Cenicero

“How much ash does it take to cover the bottom of an ashtray?”

“Three cigarettes, maybe. But if the ashtray’s the size of Canada, you’ll be dead before you smoke enough.”

“Come in.”

“There are no secret cafés with password entries. That only happens in books and movies.”

She was often a realist. It served her well now: she immediately spotted the absurdity in the dialogue I’d just made up. I said nothing about how, lately, everything had felt more like an unfinished novel or a never-released film.

We’d been walking for a couple of hours. Time to throw our tired bones into a safe harbor and rest over a cup of tea.

They’re unpleasant. I mean the ones with small cafés, all wood-toned and cozy, and two men at a table discussing business on a Friday night.

Our table was in the corner near the entrance, separated from it by a wooden screen. An illusion of privacy we didn’t need. Nothing secret. We came to observe.

Speaking of observation. The floor was tiled — evoking the murky aftertaste of train-station eateries and instant coffee. The sign above the bar read “CENICERO” in white on beige. Thankfully, it wasn’t backlit. Thankfully, there were no lights here at all except for the small chandeliers inside and the streetlamps outside. I respect the absence of unnecessary embellishment. While we were surveying the place, we simply caught our breath.

“It’s actually nice here, cozy,” she nodded approvingly. “You been here before?”

“I don’t think so,” I looked around again to be sure. “No. Don’t think so.”

Yeah, right. Like hell I hadn’t. I just didn’t recognize the damn hole at first. And I wouldn’t, unless I really thought about it. Better to look at the menu.

“Hungry?”

“Not really. You?”

“No, but I’d take some tea.”

She laughed.

“Rikh” (I loved that “Rikh”—so casual and familiar), “what logic is there in coming to a coffee shop for tea?”

“Why not? Look closely — if I see the word ‘raspberry’ here, I refuse to believe it’s another coincidence,” I grinned, flipping the page.

Raspberry was one of those fabulous little coincidences that haunted us everywhere.

“Do you remember where it all started? Where it first showed up?”

“I think it started with raspberry juice.”

“Really? Not with the shop sign?”

“No! I told you that day: enough wine, switch to raspberry juice.”

“Oh right! And the next day I went shopping and…”

“Exactly. And remember how that one day we found two stores in a row with that name?”

“Yeah. I was writing all week after that… Ah, found it!” I tapped the line: ‘raspberry sauce’. “9 to 6, my lead. You’re losing your edge.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll catch up,” she waved it off like she was giving me a head start in our little silly contest.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

“And why’s that?” Her eyes sparkled with a sly look.

“When have I ever doubted you?” I said, too seriously. What an idiot I am.

“You never used to sound so sure…” Now she looked clearly thrown off.

“Back then…”

I knew exactly what that “back then” meant. The first time I came here, the interior hadn’t even been finished. Back then, I’d come in and drink enough coffee to make myself sick. No, not anymore, tea only now.

“Back then what?” she asked, her expression patient and curious.

I was ruining the lightness of the conversation like a bull in a china shop, knocking over one porcelain set after another. But now I couldn’t say anything at all. Three years ago, on an empty autumn day, completely hollowed out, I walked into this nearly empty café. If not for that “code word,” I might have held back the memories. Now I dropped my head and let my eyes drift over the tea names.

Behind me, a guttural voice, tinged with disbelief:

“You serious? To Madrid? From here? In that time — and by car?”

Ah, those two. The business guys. One of them, a fat man in a light-blue shirt, was leaning into the table, his fingers interlocked, supporting his bulk on that structure. You could tell he was pleased with himself. He’d gotten to show off his tough-guy attitude. He didn’t really care about the answer.

I looked away. I hate being stared at by strangers too — especially when they turn their heads.

Why are plates in cafés always so damn big? Way bigger than the food on them. I remember once…

I stopped myself. Too used to drifting off like this, alone at countless café tables.

