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“You know,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “they make the cakes here according to recipes that are as old as the cafe itself. Don’t you think the coffee tastes differently here than in other cafes?”

“Absolutely,” I agreed.

“Yes, the way coffee used to taste,” he said, yielding to some kind of nostalgia.

I didn’t know what he meant by “the way coffee used to taste,” because from my own childhood I only ever remembered ersatz coffee with milk. And then the coffee at school after the war, without milk or sugar, it had the taste of bitter water.

“That’s why I come here from time to time,” he said. “I wonder how they make it? I asked the owner once, he only said he was glad I liked it. Funny that even cafes have their secrets. The way coffee used to taste …” He grew pensive. Then he suddenly snapped out of it: “Have you ever thought about how powerfully we’re bound to the past? Not necessarily our own. Besides, what’s our past? Where are its boundaries? It’s something like an undefined longing, but for what? Is it not for something that never was, but nevertheless has passed? The past is just our imagination, and the imagination needs longing, it actually feeds on longing. The past, my dear sir, has nothing to do with time, despite what people think. Besides, what is time anyway? Does something like time even exist outside of calendars and clocks? We use ourselves up, that’s all it boils down to. Like everything else around us. Life is energy, not survival, and energy gets consumed. As for the past, it never goes away, since we’re constantly making it anew. It’s created by our imagination, that’s what determines our memory, gives it its characteristics, dictates its choices, not the other way around. Imagination is the ground of our existence. Memory is no more than a function of our imagination. Imagination is the one place we feel connected to, where we can be certain that that’s where we actually live. Then when we come to die, we also die in it. Along with all those who have ever died before, and who help us die in turn.”

He abruptly reached into the inside pocket of his coat and took out his wallet.

“Will you let me take care of this?” I said, thinking that he meant to settle the bill, and that by the same token he was indicating that our meeting was over.

“Out of the question,” he said. “It was me who invited you. You’re my guest, remember? But actually I was going to show you something.”

He began rummaging through the compartments of his wallet, taking out various photos, business cards, documents, folded pieces of paper, tickets. He tossed it all on the table and something fell on the floor, but before I could reach down he swooped like a hawk and got there before me.

“Could it be that it’s not there? How could that have happened? I always have it on me,” he said with worried self-reproach. “I don’t have it. I actually don’t have it. I don’t understand. I’m terribly sorry.” He replaced the wallet here, in his breast pocket. “Would you like a glass of liqueur?” he asked suddenly, as if forgetting what he had meant to show me. “They have an excellent almond liqueur. Then wine, perhaps? Too bad. No, I won’t take any on my own. If I were alone it would be a different matter. Though I don’t know whether in that case I’d feel like drinking anything. You have to have some purpose to also have the desire. That applies just as much to the desire for life. Where are you from?” he asked out of the blue.

I was taken aback. We’d been sitting there quite a while, our cups were empty, there were nothing but crumbs on the plates. In such situations I was usually asked at the very beginning where I was from. That was understandable, you could tell from the way I talked. The moment I opened my mouth it became natural to ask where I was from.

“I thought so,” he said. “Actually, I was certain of it. Right back then, on the street, when you apologized. But I was the one who greeted you first. Who knows if I wasn’t sure of it the moment I saw you reaching for your hat. My face couldn’t have looked familiar to you, but yours could to me. It appeared to me in a brief flash. I immediately started asking myself where and when. Then all of a sudden it came to me — of course!”

“You’ve been there?” I asked, though it may have been rude on my part to interrupt. Yet I had the impression it was expected, he might even have been intending for me to do so.

“No, never,” he responded brusquely, almost as if he were brushing my question away. “Pity they don’t allow smoking in here,” he said. “I don’t smoke, but there are moments when I feel like a cigarette. Do you smoke?”

“No,” I said. “I used to. Gave it up.”

“Good for you. Really. It’s not good for your health.” He suddenly stared at something with a fixed gaze.

I wondered if maybe he’d seen one of those people who’d come there over the previous two hundred years. Maybe he’d even seen the man who used to sit at our table, standing in the doorway. I expected him to jump up in a moment and say, excuse us, we’re just leaving. Then, in a quiet, blank voice he said:

“My father was there.”

“Oh, then maybe you went with your father one time,” I put in encouragingly, pleased at the chance to contribute more to the conversation.

“During the war,” he said, breaking in.

His words had a strange effect on me. Perhaps because I was already immersed in what I’d been planning to say, since I had the opportunity, and as if speaking over his words I said:

“It’s always nicer to go with someone who’s been there before. Especially your own father.”

“My father is dead,” he said, cutting short my enthusiasm.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea. Please accept my condolences.”

“But you didn’t know my father,” he said, almost bridling. “Still, thank you.”

I felt uncomfortable. I sensed a slight pressure beneath my ribs on the right side, the pain in my duodenum was showing signs of flaring up again. That was how it usually began, initially just a faint pressure under the ribs on the right. Sometimes it went away, like a moment ago after the coffee and cake. But now it seemed more substantial, it was starting to spread around my side to my lower back. I began to worry that if it kept increasing, in a short while it would be unbearable. I’d turn pale, start sweating, and it would be hard for him not to notice.

“Are you not feeling well?” he’d ask. And what on earth could I say to him then? That it was because of the coffee and cake? The coffee was excellent, the cake was delicious, I’d said so myself. No, no, please continue, it wouldn’t have been right to say that either, because it wouldn’t have been right in general to admit I was ill. Especially at such a moment, he starts telling me about his father, and I respond that I have a duodenal ulcer? You have to admit it would be awkward to say the least. One pain should never be pitted against another. Each pain is unique to itself.

I was wondering how I could slip my hand under my jacket without him noticing, so I could put some pressure on the rising pain, because that sometimes helped. I often saved myself in company in such a way. Or in the night, for instance. The worst pain would usually come in the night. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I’d get out of bed, squat down, and kind of push the pain into myself with my hand, pressing on it with my whole being, my chin doubled over to my knees. Sometimes I spent all night like that, it was the only thing that brought relief. And that was how I lived with it. Since when? It started on one of the building sites. At first it was only in spring and fall. Once in a while I thought about going to a doctor. But in summer or in winter it would pass and I’d forget. I got skinny as a rake. Everyone kept asking me, what’s up, you look awful. Are you sick? No, I’m not sick, this is just how I look.