She placed her hand beside the cof fee cup. “If you choose the cup of coffee you are choosing to drink something that is strong and bitter. You present yourself as a busy, working man. Your mind is enlightened and you have impor tant things to do. Maybe you’re French or American.” The woman cleared her throat. “The coffee tells me that you don’t have time. Maybe you’re afraid of using it all up. You use it to keep yourself awake. You use it so much that you aren’t even really a person anymore. You’re just a husk— a zombie droning on along the same set path that you always will follow and always have. The coffee is black and the man who drinks cof fee has a soul of the same color.” I stared across the table at the duchess with uncertain awe. She seemed unphased by the choice and simply amused by the prospect that I had to do it instead of her and that she got to watch. I sat back in my seat and rubbed my chin. “The tea or the cof fee?” She asked. I looked outside the café window again. The glass was smudged—possibly by a passerby looking in. Or maybe while the café had been passing through France we had hit a couple bugs or a person. I think we were in Spain. The café was sitting outside of clay steps in a beautiful
humidity. A bull ran past the doors. “Where are we?” I asked the woman. She looked over her shoulder. Another bull passed by. “I think it’s Spain now,” she said. I looked down at the two beverages. One was in a white teacup and the other was in a black cof fee mug. Bending my back, I looked down into the cups. Bubbles occasionally swam around the edges of the coffee cup. The teacup was calm. We were in Spain. “You’re stalling, Francis,” she said. “That’s awfully impolite, you know. I haven’t even gotten the chance to order my own drink.” “What are you having?” I asked. “I think I’ll just have a glass of water.” “Me too,” I said. She shook her head slowly, “That would be very rude. I offered you two drinks. Tea. Coffee. Please stop this pettiness and choose one. It’s a simple choice. How will it affect you? All that your drink does is tell me exactly the type of person you are. Nothing more.” “So,” I said, “to summarize. The tea will make me an insecure imperialist and the coffee will make me a hollow and scared husk of a man?” She nodded in agreement. “I don’t see much of a difference between the two,” I told her. “I think I’ll have the tea.” I
IVORY TOWER / MIKE CORRAO
67
fiction / WOVEN VOICES
exactly where we were. Outside an elderly couple walked past the café and the gentlemen who escor ted his wife tipped his hat to the duchess and me. The duchess did not notice, but out of politeness I returned the gesture with my own nonexistent hat. The waiter returned. In the middle of the table he placed one cup of tea and one cup of coffee. “The cof fee is still ver y hot—ver y fresh. But the tea should be cool enough to drink.” He smiled. “The tea is black?” She asked. “It’s Darjeeling, madame.” He bowed and left the table again. The woman across from me—whom I had no recollection of outside of this café—wafted the tea and smiled. Then she did the same to the coffee. Both seemed to bring her pleasure. “If you choose the tea,” she said, “you are choosing to drink a delicate and quiet beverage. You present yourself as more elegant and possibly more eloquent. The waiter told us that the tea was Darjeeling. That’s Indian. More foreign than you,” she smiled. “If you choose the tea it tells me you’re English. You’re an imperialist. A man who drinks Darjeeling is a man that doesn’t mind conquering India simply so he can feel better about himself.”