She was still quietly fidgeting with her fingers, as if trying to grasp something invisible in the air.

Outside, palm trees and a dusky sky. A red sunset clashed violently with the rest of the blue sky. All that was missing was a seagull flying across the sea to complete the cliché. I winced. Try describing a scene like that — no one would believe you. Too overdone. Too ordinary. Yet, I just wanted something ordinary. “Just nothing special,” I thought. “No dramatic preludes, no ‘we need to talk’ conversations, no more ‘back then’.” I glanced at her. At moments like this, something dark would start to stir in me. I feared blurring everything — her, the café, the evening, the people — into one muddled mess. Like I was the protagonist in a cheap existential drama, and trailing me was…

“Rikhard,” she said (hard to believe we’d been laughing together about raspberry-named places just two minutes ago), “if you don’t want to talk about what was written, then tell me what will be. How would you describe a café meeting?”

I no longer cared what degree of her boredom had prompted that question. I was endlessly grateful to be pulled out of the daze for the thousandth time. It always found me at café tables, no matter who I was with.

“I’d leave half of it out,” I said without thinking, as if the scene was writing itself in real time. “The hum of conversation, the smell of coffee, the smiling waiter arriving just in time —” (I nudged my cup) “— and that sort of thing. I’d describe the people. Just the facts. I hate guessing what they’re thinking. Like that fat guy — heard him ask about the road to Madrid? I’d mention that. Wouldn’t invent a dialogue.”

“Then why would there be characters at all?”

I loved questions that relentlessly dug toward the truth.

“Besides two cups of tea? No special reason. Just an ordinary storyline.”

“A story with no conflict, also” she chimed in.

“Exactly. Who needs conflict on a Saturday night?”

The breezy tone of my last phrase clearly didn’t match the look on my face. What a shame. Her skeptical glance confirmed it.

“You think that’s shallow?” I pressed gently and politely, like I always did. “But don’t we all get tired? Of conflict, of being unable to be ourselves, of other people’s forced convictions, of pointless thoughts?”

“And what are you doing right now, if not that? Cut it out.”

It sounded like a scolding. Until her disarming smile arrived. I was, indeed, disarmed. And I had to admit — she was right. That kind of heavy thought didn’t suit me yet. Not for another thirty years or so.

No, there’s nothing harder in a story than describing something without a theme. The fat man’s loud laugh scattered my thoughts:

“You serious? Only a fool would try to get there in four hours!”

Still talking about business. I almost envied them. The guy he was with looked embarrassed. Probably wished he could just get up and leave. Too bad I couldn’t see him, only his back. Grey clothes, stiff posture. But he was clearly ashamed of his awkward, amateurish guess. Like a writer, humiliated by the idea of someone reading his hopeless draft and wanting to burn it. He’d probably avoid this café for weeks to come. And I’d avoid this topic in my thoughts for even longer.

“Hey, you there?” she asked. When finger snaps in front of my face didn’t help, she nudged my shoulder.

I always came to “Cenicero” for introspection and its aftermath. It was hard to let go of that, even for one evening — especially here. That was clearly a mistake. I’d never felt so dazed and dragged into my thoughts with her as I did here. Clearly, I shouldn’t have come. At “Cenicero,” like at the bottom of an ashtray, my dreariest and stormiest days had been smoldering for three years.

She was right. Time to stop. Time to clean the ashtray.

“Excuse me, I’ll be right back. Restroom.”

I got up from the table. Everything felt fuzzy. I could swear I hadn’t drunk anything today. Moreover, we’d practically crossed half the city on foot and I’d felt great — until I crossed this threshold. Then the threads snapped. We’d come to observe, as we often liked to do. Not like predators, not like sharks — but with genuine curiosity. It’s always nice to spot a familiar painting on the wall or something familiar in a stranger’s face. And now I was the one being observed.

I bet she noticed something was off with me. And it started not even at the entrance —but the moment I thought about it.

