The young man listened silently to Woubshet and then, without responding, put a bill in the cup holder and rushed out. The lively chatter from the two cafés had now disappeared and was replaced with silence and whispered words. Some started laughing.
The headwaiter of Arada Café approached Woubshet in his white attire. He was tall and dark-skinned and had a scar on his forehead. He held his hands politely behind his back as he drew closer.
Woubshet relaxed when he saw Moges. “Moges, ajerew. Ere, get me out of this puzzle; where can a café go?” he said, lowering his voice.
Moges was surprised that a man he had never seen called him “ajerew,” a term of endearment among friends, and said, “How can we help you, sir? You are disturbing the customers.”
“Moges!” exclaimed Woubshet. He clapped his hands. “Moges! You too! Moges...”
“Do you know me?”
“Woubshet Mesfin of Harar! He asks if I know him!”
Moges tried futilely to remember where he might have known Woubshet.
“You’re acting like you don’t know me!”
“I’ve never seen you before today.”
“Stop joking and tell me where my café went.”
“Which café?”
“Roha Café.”
“What Roha Café? I know all the cafés from Mexico Square to Piassa, and there is not a single one called Roha.”
“Why such lies? Won’t God Himself judge you for denying that Roha was between Arada and Sheger for many years?”
“If the café was in fact here, where could it have gone? It isn’t like the wind, you know.”
“Aren’t you Moges?”
“You are correct.”
“Two months and twenty days ago, did I not bring a doll for your newborn baby girl?”
“Yes, I do have a daughter now, but where do you know me from that you would come to my house with a doll as a present for my newborn?”
Woubshet was furious. “Where do I know you from? How many times did you beg me for money because payday wouldn’t come soon enough? How many times did I give you all I had?”
“Sir, where did you say the café was?”
Woubshet looked up at the two cafés. The coffee-drinking customers were listening to their conversation intently. “Here, of course.”
As Moges tried to contain his laughter, the owner of Sheger Café noticed the commotion and approached the two. “Getaw, you are disturbing the area.”
“Where should I go other than my own café?” Woubshet yelled.
Million took off his glasses and scrutinized Woubshet.
“Ato Million, don’t tell me even you don’t know me,” Woubshet said.
“Obviously not!”
“How could you forget me, the man who managed Roha Café for many years?”
“Which café?”
“He asks me which café! You’ve been running this pretentious place for years. I know that you sold khat! Why do you pretend to not know me?”
There was confusion on the faces of his interrogators. Though they’d never seen Woubshet before, he obviously had some information about them. Million had been involved in selling khat years ago, but not anymore. Now, he just owned a house in Haya Hulet Mazoria, where artists chewed khat. “Where did you say Roha Café was?”
“How many times do I have to I tell you? It was here between the two cafés.”
“When?”
“Until last night at eleven o’clock.”
“And where has it gone?”
“How should I know?”
“Well, it couldn’t have gotten up and disappeared,” Moges said.
Woubshet was speechless.
“If it were here, where else could it be? The café couldn’t have flown away,” Million said, turning back to his own café. They all left Woubshet where he was standing and returned to their jobs.
How all of them could forget him in a day, and how Roha Café disappeared, Woubshet simply couldn’t understand. Am I dreaming? he thought to himself. Impossible, he wasn’t dreaming. His café was gone. When he looked up, people’s eyes were still focused on him. Some were clearly pitying him.
“What are you staring at? Why are you all acting like you don’t know me?” he said loudly. No one responded. “You, you!” He pointed at a short, big-bellied man who was complaining that his macchiato had too much milk. “Don’t you know me? Weren’t you a regular at Roha Café?”
“Who, me?” the man asked.
“Yes, you forgot?”
“Don’t start any trouble, my friend. What Roha are you talking about? Did they release you too early from the mental hospital?”
“Who are you calling crazy?” Woubshet raised his voice. “Aren’t I right that you take Largactil?”
The man was shocked. “I think you must be a spy, carrying our secrets around with you. Now, stop troubling me.” He grew quiet, probably wondering how a stranger could know of his mental health condition. He silently went on stirring his macchiato.
Moges heard the latest commotion on the veranda and came back outside. He saw Woubshet quarreling with a customer. “You’re disturbing our business. I’ll call the police. Don’t assume that the station is far—”
“Let a thousand policemen come. I asked about my café! I don’t want anyone’s fortune. I just want my café that I — Woubshet Mesfin of Harar, a poet afraid of none — built with sweat and tears.”
“Don’t make me call the police.”
“Call a thousand policemen. Who fears death? You say police... no-good policemen, who fears them?”
While some customers kept watching Woubshet, others grew tired of the scene and started paying their bills and leaving. As they did, new patrons assumed their places.
Woubshet quickly made his way past Moges and into Arada Café’s restroom. People inside hadn’t noticed what was going on outside, so they ignored Woubshet’s hurried entrance. Their attention was drawn to him only when Moges followed him, yelling, “Get out!”
“Let me urinate in peace.” Woubshet locked the toilet from the inside. He could hear Moges and the others whispering beyond the door.
Woubshet closed his eyes as he stood over the sink. He feared looking at himself in the mirror, but approached it nonetheless. Who would he go to for help if he saw someone else in the mirror? He turned the tap with his eyes still closed. He felt the running water on his hands.
He cleansed his sweaty face with his wet hands.
He slowly opened his eyes.
It was him.
Was it really the actual Woubshet Mesfin that all of this was happening to? Or was his soul resting in the body of someone he didn’t know? Or had he not even woken from his sleep? He remembered the story of the Ethiopian Abimelech, friend of the prophet Ermias, who slept for sixty-six years after praying to avoid watching the destruction of Jerusalem, and he thought that perhaps he too had fallen asleep, though not for as many years. Fearing that he might have aged, he looked again at the mirror. He was the same Woubshet Mesfin. He squeezed his face between his hands.
It was the Woubshet Mesfin of yesterday. His head was covered with gray hair. The skin on his forehead had formed lines. His eyes rested on his left brow, which had more gray hair than the right one. He felt his eyebrows with his fingers. Today wasn’t the day to worry about his eyebrows. The café he’d run for the past fifteen years had disappeared. Even worse, he’d watched as people who knew him walked by pretending not to know him, unwilling to acknowledge him.
He heard Moges from outside: “You, man. Get out! I’ll call the police. You’ll regret it later when you’re taken to prison!”
“Roha Café, where did Roha Café go?” he asked the man in the mirror.