Semolina dumplings “Old Viennese style” with toasted apricots, 13 euros. The bird eats because this is its way of communicating. Without thought or malice. It talks to the trees through the fruits it eats.
Tarte tatin of apple and pear with walnut brittle ice cream, 14 euros. It talks to the bushes and flowers through the seeds it devours.
Valrhôna chocolate tartlets with cherry sorbet and Mon Chéri, 15 euros. It whirrs along in the perpetual cycle. Harsh winter, either way.
The pianist appears to have found in Levadski an addressee for his noble feelings of pity. In recognition he squints over at him and plays Bridge Over Troubled Water.
Iced “Mozart dumplings” with Amaretto foam, 12 euros. The piano player’s button eyes flash contentedly during some bars of music, as if there weren’t a care in the world. But, my God, it is true: a person who knows music can never be unhappy.
Tiramisu with basil foam and baked raspberries, 14 euros. My mother was in the habit of happily saying. She did not say it to me or to anyone else, but to herself, sighing deeply down at me.
The savory alternative: A selection of local and imported cheeses with nuts and grapes, 15 euros. I too was once no higher than a dining table. What about Beethoven, I could have asked her, how could he be happy as a deaf man?
Levadski orders the chocolate cake. In a matter of minutes it arrives. His memory of it is different. That is, if he remembers it at all. Levadski sinks his fork into the fragile shell of his slice of cake and notices that he feels hot and dizzy. As if a sticky sweet claw were rummaging inside his chest, soft as butter. Suddenly he is a boy, sitting in a church in Lemberg during the midday prayer service. Whimpering, he is sitting on a hard pew, letting the tears roll freely down his stony face. He doesn’t dream of wiping them away. He is sitting in the Catholic church like in a jewelry box. He is here to cry in safety until he is exhausted, until he is totally cleansed and free from care. Madly in love, he believes he will die, become crippled and impoverished. Levadski bathes his young face in tears and in self-pity. “Oh Lord, we confess, we are sinners. We are all sinners before you,” the priest mumbles. Levadski blows his nose. “And do not turn away from us,” the priest prays. Covered in tears, the little martyr looks up towards the ceiling. The Holy Spirit is directly above him, frozen, soaring in perpetuity. Levadski imagines that this dove also has an eye on him, he cannot be lonely, and he cries all the more. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, we pray of you, Holy Mary, we pray of you.”
With a sense of elation, Levadski once again turns his attention to his slice of cake. This madness must have gotten into him on that day of the church service. What was the girl’s name again? Dunia? Apolonia? Seraphina? Could well be. Not even a name any more. Just these palpitations. What’s in a name anyway?
A corpulent gentleman with white combed-back pomaded hair throws his napkin on the table with a dull thud. He wants to pay. He pays and leaves.
“She is in Cyprus playing bridge,” an older waiter whispers to a younger waiter in passing.
“Good for her,” the young colleague exclaims, without turning around. A tiny piece of silver foil is stuck to his striped trousers. When he turns the corner with a laden tray, the foil is snatched away by a gust of air and washed up beneath one of the tables.
Levadski’s eyes wander around the room. The great-aunts sat over there with me, sometimes mother joined us. Over there, where a young couple are toasting each other with champagne glasses filled to the brim. How deeply they look into each other’s eyes — disgusting. The world surrounding the two is a gently rippling lake, and they themselves are a boat adorned with flowers. A sinking one. An embarrassing one. A moving one. The only possible and genuine boat at this moment in time. Any second now the young man will notice the waitress’s calves and destroy the pastoral.
We sat over there, as well, in one of the window niches. The blue-cushioned seating areas must have only recently sprung out of the walls. There used to be leather armchairs, and the coffeehouses smelled of a world to be taken seriously. Glamorous creatures with feather boas would float past the tables. And I ate my cake and was one of these angels, by virtue of the exquisite breath created by their boas. I was one of them.
“I am accidentally in heaven, I don’t eat anything, I don’t drink anything … A little … I read a good book. I read a good book, and already I am accidentally in heaven …” The voice belongs to a lady with red painted nails. The lady’s hand is vibrating like a bough of a mountain ash as she tells her story. She must be my age. Very elegant, her fringe, that hides the wrinkles of her brow. Very clever. And the black arches of incredulous eyebrows. “Hair across his eyes, he always wanted his hair across his eyes, but I cut it off during the night.” Dark red shred of a mouth. I wonder if she is talking about her son? The way she talks, my God! A stream filled with smoothly sanded pebbles. What a beauty. Levadski orders a tea.
“Green or black?”
“Black, please.”
The sight of this gently gesticulating herbarium flower in the circle of her family makes Levadski thirsty. The flower throws back her head and laughs. Crowns of precious metal gleam in her wet mouth. My goodness. What a woman! Levadski drinks and sweats. The son or son-in-law pours the diva some water. Rapt, slightly melancholy faces surround her, while for the hundredth time she tells one of her old stories from times gone by. How she glows! Then she leaves. She is helped into her coat. She throws back her head once more, once more the sight of precious gleaming crowns. Charming soliloquy on the way to the door. The son or son-in-law leads the way, stumbling behind him is the rest of the clan. At the tail end, a child with a short-haired dachshund on a leash.
“Is the lady an actress?”
“No, but she has been coming here every Sunday for thirty years.”
“Interesting,” Levadski says through his nose. The waiter is already at the other end of the room. “Interesting,” Levadski repeats and finds himself boring. Meaningless. For a split second. The waiter is already on his way back. The man whirrs from table to table with the grace of a dragonfly, races, tails flapping, through the rows of tables, almost collides with his two colleagues, walks straight through them.
With withered steps, a couple approaches the table where the beauty was just sitting. The gentleman is wearing a tie and the lady has a brooch pinned to her jacket. Both are holding a newspaper in their hand. After they have ordered two glasses of sparkling wine, they hide behind their newspapers. The sparkling wine arrives. Cheers! The lady closes one eye when she drinks, as if she had whipped up the sparkling wine to a spray with her breath.
“Here’s an interesting article about Transylvania.”
“Aha.”
“Yes, it interests me.”
“Sir and Madam have chosen?”
“Two cream of pumpkin soups, a small veal schnitzel and a small beer.”
“I would have preferred duck, but you have run out, haven’t you?”
“Do you know why Siebenbürgen is called Siebenbürgen? After the seven cities that the Germans founded in the 12th century.”
“Very interesting.”
“Excuse me?”
“Very interesting.”
“Yes, my darling.”
“Yes.”
Which direction is she speaking in? Her neatly coifed head slightly cocked like a dove observing its reflection in a puddle, the lady appears to be speaking into a tin can.
“Yes, my darling, yes, alright, my child.”
The tin can is snapped shut.