Not that I mind being observed. In truth, I craved it — though I was afraid to admit that.

“Whore! You just want everyone orbiting around you like you’re the center of the damn universe!”

It came so loud I flinched instinctively. It was not directed at me.

Some guy had yelled it at his girlfriend in the far corner. I caught the other visitors’ glances veering past me. Even the fat guy was turned halfway toward the arguing couple. His chair probably creaked under him — I could imagine it. Curse this writer’s habit of filling in the blanks, adding drama to everything.

The café blurred into a beige smear, swaying with my steps. And the “CENICERO” sign above the ceil...

Entering the restroom, I locked the door. My breath grew heavy, the veins in my temples bulged treacherously. "The mirror — it could understand me," I might have thought before. But it’s just a reflection. Time to give up illusions. You can convince yourself of your uniqueness all you want, but the world is full of people capable of understanding you, no matter what happens. Why shouldn't one of them be sitting at a table waiting for you right now?

I washed my face, snorting out the water that got in my nose. I looked up — the mirror returned a sly, oppressive stare. Everything was fine, so what the hell? I already hated this hopelessly outdated depressive version of myself. Turning the faucet full blast to drown out any sound, I began speaking mockingly to the mirror (others could wait — there were still two more restrooms):

“So you’re a ‘revolutionary,’ huh? Renounced decay. So what? You can keep saying ‘I don’t know’ when they ask how you’re feeling, but I know. Just say the word ‘before’ — and there you go, wallowing in memories of nauseating coffee, sticky tables, and overflowing ashtrays. So, let’s talk about what was written. Do you think it would’ve been better if you’d gotten what you wanted? Is that a victory? Is that what you call winning? To get her back then, by sheer luck — drag her into bed and abandon her on the roadside months later? If it had happened that way, you wouldn’t have written a single line. Not a damn word.”

Was I really still shaken by “The Fourth Month of Spring”? Everything had passed. Except the feeling of a missed moment. I recoiled. As if the reflection showed me from three years ago. Three years ago, I held a soul in my hands but had no body. For three years, I’d believed I had lost.

The mirror fogged up from the hot water.

“Let the guys outside tell you how many girls they’ve banged and moved on from. Then ask them how many inspired them to create anything in their name. Hell, they won’t get it. But you do. You know what that’s worth.”

Three years later, I realized I had won. That I had done everything right. Had I chosen otherwise, I would be someone else. But I’d rather be who I am.

Everything happens for the best. A simple truth.

That’s right. They are sent to awaken the best in us. If you're not hopeless, you’ll understand. They’re not saints. No one is. But you don’t need to be a saint to help someone become better. And that’s the most selfless, most sincere kind of help. Help the giver doesn’t even realize they’re giving. They’re not support or salvation. They’re not a ray of light — they simply keep you from entering the worst battle of all — the one against yourself. You can’t avoid it, but nearby, a way out will appear. It always will.

The simplest truths often take the longest to understand.

“God bless my muse. In any form. Bless her.”

I was ready to kneel. The water scalded my face. But kneeling or standing tall — that was over now. The ashtray had been emptied.

The lock clicked, the door opened. Everything in place. Tables. Soft, unobtrusive lighting. Beige tones. An accentless interior, just how I liked it. The crackle of the coffee grinder. The sea outside the window. Pictures on the walls, a sign above the bar. I returned to our table.

“You okay?” – her gray-blue eyes looked at me with concern.

“Always okay. Even if I was mistaken in thinking otherwise. I’m fine.”

I saw every cup, every crease on the faces at nearby tables. No stains. The arguing couple had left too, and the café was quiet again. No stains.

“I’m glad you’re smiling again. You’re glowing.”

I smiled in confirmation.

“The guy hiding behind a philosopher’s mask — that’s not me. That kind of overthinking doesn’t suit me.”

“What does suit you?”

