met you. If I ever really met you.

When you took out Dmitri in Budapest, I should have at least suspected. Poor Dmitri He just wanted to be a journalist, and why wouldn’t he take the information we funnelled him? I dropped him the USB that morning, and by the time you arrived at the cafe, you’d finished him off too.

Peter was in Budapest to coordinate with Dmitri. He’d been just about to close a major deal for us too. Whatever was on the USB was going to be released by Dmitri in a way that would be advantageous to Peter. 

With that inside information and leverage, we were ready to make a lot of money. When you can tell the market afterwards how great these deals are, they can be very profitable.

Of course not everyone wins. I guess your firm or clients wouldn’t have been on the winners list.

Why did I not ask myself why you already had photos of places we had not yet been?

I was young. I was only a messenger. But these are the skills I was cultivating. I may not have understood either our deal, or why it was bad for you, but I should have been watching.

That’s how I found the cafe in Paris. I had fantasies of exacting revenge, there in the streets. In retrospect, I’m probably fortunate I didn’t find you. You were so far ahead of me then.

I am haunted by the memory of your photo of the cafe where you killed Peter. I remember meeting him there after seeing the photo and being amused, like we had a special secret from my boss.

My heart broke when I smelled your perfume.

—

“What are these projects that you have to check on?”

“Projects?”

“You said you have projects to check on in all the cities, what are they?”

“Oh, nothing interesting. Checking in on company induction procedures. As exciting as they are, I can’t tell you. You’re a horrible capitalist who refuses to be saved, and I’m fighting for the little guy!”

I was about to enquire further, but you continued. 

“Except for Moscow, I’ve told them I need to go to Moscow, but I just want to go.”

“I’ve never been to Moscow.”

“I love Moscow! Especially right at the end of Summer in August. The days are long, like the city just can’t let go. I always feel like it’s my last chance to do wonderful things before Winter comes.”

“We should go together!”

“We should! But first, there are so many other things we should do…” 

I really wasn’t hard to misdirect.

—

Now, after all this time, I will see you again.

I have you.

I hunted you for so long. I have been close so many times. I know you. I know how you think, I know how you plan.

When I close my eyes, I still know how you smell.

I still don’t understand why I was left alive. Was I really not worth the effort? Did you not see me at all?

This will finally be my chance to prove my worth, once and for all. Or not. They will probably kill me if I fail. I won’t fail.

I know where you’ve been, I know what you’ve done, and finally, I know where you’ll be.

Berlin. The river Spree.

The pattern now echoes that summer. A diplomat, a journalist and a hacker. It should be no surprise. The setup worked so well for us, why would we not replicate it? The killings worked so well for you, why would you not follow the same playbook?

And we’d finally figured out which little guys you worked for. Now you’re back.

But this time, I know the last move ahead of time. I am no longer the junior messenger boy. I know the deal we were setting up. I know your final target.

You shouldn’t have left me alive.

—

“My favourite places are always those with views that are beautiful, and give some sort of sight which not everyone gets to see.”

Way back in Madrid, back in the beginning. We’d been lying in bed, contemplating going out for dinner. 

“The Circulo de Bellas Artes has panoramic views,” I told her, “We could get some food, you could take some pictures.”

“You really know Madrid!”

“Actually, I’ve only been here once before. But I try to study up on places I’m going.”

“You had me fooled!”

I’d felt a pang of guilt.

—

I am ready. 

My earbuds are in, I’m listening to Flame Trees, the song from Budapest. The view from the pinnacle of the Bode Museum is breathtaking. 

I wish I could share it with you. 

The Panoramic views of the city are sublime. The view down the river Spree is perfect, breathtaking with the naked eye. A photographer could frame up the award winning beauty of this city in the late September light, evoking the last hold of Summer.

Even better through the scope of my rifle.

I wonder whether I am truly capable of doing this.

Of course I am, I am a professional.

Through the scope, I see your face again. It's good to see you. I wish we could talk. On anyone else, crosshairs always look so brutally functional. You make them look like  a fashion accessory.

The very latest in avantgard, the snipers crosshair, next season to be accessorised by a laser dot.

My finger lightly touches the trigger. The slightest motion and that crosshair is your doom. As I realise this, I also realise I do not want to do this. Vengeance is not in my heart, but you are.

I want to scream at you, demand answers, demand an apology. I want you to hurt like I was hurt.

I do not want to kill you.

Your path takes you away from the barge where I know our Berlin contact is. I spare a moment with my scope to check on him, and find him still breathing.

Curious.

We are both professionals. Why is he alive? Have you found a loophole in these lives we lead? Is there a way out? Another option?

Suddenly. You look up. Your eyes pierce the scope right down into my soul.

You do see me!

I see you mouth the words, “I’m sorry.”

My heart explodes. I love you!

The riverboat detonates along with it.

My finger rests on the trigger. I watch you walking away from me through the scope as the scene on the street turns to chaos.

There is no way out, I have to do it!

I can’t do it!

I can see the entry to the U-Bahn, Berlin’s subway system. You’re walking towards it.

I should shoot now. I have to shoot now.

No.

Our story will not end this way. I breathe. I watch you descend the stairs. It is better this way. I don’t know how I will explain this to my masters, but I will find a way.

I rise, and begin disassembling my rifle.

I will find a cafe. I will sit, and drink a Café con Miel. I will think about Paris. I will think about Madrid. Then I will think about what’s next.

—

“I wish this summer would never end.”

There, I said it out loud. Now every heartbeat of silence before you speak feels like falling.

“Why?”

“Well… us… this is terrific.”

“Are you going somewhere once summer ends?” You tease me.

The guilt eats me, knowing I’m not who you think I am. There is no way I’ll be able to maintain the ruse that I’m in Human Resources over any sort of long term.

I can’t say that.

“I just wish things could stay like this.”

You smiled.

“Change can be beautiful too.”

—

With my earbuds in, I don’t even hear the sound of the rifle. The pain in my chest is sudden and overwhelming.

I am sprawled over the wall of the turret I have occupied. I try to raise my head. It gets as far as the trees that line the river.

As my vision fades, the first red leaf of autumn catches my eye.

It is beautiful.