Café Con Leche

This city never sleeps. There’s always life. There’s always death. And those who are caught between those forces, their faces weary and their spirits crushed, are the walking dead of this city. The poor, those who’s skin color immediately makes them suspect, and those whose lives depend on the underbelly of this colossus of a city, they are the worshippers of Santa Muerte. The lady of death, her skeletal form adorned in shiny robes, her shrine adorned with flowers, alcohol, cigarettes, and candles and in her hand a scythe and a globe. Mictecacihuatl; her ancient name long forgotten in the annals of the history of the victorious. Now she watches over, a nook in a wall next to a busy street, the glass front of her shrine smudged not with dust but with the hand prints of her devotees. The dim blue light inside the shrine lighting up her skeletal face, her blessings offered through the dark, empty sockets of her eyes ensuring a holy death for all who ask.

Carlos always wondered how she would evoke such devotion, the wilted flowers changed for fresh ones each day, the alcohol and cigarettes replenished, the smudges on the glass even more pronounced each day. He disliked the fact that he felt intimidated to do something; some flailing gesture of worship to this saint, a means to hide that deep down he felt he did not belong in this city. 

His parents had come to the Mexico City as migrants. He had been born in a small clinic in the heart of the city. His beautiful, petit mother struggling to give him life, after twenty hours had pleaded to the doctor to perform a C-section, her light skin turning pale with every contraction. When he was old enough to understand, she would tell him about the color of the powder blue walls of the tiny operating theatre, the voice of the doctor speaking in panicked whispers to the nurse next to him, his father’s stocky figure as he stood next to her, his eyes filled with tears. She would also never forget to tell him about the miracle of the night he was born. The story of the appearance of the Lady of Mictlan, her white robes glowing in the corner of her eyes as her body surrendered to the anesthesia and the sensation of her belly taught like a ripe watermelon being touched ever so gently by skeletal hands. 

“La Senora Blanca protected me and you that night……” Laura would say, her large brown eyes looking directly into his. He would always notice that her voice would change when she spoke about the Lady, a tone of reverence flooding every word. Despite her husband’s protests, Laura would always find a way to keep a small plastic statue of the saint in the closet in their bedroom, hidden between the carefully folded clothes. She had been a devotee until her death. The cancer that had eaten through her lungs, had spread to her heart and as she struggled to breathe that night, it was Carlos who had nestled her body. Laura had once again told him about the White Lady, that her presence made her feel comforted and that she was ready to die. As the sun rose and the city woke to another day his mother had died in his arms; her face shrunken, her brown eyes glazed with the veneer of death and on her mouth a faint trace of a smile. 

It was five thirty in the morning and he was on his way to work. He was thankful he had worn a sweater on top of his white shirt, the cold wind blowing towards him making him cross his arms in front of his chest. It was late-August; the brief Mexico City summer already over, the rainy season would bring with it the cold, persistent rain that would pelt down every day. Then he would always long for the sunshine and the milder temperatures of San Miguel de Allende; the narrow cobblestone streets, the brightly colored houses their history written on their façades, his maternal grandmother’s cooking, and the hot chocolate laced with chile in the evenings. They were both dead now, his mother and grandmother, the memories of their love his only companions. 

As he walked by the shrine of the White Lady, he tripped as he tried to avoid stepping on a few bottles of cheap tequila placed on the sidewalk. As he found his balance, he accidently placed his hand on the glass front of the shine, his handprint joining the rest of the smudges. And at that moment, he happened to glance at the skeletal face of the saint, and he was reminded of her mother’s face as she lay dying in his arms, the warmth of her body draining away as the minutes passed. He quickly moved his hand away from the glass and rearranged the offerings on the sidewalk and continued to walk, brushing away thoughts of his mother and the Saint. Their strange amalgamation disturbing him.

As he waited to cross one of the main avenues of the city, the traffic had already picked up and there were more people walking on the streets. A man standing next to him brushed against his arm with his backpack completely unaware that he had done so, the man’s face completely focused on the faded pedestrian crossing painted on the street. The physical contact completely devoid of any relevance. Carlos looked at the group of people who had gathered around him now, each waiting for the turn to cross the street; a moment of intimacy between strangers. And as the light turned to green, as if a switch turned on they all started walking across the street, each trying to find a path through the waves of people coming from the opposite side of the street; shoulders brushing against other, hands touching hands and steps taken in unison only to detach themselves immediately as they reached the other side of the crossing. Each back to their own isolation. 