“Anything that doesn’t have to be worn like a costume.”

I took a moment, sipping my cooled tea.

“While you were gone, I saw something interesting…”

“The raspberry pie vendor?”

She rolled her eyes in mock irritation. But she was clearly glad I was back to myself.

“Okay, okay — I raised my hands with a smile. So, what was it?”

“Well, I was looking out the window, and this janitor came up to the trash can. You know, one of those brisk old guys in an orange uniform. He started emptying the bins into a big bag…”

“And left the ashtray alone?”

“You were spying?” – she shuddered in surprise.

“No, no.”

“Well, yeah, he didn’t touch it. He pulled out another, smaller bag. Took the ashtray off the bin, dumped the butts into the big bag, and the ashes — into the little one. And you know, the ash bag was packed tight — can you imagine how many bins he had to empty?”

“Oh, I believe it. And then?”

“He went right up to the water, opened the bag, and let the ashes go in the wind. I mean, that’s weird, right? He’s a janitor, yeah? Collected all that ash, probably covered half the city to gather that much — and then just scattered it to the wind. And the ash — it vanished instantly over the sea.”

“And?”

“And he walked away. Came back, took his garbage bag, smiled this mysterious little smile, and went on his way. Strange, right?”

“That’s one way to put it — I nodded. You know, I emptied an ashtray too. Figuratively speaking. The kind of sediment left by old days.”

“I always knew you were a writer.”

I raised my hands and smiled peacefully — what could I say else. Now we just smiled at each other without words.

I noticed the fat man now sat alone. His companion must have had enough and left him to choke on his coffee alone. He probably regretted it. Words are often far more treacherous than they seem.

“And still, Rikh, about your hypothetical story — why would there be heroes in it? You can’t do anything ‘just because.’ You’re not wired that way.”

I decided to joke — hunched over, pulled a stern frown, and began in a pompous voice:

“To observe. To observe life and oneself, so as not to live thoughtlessly. And to better understand that everything moves and our paths…”

I paused dramatically.

At first, she watched with strained seriousness, but as my pause grew longer and more unnatural, her face relaxed, and she laughed, leaning back in her chair.

“That’s so you – she said, shaking her head through laughter. No matter how you insist there’s no deeper meaning, it’s there. You’re lying, sir.”

“It was,” I said more seriously.

“Just kidding. I didn’t mean to offend.”

I wasn’t offended. More than anything, I was afraid of offending her.

The fat man passed our table, waddling heavily. He pushed the door and disappeared into the blue evening in his sky-blue T-shirt. Maybe off to look up a shortcut to Madrid. Or to apologize to his companion.

“Let’s go,” I nodded toward the door where he had just vanished. Since the regulars were gone, observers had no place either.

“You’re hard to argue with — everything sounds so reasoned and right. Though wait,” she looked at me, tilting her head. “How do you know he’s a regular?”

No reason to hide it.

“For three years I came here no less than once a week,” I said plainly. “It’s a long story, but if you want, I’ll tell it on the way to the bus stop?”

She nodded.

We paid — each for our own tea. Got up from the table. I don’t even know if we’ll come back here. Personally me — probably not.

I pushed the door open after the fat man. I’d seen him here often too. As the months passed, he grew thicker, his bright blue shirt faded to sky-blue, and my ashtray kept filling up until it was time to empty it. Goodbye, Cenicero.

The seaside breeze was cool. Somewhere in the distance, the surf murmured.

It was a good evening. And it didn’t matter how good we understood each other. A mundane plot. A souvenir story. An evening forever paused on paper.

I lightly touched her to draw her attention:

“Look around. Nothing special happened today. Just another sunny day ended.”

I don’t know if she understood me. But what does it matter? She smiled warmly, nudged me with her elbow and nodded:

“Let’s go.”

We walked away along the promenade, chatting, telling each other stories, almost talking over each other. There was a rare lightness in the air. Sunny days had begun.