18. THEO
18
THEO
After a few days of sunbathing and driving around Chivasso, soaking up everything I had missed, I decide it’s finally time to go see Giuseppe. The neon light flickers sporadically on the cafe’s window, tiredly screaming L’ESSENZA when it has the energy. Once, this place used to be where we came to feel like adults. I shift my glance to the table underneath the faded landscape of the Ligurian coastline. This was where the boys from school sat every Thursday afternoon. We’d hide our uniform ties in our backpacks. Enduring the bitter taste of espresso burning our throats, silently masking our grimaces after each sip. I would lick my gums to get rid of the aftertaste while eyeing the sugar, then look away because no one else would make the first move. The tired doorbell jingles as I enter and I stifle a smile. The cafe is small, with torn leather booths and scratched plastic tables, and the smell of freshly pressed coffee is strong enough to make me pause at the front door.
A patch of light warms the table in the back right; the laminated corner is chipped, revealing a cheap plastic interior. I slide into the booth of the table when I hear the familiar throaty voice of the owner, Giuseppe, yelling at one of the waitresses.
‘ Questi biscotti sono grandi come me! Nessuno vuole una bocca piena di impasto. Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo ! ’ These cookies are as big as me! Nobody wants a mouth full of dough. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I dip my head, silent laughter causing my shoulders to shake. Giuseppe comes barrelling through the cafe, a yellowed apron tied around his stomach. He’s bigger than I remember. Grey stubble covers his thick neck and face, and his cheeks are bright red, shiny from being in the hot kitchen. He coughs and the sound is painful, coming out more as a wheeze. I frown; that’s stronger than I remember, too.
Hearing the bell ring, he searches the place, which is empty besides the seat I occupy, hands on his hips, and I can see the anger resurfacing as he starts to think someone is playing a prank on him.
‘ Lo sai che fai il peggior caffè di Torino? ’ You know you make the worst coffee in Torino?
His head jerks towards the sound of my voice and his big belly ripples with the sudden movement. A dirty rag appears from his back pocket and he wipes his face with it.
‘ Mio dio, Theo? Il re è tornato? ’ My god, Theo? Has the king returned?
I feel a blush creep up my neck at that word again. King. What the fuck about me is royal?
‘Alright, alright. How are you, Giuseppe?’ I go to stand up and greet him but he immediately shoves me back into the booth with surprising force.
‘Enough of this bullshit. You sit while I make you our new caffè . You’re going to love it. Imported. From fucking Egypt. And the tourists love that shit, like it’s part of the museum. Cost me half my dick but you’ve never tasted anything like it. It’s like drinking from a woman’s tit.’ He laughs and claps his hands together, his body wiggling with delight as he squeezes himself behind the counter. His back is turned, fingers grinding coffee beans while steaming milk with the other hand and the back of his shirt is covered in sweat.
‘So cut the bullshit, little man. Right now, on the spot, how are the women? I’ve been fucking stuck here in this bullshit cafe my whole life and it looks like I’m never going to fucking leave. People want coffee on fucking Christmas Eve. Jesus Christ was born and you can’t make your own cup of goddamn coffee with your family? Losers. This town is absolute trash, I’ll tell you. Jesus, fuck. But from the movies I imagine the woman, you know... blonde wig, blue spandex bathing suit, long fucking legs. Did you meet anyone who looks like her?’
‘You’re asking if I fucked Julia Roberts?’
‘Yeah, or anyone who looks like her. Giuseppe doesn’t exclude.’
‘I was pleasantly surprised with the extra-curricular activities.’ A smirk pulls the corner of my mouth, recalling the long nights at Yale’s resident campus bar. Well, I’m not going to lie.
‘Oh, you little fucker,’ Giuseppe screeches. ‘I should poison this coffee right now, this is so unfair.’ His mumbles become intelligible as he begins the sacred process of assembling the cappuccino. A priest of steamed milk and espresso beans, we witness something holy when Giuseppe makes a drink.
Head bent down in concentration, Giuseppe rotates the cup several times while pouring milk from the pitcher, cursing every few seconds.
Just when I’m about to ask if he plans on putting this cappuccino on display at the museum, Giuseppe grunts happily. With a loud exhale, he leans his elbows on the bar in exhaustion, and pushes the cappuccino towards the edge, beckoning me to come look. I step across the black and white tile of the cafe and approach the cup that sits before me. Peering down at it, my breath catches in my throat.
A crown.
Giuseppe stands with one arm on his hip waiting for me to laugh or applaud his work but I can’t do anything but stare. When I left Chivasso, I knew that I had cultivated a certain reputation. From the moment people started telling me I looked like my father, I knew parts of my life would be easy. I could get away with more. Like early-morning driving on the interstate with the sound of liquor bottles sloshing in the back. A makeshift ladder to the tree in front of my bedroom window for girls to leave through. I was reckless and angry but, regrettably, smart. Too smart. So, when I had to wake up those early mornings to travel an hour to school in Torino, writing essays on the back of the school bus minutes before they were due and then having those essays win awards, no one had the right to tell me I wasn’t living up to my potential. They were scared. Scared that I could do both so fucking well.
Somewhere between puberty and college applications, there was never a shortage of pleasure just waiting for me to dip my fingers into. Besides my father, the only person to ever call me on my bullshit was Dr Savoy. But even he couldn’t shout stop loud enough. So I pretended I didn’t hear, and eventually he stopped shouting.
‘I’m retired from that life, Giuseppe.’
I mean it to come out light-hearted but it sounds more like a plea. Please don’t call me that... I’m trying to not be that person any more.
I can feel it coming. How easy it would be to slip back into that role, to know exactly what to say to get who I want.
Giuseppe pushes the saucer closer to me, waving his hands in nonchalance. ‘Kings can’t retire. They can only die.’
‘That hardly seems fair,’ I say, looking down at the drink, feeling hollow.
‘Nothing ever is. Now try my fucking cappuccino.’
I bring the edge of the cup to my lips; the ceramic feels cool against the airless heat of the cafe. The foam is thick and warm and as I tilt the cup to reach the coffee, an image flashes of middle schoolers kneeling in pews, giggling over stupid jokes inside the echoing silence of the cathedral. This feels like a sacrament. A tiny cafe with flickering lights, coffee poured like it’s the blood of Christ. The liquid hits my tongue and the heat startles me. I continue drinking, the espresso initially bitter, but like a smooth dark chocolate. And, when I swallow, I’m left with an aftertaste of pure sweetness. I’ve never tasted anything like it.
‘Giuseppe, what the fuck?’ I have to actively hold in a moan.
‘I know.’ He bows, bouncing from foot to foot.
‘How the fuck did you make it taste it like that?’
‘My dick, I told you. Very flavourful.’
‘Wow.’ I pause to finish the rest in a single sip, slamming the cup back into the saucer. ‘Give me more.’
Giuseppe shrugs, obviously aware of his genius. ‘Coming up, your highness.’
‘By the way,’ I ask. ‘Does Chiara still work here?’
Giuseppe claps his hands. ‘She’s in the back. Let me go get her.’
I roll my eyes and ease into one of the bar stools. My descent has begun. The script brands itself into the back of my skull, forcing me to slip into the role I had quit. I stare down at the empty cup, a few foam bubbles popping at the edge of the bowl. It hits me that I no longer pretend to like the taste.