As he walked by the small park he turned to see the green iron benches empty except for a few homeless men who used them as a shelter during the night; the greenery arresting his eyes for a moment amid all the dull colors of the neighborhood. The café he worked at was only a block away, and he slowed his pace as he saw Enrique, a man who he assumed was as old as his father who sold pan dulce and cheap coffee from a makeshift food cart.

“Hola Quique!” Carlos waved his hand, revealing an unexpected smile that dimpled his cheeks.

“Brother, how are you this morning?”

“Good……freezing my balls off!” The younger man chuckled as she stood in front of the food cart.

“A concha?” Enrique said pointing to the soft bun covered in a delicate pattern of white glaze. Carlos nodded his head in agreement. 

“And a coffee with milk too.” He added as he watched the man hand him the pastry and then turn to the large coffee dispenser. Enrique would always add extra condensed milk into his coffee, and hand him the white Styrofoam cup to his hand with a wide grin. Although they did not speak much with each other there was a far deeper connection between them. The fact that like his father Enrique was born in Queretaro, a provincial town, meant that when they did speak there would be much nostalgia to share. Even though he had not seen his father in almost two years, speaking to Enrique would always make him feel guilty. He had distanced himself from his father, secretly holding him responsible for Laura’s death, the two men not having spoken since her passing. There was something about the way Enrique would speak that reminded Carlos of his father. Describing his life in his home town, the colonial buildings and the arid land surrounding it, the vineyards that seemed to thrive miraculously and his own family that he had had to leave behind to ensure that at least his youngest daughter would be able to complete school and enter university, seemed to make him happy. And maybe like Enrique, his father too had to give up something of his soul to find his footing in Mexico City. 

This was also a city of loss, Carlos reminded himself. One could easily lose oneself in the tangle of complicities that would involve integrating. And for those who could not weather their loss of self, there was chaos and confusion waiting in its wake and for those who managed to survive the ordeal there was emptiness and loneliness. He sometimes wondered if his father was indeed one of those who had become lost in the complexities of starting anew in a strange environment; the alcohol becoming for him his only means of feeling like he belonged. And maybe he, with his confidence and youth would have seemed like a blatant reminder of his father’s own failures. And maybe that’s why every time Cesar would berate or beat Carlos there had had been a look of sadness in his eyes, lost deep within his alcohol fueled anger.

As Carlos sipped the coffee thickly laced with sweet condensed milk, he was reminded of his mother. He felt comforted, like an embrace of a loving parent ensuring him that all was okay.  Café con leche would always be Laura’s choice of drink, even when it was hot during the brief summers she would always make herself a cup of coffee thickly laden with condensed milk. As he started walking he thought it was ironic that he worked as a barista, making cappuccinos and espressos until his arms would hurt from the repeated movements, all the while he would long for a cup of the café con leche that Enrique would make from his food cart. 

Now as he passed the homeopathy pharmacy, Carlos looked at his reflection on the glass window, and then shook his head as if to brush off his own vanity. The old man standing behind the counter waved at him, his teeth eerily visible in the semi-darkness of the cavernous store, the dark wooden panels on the walls only absorbing any kind of light that entered through the front windows. There were hardly any customers, and yet the owner would open his store each day. He would spend an hour in the morning cleaning, dusting each glass bottle and vial, then cleaning the glass windows with pieces of old newspaper until they were spotless. He would never fail to wave and greet anyone who passed by or happened to peek into the antiquated store. Carlos knew that his name was Juan Manuel, and that even though his two daughters had insisted that he sell the pharmacy, he had adamantly refused saying that he would continue to work until he could not walk to work by himself. Although he was almost eighty years old, Juan Manuel still possessed a spring in his step as he went about his work in the store and attended to the few loyal customers who would visit him. Carlos could only marvel at that older man’s resilience and will power.

