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Revisit From the Past

Inguna Brože

    Iggie turned the corner and stepped into her cafe. Yes, indeed, she could now call it hers. She was so
happy to have finally found this small spot on a quiet side-lane only a few dozen or so steps from a busy boulevard. The place was quite a distance away from that unlucky cafe where she’d had a disastrous experience a fortnight ago, when she took a total stranger for her cheating partner and in anger poured half a carafe of cold water over his head. Even more disastrous because only some minutes before it had seemed a cosy and inviting place. Iggie was a writer and loved to work in her favourite cafe sitting by the window, sipping black coffee and sometimes red wine, and watching people inside the place and passing by. At that time she was new to the neighbourhood, having moved there only a couple of weeks before. The district boasted of a great number of cafes as well as restaurants, and she had tried her luck at a few. One of them was not well lit, she didn’t wish to damage her eyesight even more. In another one Iggie was given a stale pastry. Well, it might be a bit of an exaggeration, but, by all means, the roll had not been freshly baked. The next cafe she tried had been a real disaster: recently opened and with its staff still inexperienced. Her order of coffee, a croissant and a glass of red wine went somewhere else while she remained at an empty table. But then one day due to the rain that seemed to have started as if out of the blue the luck smiled her way. When the rain grew in force Iggie noticed the sign of a cafe on the other side of the street which she could not cross at one rush because of the red traffic light. She stood fidgeting impatiently, then pulled up her skirt a bit ignoring the approving grin from a motorcyclist who had stopped within a few inches from her thigh so that she could feel the heat of the engine.
    A strong smell of coffee was the first thing Iggie noticed on entering. Then came an overwhelming sense of belonging. That was exactly the thing she needed after the painful realization that Dan had started to slip away from her. The truth was that the man whom she had mistakenly taken for Dan could have been him. He might have been sitting with his babe in another place exactly at the same time.
    Iggie shivered at the memories. That was the last time she had forgotten about her contact lenses. Now she could see properly and her eyes turned right to the corner table. The man was there with his usual cup of coffee and a small glass, the content of which she could only guess. He was engaged in reading – as usual.
    Maybe Iggie had stood there a fraction of time too long; the man raised his head and their eyes met. He nodded, then turned back to the manuscript. He wasn’t the only one who had noticed her. As she moved to her favourite table by one of the windows, her cup of steaming coffee and a croissant arrived almost immediately.
    “Thank you, Ben, that’s fine.”
    “Would that do?”
    “Yes, thanks. Bring me another cup in an hour, will you?”
    “Sure.”
    She would drink coffee first, then go on with the story started yesterday. Iggie was a writer – finally able to fulfil her great ambition since childhood. After years of duties, responsibilities, tasks, moral and other obligations, years of stint, work, chores, burdens (to name only a few!), she was free to live the rest of her life caring for herself – doing things she had been longing to do, engaging in what she could do best; after all – being herself. That is the essence of one’s life – to be who you are but not who you are because others think or wish so.
    “Would you mind?” A voice disrupted her thoughts. Iggie looked up. It was him, the stranger from the corner table. He held a glass of red wine in his hand and put it in front of Iggie.
    “You usually have one, don’t you?”
    “You’re very kind but, honestly, I can’t accept it.”
    He waved his hand in dismissal and marched back to his place and reading. So he had noticed. A flattering thought. Just what she’d been looking for – a man to have a chat with at a cafe, although not too often. Of course there ought to be some common issues to talk about. The usual things men utter when talking to a woman wouldn’t do.
    “Oh yes! You definitely mean some kind of artist,” Sue, her sister, used to sneer. “They’re either narcissistic or too unassuming. Sometimes total failures in life,” she had added with bitterness, obviously meaning her ex who had not been able to meet her expectations of what her husband ought to achieve.
    Iggie finished her coffee and croissant but hadn’t touched the wine yet. She glanced towards the corner table and the man also raised his head and made a slight gesture. All right then, Iggie tasted the wine. He had even found out her favourite brand of red wine! Obviously, asked about it at the counter.
    “Your coffee here.” A cup was placed on the table.
    “Thanks. I’ll pay for the wine now.”
    “It’s already been paid for,” the waiter shook his head.
    She would think about it later, and Iggie returned to her fiction heroes whose final glorious struggle was not over the hills and far away. On the way she had to kill off at least one of them and it was not an easy job.
    When the task was over and her hero with a bullet in his chest nicely sprawled near the entrance to a chic restaurant, Iggie decided to call it a day. The corner table was empty, he’d left. Was it a slight disappointment that overtook her? She shrugged and walked out into the busy afternoon world. Iggie was still exploring her new neighbourhood, especially cafes and small restaurants for her solitary dinners. These were the places she could take notice of people and later – altered —
entwine them into her writing. A woman still needed a male companion for smart restaurants if she didn’t wish to be treated with scorn. Deplorable!
    The next day Iggie went straight up to the stranger.

    “Hello, I want either to pay for the drink or invite you to have a glass of something.”

    “Don’t mention the first but I gladly accept the other.”

    “I’m Dave.” He introduced himself after they had taken their seats.
    “Iggie.”
    “Nice name.” They clinked glasses.
    “You write, don’t you? I’m a reader for several indie publishers.”
    “Still read printed manuscripts and make notes by hand?”
    “Yeah, I prefer it that way. A kind of old-fashioned owl, if you wish... You too, in a notebook.”
    “Partially yes. You chose to work here.”

    “A nice place. Too many distractions at home.”

    “True.” Iggie took another sip.
    “Haven’t seen you here before. Do you live close by?”
    “Now. I’ve recently moved into this district.”
    And then the time stopped, hesitated for a moment and turned back. Iggie’s heart made a somersault. The past had returned. On reflection, she remembered that she had not been able to see the man’s left hand before nor had she cared to do so. The times when she would do everything to succeed were long gone. But at present the past had caught up with her. Iggie clenched her fists so that her hands stopped trembling. Memories flashed over her. Once again she was nineteen as on that late summer evening, hurrying through the edge of the forest to get back before it got really dark, when all of a sudden he was there. A man standing in the shadow. Too late to retreat. The attacker’s face was covered by a mask and he had a hood but his hands were bare. Iggie could see the left hand all the time and a very particular hand it was: with the little finger the same length as the middle one.
    For years after that traumatic encounter Iggie was overwhelmed by one obsession – to find the man by that disfigurement. Her intense gaze sometimes made people give a shrug or shake their heads. The attack was the main reason why Iggie’s life took a new direction. It had led her to what she was at present, and she wasn’t unhappy. An old-fashioned person – indeed! Reading manuscripts in print and making notes by hand, by the right hand obviously; not typing away on a laptop when your both hands would be at work and seen to everybody. Maybe this disfigurement had hurt him much since he was trying to hide the crippled hand. Let bygones be bygones? Yes, let it be (Iggie loved the Beatles, especially John’s songs). Before though, one final proof was all that counted.
    “I’m from the south, a place called Cress. Heard of such?”
    “Amazing! I’ve stayed there for some time, many years ago.”

    He had put the dot on “i”. Iggie knew that she had found “her” man, but did she really care? Not anymore. You cannot change the past whatever blows and suffering it had brought upon you. They will always remain within your past and occasionally muddy waters would bring the torturous memories to the surface.
    What Iggie really felt sorry about was the fact that she would have to look for a new cafe again. This one would not be hers anymore.

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