But he immediately scolded himself, Listen, Woubshet Mesfin! You are a poet, not a merchant! Let it be gold they’re paying with.
He reached inside his pocket for the key to the café, finding instead his blue handkerchief. Then he emptied his other pockets. He must have forgotten his keys at home. He approached the other cafés, angry at his forgetfulness. It seemed like the city’s coffee aficionados had been called here by proclamation. The noises of clanking cups and spoons, the restlessness of the patrons, and the back and forth of the waiters made the cafés seem like a lively market.
Soon he could see Arada Café. He could also see Sheger. But he couldn’t see Roha. His confusion grew. He reached the veranda, unwilling to accept what he was seeing. All the seats were taken — some patrons were drinking while standing. Every chair on the veranda was occupied.
Roha Café had been here.
But Roha Café was not here now.
He struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. He tried to convince himself that what he was seeing was not true, that he must not be awake.
The café had disappeared.
Roha Café, until eleven o’clock last night, had been situated between Arada and Sheger cafés. In a state of shock, he stood for about twenty minutes leaning on one of the posts of Beherawi Theater, absentmindedly watching the coffee drinkers on the veranda. He registered the features of each customer.
He checked the names of the cafés posted on their entryways. Sure enough, one read: Arada Café. Without removing his eyes from the wall, he carefully and slowly glanced to the door of the next one: Sheger Café.
“Ende! Is this real?” he said aloud. “Are you stupid? This can’t be possible.” He turned his face away from the cafés and toward the buildings across from him. He saw Addis Café from afar. He was correct. He hadn’t confused the neighborhood. After all, he had been coming to this place for the past fifteen years.
He tapped his forehead and said: “My eyes must be failing me.” He then started walking from Beherawi Theater in the direction of Ras Hotel. When he got to the entrance, he stopped. He rubbed his eyes and told himself repeatedly that what he was seeing — people walking past him, creatures calmly making their way up and down the road — was not in his dreams but in reality. He stretched. He slapped his forehead gently with his palm.
He slowly retraced the forty meters from Ras Hotel to Beherawi Theater. “What is wrong with me?” he asked himself. “Is something wrong with my eyes? It must be old age. But what if it isn’t my eyes?” He grew increasingly concerned. “Have I started losing my mind? Am I forgetting things?... No! I haven’t gone mad.” He glanced at his clothes. He appeared fine. Though I don’t look well dressed, I haven’t let myself go, he comforted himself. If I mention that the café disappeared, they’ll think I’ve lost my mind. He started walking slowly again. He wished the short road would extend forever. He returned to the cafés, talking to himself. As before, Roha Café was not there. “How can a single person not ask how a café that was there yesterday does not exist today?” he asked no one in particular, glancing around at the mass of unworried people drinking coffee.
He started to think of what he should do. Should he yell, They stole my café! If he did, they’d definitely take him to Amanuel Hospital, convinced that he was crazy. How was he going to deal with this, and what would he do for a living? As he was stressing over this, two accountants from Medhin walked into Sheger Café without even greeting him. They saw him, but pretended not to know him. He was a little annoyed. Glancing from Sheger Café to Arada and then back again, he hoped for a miracle.
A little while later, two young women walked into Arada Café without greeting him. “What’s so wrong with me that they refuse me God’s greetings?” he said, thinking of confronting them. But one can’t really accuse others of not saying hello. He returned his eyes back to where Roha Café had been until last night.
He stared ahead in disbelief at the cafés while leaning against Beherawi Theater. More sweat started to roll down his forehead. He took out his blue handkerchief to dry his face and returned it to his pocket, only to bring it back up to his forehead again.
The short waiter from Arada Café came toward him. She had tied her hair at the back. The blue uniform she wore fit perfectly around her hips, holding the gaze of all who passed by. Woubshet liked her smile, a beautiful bright smile that could sustain him and replace every meal. She was a good friend. He’d tried to write a poem about her smile once, but not a single verse came to his mind.
She now offered a reserved smile and said respectfully, “I’m sorry, you’ve been standing here for a while. What can I bring you?” That other smile of hers, the one he had tried to write a poem about, was not there.
“Don’t you know who I am?”
The short waitress tried to look at him humbly and shook her head.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“You still don’t know me?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps I forgot. Sorry. Our job forces us to meet quite a lot of people; we can’t remember everyone,” she said.
“But you knew me well!”
She looked at him again, shook her head, and said, “What should I bring you?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“You can’t stand here. Either order or move across the street. Customers might want the place. It’s house policy.”
“What? How dare you prevent me from standing on the veranda of my own café?” Woubshet spoke with a raised voice. This was what he’d been afraid of. “Eshi, tell me, where did Roha Café go?”
“What Roha Café?”
“My café! Roha Café! It was here last night.”
Customers sitting on the veranda started listening to Woubshet Mesfin’s raised voice. All eyes were aimed at him, like a porcupine’s thorns. He wasn’t sure why they were staring at him like that. The café he had worked at for so many years... when it disappears all of a sudden, can he not ask why?
“Aren’t you ashamed when you deny the existence of a café I walked in and out of for ten years? Let us ask the people of Addis Ababa — from Mexico Square to Ambassador, from Legehar to Piassa — where Roha Café was. There is no reason to lie!”
The short waiter left Woubshet to take another customer’s order. Woubshet mumbled to himself: “How bizarre! Just how bizarre.”
People’s eyes were still fixed on him.
“My people, why do you stare at me? Do you think I’m crazy or do you think I’m lying? He’s my witness, I am telling the truth,” Woubshet said, pointing his hands at the sky.
“What café is this, my friend?” It was a tall young man not far from Woubshet who asked the question, stirring his lemon tea with a spoon.
“My café, Roha Café. It was here until eleven o’clock last night. I can’t find it now.”
“Maybe you confused the location? I’ve been coming here for two years, and I’ve never seen a Roha Café,” the man said politely, tapping the tip of his teacup with his spoon.
“What are you saying? I’m telling you I was working here until late last night. What kind of thing is this? This has been my job for years. How many coffee addicts have I served? How can you say you’ve never seen it? How can I, the owner, not be trusted? Name a single poet who doesn’t know Woubshet Mesfin’s Roha Café. How many playwrights sat in Roha and came up with their ideas. Dawn in Gonder — where do you think that play was written? Was it not at Roha Café? Was he not sitting and drinking Roha Café’s hot coffee? Why do you deny it? There is no reason to lie.”