Once he passed the closed doors of the two apartment buildings he could already see the window boxes with the marigolds that decorated the façade of the coffee shop. He glanced at his watch; the time was six-fifteen in the morning. There would only be fifteen minutes before the store opened, and he would have to rush. He could already feel that strange mixture of anticipation and ennui that he would experience at the beginning of the day. For the most part he knew exactly how his day would unravel; the shifts he would take at the espresso maker, the shifts behind the cash register and then his shift cleaning and rearranging everything for the next day.  And then his walk back to the small apartment where he grew up, overlooking the roof of a rundown chapel that no one worshipped and maybe if his friends were willing to meet, a couple of beers at the small bar in the neighborhood. And then back in his bed, staring at the ceiling above him revealing a slowly growing water stain like tree rings, the familiar smells of the home he had known all his life surrounding him and the muffled sounds of the traffic in the street below lulling him until he fell asleep, the pain in his arms dulled by the fatigue that would overcome him. His phone rarely rang; there were no friendly calls, no sweet nothings to be shared with a lover, no expectations. Carlos prided himself in this freedom; he knew every nook and cranny of it.

“Yo, brother!” Diego greeted him, the two men then sharing a quick hug, each patting the other’s shoulders. 

“How was your date last evening?” Carlos asked as he held the door of the coffee shop open. Diego had been sweeping the small strip of side walk in front of leaves and debris. 

“Great! She’s a gem!” Diego grinned, revealing a smile that was completely disarming.

“I need details! Good for you, man!” Carlos spoke, turning his body to his friend.

“It’s high time you end that solitary life of yours too….” 

Carlos tutted and walked in smiling, closing the door behind him, knowing his friend meant well. Inside there were two others behind the counter. The younger of the men, Yair had started working a week ago and was still awkward as he greeted Carlos, his skinny arm rising just enough in a weak wave as he looked up from sink where he was washing the cups where they would serve coffee. It was Miguel who stepped down from the raised dais where they made coffee to shake hands and greet Carlos. They had both begun work at the cafe at the same time, and despite their friendship there was an unacknowledged rivalry between them. While both men never talked about it, there were moments where they would argue over who would make the best coffee, the tone of friendliness masking their need to establish a hierarchy.  

Once inside the back room that served as a staff room and a storage space, Carlos took off the sweater and hung it on one of the wooden hooks on the wall and dumped his backpack on the ground next to the wall, taking only his cellphone which he put in the back pocket of his jeans. With a swift movement, he pulled out his black apron from the chair and wore it around his waist. He looked at the watch again. 

It was six thirty in the morning and the first customers would start walking in soon. 

He walked behind the counter and stood in front of the espresso machine, its shiny silver surface reflecting his face. As he set the coffee beans to be ground, his hand moving without him having to look at the panel of the grinder, Carlos sighed. He caught a glimpse of his face. It had been a familiar look; one that had in the past made him swear that he would not let himself be a victim to. It was an expression he had seen in his father’s eyes many times; the sadness of a broken spirit, its hopes and dreams long buried and forgotten. 

He was twenty-seven and he wondered how long he would spend behind the counter of a cafe, behind the shiny façade of the expresso machine before he would be completely defeated. Before he would simply become a reflection of his father, unable to face himself in the mirror, his younger self accusing him of giving up hope.

By mid-afternoon most of the customers had already had their fix of caffeine; the next wave customers would come in closer to the time when they would complete the day’s work. This was the time that the men got a moment to chat among themselves, joking and teasing each other. 

“So, tell us more about your date with Sofia?” It was Miguel who addressed Diego now. 

“She’s fantastic…. and smart.” 

“What does she do for a living?” Carlos asked.

“She’s a physiotherapist and she does well. But more than that, man……I’ve never felt like that with someone before. She might be the one.” Diego looked up from the cash register and smiled. He had always been a romantic and despite Carlos’s teasing, he had remained so. While he fell in and out of love, it was Carlos who had been there to listen to him talk about his disappointments. 

“It’s nice to have someone……and if you find the right person you are set for life. You might want to try it sometime….” Diego continued looking directly at his friend.

“There’s more things to do in life than falling in love……I don’t plan to spend the rest of my life behind a coffee machine, friend. There must be more than this? There must be more than just finding a partner and starting a family?” 

“But Carlos, yes, have ambition but there will be a time in your life you will need something more than just fulfilling your dreams……. We all need to share our lives…. man, we were designed for that. If you go on like this, you will turn into a regular curmudgeon….and then even I won’t be able to help you.” 

“Urgh……. you are talking crap now…. designed for that!  That’s a lot of bullshit if anything.” 

Diego patted his friend’s shoulder and smiled knowingly. They both turned towards the door as the small bell hung over it rang softly. It was a young woman, her shoulder’s burdened by a backpack, her hair falling on her shoulders and across her face so that as she looked for her wallet in the bag it covered most of her features. Diego cheekily grinned and gestured at Carlos who was already behind the expresso machine, most of his face covered by it. The other man ignored him. 

As she walked towards the counter, she dropped her wallet on the floor and as she reached for it she lost her balance but quickly managed to right herself. Blood rushed to her cheeks as she realized that she was being clumsy in front of a captive audience, imagining them judging her.

“Sorry……” she said finally standing up and walking to the counter. Diego grinned, amused by her clumsiness. Once at the counter she ordered a coffee with milk and paid for it with cash. 

She chose the table closest to the window, away from most of the other tables, couches and chairs in the café. It was clear she wanted to isolate herself. By the time her coffee with milk was ready, there was line of customers waiting to be served. There was hardly time to observe what she was doing. As Carlos raised his head to see the floor of the café he noticed that most of the tables and chairs were occupied by couples meeting for a cup of coffee before they headed back to their homes; a moment to share with someone you loved before battling for space and privacy in the crowded metro, the buses or the sidewalks. 

By now he could feel the pain in his wrist growing, his index finger and thumb feeling weak. As he waited for the milk in the small stainless steel jug to be steamed for the cappuccino he was making, he thought of the White Lady, the skeletal fingers holding a globe, clutching it with vigor. Maybe he should pray to her for direction. Once again he shook his head, amused by his own frivolity. That’s when he heard the ceramic cup hitting the floor, breaking into pieces spilling the by now lukewarm liquid on the floor. He looked over the top of the expresso machine and saw that some of the customers in the café were now looking towards the young woman who had been sitting in the corner. She was already crouching on the floor picking up the pieces of the broken cup. After a few minutes the couples who had watched her with curiosity turned back to their conversations; the girl picking up the pieces of the broken cup fading into the background.

By now Yair was already near her with a mop to clean the pale brown liquid on the floor. That was when Carlos noticed that he was smiling shyly, his body leaning towards the young woman who was now standing away from the table. Before he could look again, Miguel was telling him the next order of coffee and he was once again lost in between ratios of coffee and milk.

Diego patted his back and bid goodbye. It was seven in the evening, by now there were only a few customers in the café. The street outside was filled with cars stuck in the rush hour traffic, their blinking red and amber lights appearing blurry in the fine drops of rain falling by now. The temperature had dropped again and the warmth of the middle of day had now dissipated. Carlos waved at his friend and smiled. It was his day to close the café. Yair and Miguel were in the backroom cleaning and arranging the utensils needed for the next day. On the floor of the café there were still tables that needed picking up; half empty coffee cups their rims delicately lined with a pale brown line of coffee, the plates with leftover muffins, coffee cakes and croissants and crumpled paper serviettes. 

He walked onto the floor and started first to pick up the plates, piling them deftly on his hands and along his arm, then returning for the cups. Finally, he picked up the crumpled napkins and put them in a small garbage bag that he carried in one hand. As he cleaned the table closest to the young woman, she suddenly looked up from the book on her lap, her large black eyes focused on his arms as he quickly picked up the napkins and cleaned the surface of the table with a damp cloth.  When he looked at her, she was still looking at him. 

“Sorry about your coffee……” He caught himself saying, his words somehow having a life of their own.

“Huh……um…..” She managed to say as she quickly looked down onto her lap again, her gaze fixed on the sentences on the book.

“Your coffee fell to the ground, right?” He asked, stepping closer to her thinking she did not hear him the first time.

“Oh…. yea…. sorry I broke the cup.” She finally said, blushing as she spoke. That was when he noticed that her eyes in the light of the lamp above her seem to be filled with tears. And for a moment before he realized he was staring at her, he could not move his gaze from them. A sensation of being immersed and saturated; a kind of tunnel vision with her at the end of the light. And before he could realize, a line from a song he had heard growing up came to his mind. It was music his father had liked to listen and as a teenager he had dismissed it as a cheesy romantic song he wouldn’t dare listen to. 

Un minuto me basta vida para enamorate- one minute is enough my love, to fall in love. 

He shook his head once as he tried to brush off the sensation of déjà vu. 

“I’d like to pay for the cup.” She said.

“D-don’t worry about that.” Carlos said as he finally came out of his daze and managed to smile weakly. 

There was still more work to do before he could go home. The coffee and food stains on the floor, the muddy footsteps from those customers who had walking in after the rain and the relentless dust that permeates the air in the city and settles on everything, all needed cleaning before tomorrow morning. Yair was already mopping the floor on one side of the shop; his gaze falling on the young woman from time to time. 

 As Carlos walked back to the counter with the bag of crumpled napkins he had collected he wondered what time she would leave. Would she become a troublesome customer refusing to leave until they had to tell her that they were indeed closing for the evening? He shrugged his right shoulder absently as he started washing the stainless-steel jugs he used for frothing the milk, unware that his internal monologue was being played out on his body.  It would be awkward to tell her to leave, especially with those eyes, he thought to himself as he rinsed the utensils and placed them on a drying rack next to the small sink.

Before long, both Miguel and Yair were ready to leave, their faces showing signs of fatigue after a day of work. Carlos waved at them and walked into the backroom to pick up the keys to close the front door of the shop. He wrote his name and signed in the logbook and checked his watch to note the time. It was eight forty-five in the evening. There was another half an hour of walking before he would get home. He sighed audibly suddenly feeling older than his age. His wrist had hurt when he wrote his signature, his index finger almost cramping as he wrote quickly. He took off his apron and placed it on the chair and picked up his backpack from the floor where he had left it in the morning. It seemed to have lost its shape and size during the day, metamorphosing into a small scared animal crouching from its predator. As he put it on his back he realized that there was nothing much in it, the weight of the bag feeling unnaturally light. Over the years he had been careful not accrue too many possessions, resisting the temptation to buy things even when he had the money to afford them. Strangely, it was not that he was tight-fisted, but that it was a primal fear of becoming attached to objects and as he found out after his mother’s death, to people. Even when a young woman he knew showed an interest in him, he would walk away with only a twinge of regret that he knew would pass inevitably. While Diego would tease Carlos as female customers responded to his good looks, he would always brush them off as a minor annoyance in his life. There was simply no time for casual looks and dalliances.

He turned off the light in the back room and walked out through the narrow strip that allowed them to pass into the room from the counter. As he looked at the floor of the coffee shop he noticed that the young woman was still there, focused on the book that she was reading. He tutted, thinking that he would now have to ask her to leave. And as he walked towards her, Carlos accidently brushed against a chair and she looked at him, startled by the noise.

“Miss……I’m going to close up now.” He said.

“Oh…… of course. I didn’t realize the time.” She said hurriedly as she closed the book, placing the bill from the coffee she bought to mark the page. 

“It’s okay…… take your time.” He added seeing her rush. “No need to hurry.”

“Thank you.” 

“Um……… it’s raining again.” Carlos said walking through the space between the tables to the window. It would be cold outside and he was once again glad that he had already put on his sweater. 

“I didn’t even notice.” The woman said, rubbing her arm with her hand. “I didn’t even bring anything warm.” She picked up the backpack that she had kept on the chair on the other side of the table.

“Do you have to go far?” 

“Um……. not really. I’m actually waiting for my father to finish his work so we can go home together.”

“Oh……. does he work close by?” He smiled at her. She seemed more relaxed but there was still an expression of concern on her face. 

“Maybe you know him. He’s old fashioned, my father……… I’m not sure he would come here for coffee. He’s more of a coffee with milk kind of man.” She smiled. “He owns the homeopathy store……….”

“You mean, Senor Solano?” Carlos asked, a look of surprise on his face. “He once told me he has two daughters……. I just assumed they were ……”

“Older?” She said, smiling broadly.

“I didn’t mean to offend……. Of course, I know your father. I greet him every morning when I come to work.”

“He’s a hard worker, my father……. I don’t think he has taken a day off for himself in his life.” Her face had an expression of being lost in thought.

“He’s old school, isn’t he?” 

“Yes……but in a good way.”

He smiled, wondering if he had offended her with his remark.  

“But how come I’ve never seen you here before?” He asked eager to change the subject. 

“Oh……I usually don’t go home from work with my father.” She had begun sliding her arms through the straps of the backpack. 

“Why is that?” He blurted suddenly wanting to speak with her for longer. As she slid her arms through the backpack, her head lowered, her face was covered by her hair again. Carlos was overcome with an urge to tuck the shock of brown hair behind her ear, a gesture of intimacy that he would not have imagined about her before. 

“Well…….my father has been sick since a week or so……. I……my sister and I think he may have dementia. On Monday, he didn’t come home from work but instead went to an apartment that we used to live in when I was a child. Luckily the people now living in that place found my sisters phone number in his cell phone and she went to pick him up. We were so scared!” she said, her eyes wide. “But he insisted on coming to work the next day……. he can be stubborn sometimes. For him that store is his life’s work. So, today I decided to stay until he finished work so I could go home with him.”

“I didn’t know Senor Solano was ill……. If I had known.”

“That’s okay. I’m sorry that I stayed so long……and broke a cup. Are you sure I cannot pay for it?”

“Positive. And don’t worry about the time……this is usually the time we close up anyway.” He said lying. 

“Thank you. I should be going…….my father is probably closing up now.” She pushed the chair into the side of the table.

“What’s your name? I’m Carlos……” He said stretching his hand awkwardly. 

“I already know your name….” she chuckled and pointed at where his name tag had been before.

“Oh…….” He grinned.

“I’m Alexa.” She reached out and shook his hand, slowly but firmly. “That felt so formal.” She added laughing again, this time pushing her head back so her hair fell away from his face. Carlos could not help but watch her with rapt attention.

As they stepped out of the front door, a rush of cold wind mixed with needles of rain hit their faces. 

“Ayyyy!” She said as she waited for him to close the door and then pulling down the metal gate. He then locked the three points of contact between the gate and the floor with padlocks. 

“Sorry you have to wait….” He said as he crouched on the sidewalk.

“Nah…. no problem.” 

When they started walking towards the other end of the block where the homeopathy shop stood, the rain had intensified to fat drops that started to fall on their heads. Alexa instinctively wrapped her arms across her chest, the white shirt she wore proving little protection in the cold. He glanced quickly at her and wondered if he should offer his sweater but, then brushed the thought away as they got closer to the pharmacy. 

A halo of yellow light spilled out of the front windows and as they peeked inside Juan Manuel was closing the cash register. For a moment, the old man looked surprised to see his daughter walking into the store and then to see the young man from the cafe standing next to her. 

“You don’t need to take care of me, Alexa! That’s not your job.” Juan Manuel said, an expression of adoration on his face as he kissed his daughter’s forehead.

“I should get going……” Carlos said softly seeing the father and daughter talk. A sudden feeling of longing for his mother filling his thoughts. 

“No……wait. Let’s go together…….” Alexa said looking towards him, a look of entreaty crossing her face. He nodded his head in agreement and waited as Juan Manuel and his daughter closed the pharmacy for the day. 

Later, on his way home as he walked passed the shrine of Santa Muerte, he stopped in front of it. As Carlos stared into her empty eye sockets he remembered where he had heard the line from the song that he had recalled earlier. It was from a song by Juan Luis Guerra, a musician his father would listen to often when he felt nostalgic, the alcohol just enough to make him amiable.  Carlos remembered something more this time; a memory of his parents being happy together. His father grabbing his mother by the waist and dancing in the middle of the small living room, the look of love in her eyes, the smile that lit her face as she looked at him, their bodies swaying to the rhythm of the song, legs hitting the furniture and them not caring a second about it and finally, the kiss they shared as the song ended. There had been happiness between them; long before their hearts were broken by disappointment and disillusionment. They had been in love long before they had fallen out of it many times over before they finally gave up on each other. 

He remembered the smile on the young woman’s face as she said goodnight, and the sensation of something filling up his soul that had made him feel dizzy. What had that been?  He couldn’t tell. 

He sung the lines from the song under his breath and for a moment he imagined that the White Lady heard him.

 So here he was, singing to the Lady of Mictlan. So, finally this was to be his offering to her; this delicate opening of his heart and soul to someone else.