Cafe 23

Ezio cleaned the machine's strainer to prepare a new order of cappuccinos. The incense from the first morning coffees began to filter into the street painted white by incessant snow. The young employee, Ariadna, came and went from the back room with trays full of delicacies with pastry cream, puff pastry sweets and cookies. Ezio called her the Ant, not because of her passion for work, but because of her ability to lift objects heavier than her own.

Café 23 was kept busy during the mornings, receiving stressed students, businessmen on their way to their offices and the occasional tourist attracted by its rustic personality. They also had their group of recurring faces that over the years had become part of the decoration. One of those decorative faces belonged to Mariano, a good-looking young student who sat at the same table next to the bar every Saturday. He had breakfast, lunch and dinner in the café, with his hands dirty with charcoal and his drawing notebook. His muse, the reason for all his portraits, was the Ant. I knew every one of her angles, every mole, the shadow of her upturned nose under the warm lights of the cafe, her messy and uncontrollable curls in humid times, the line of her neck, the white flour trapped between her pastry fingers, her smile. tilted and that childish walk. Ezio, from the bar, watched him with displeasure, dismayed by the obsessive nature of artists towards their muses. He perceived the virtuous as unstable beings, submissive to the selfishness of their work and dominated by the frustration of recognition slipping through their fingers. Ariadne, on the contrary, enjoyed that presence of clear eyes, revealing an inexhaustible passion that stirred her blood and placed her on a pedestal that she never imagined was intended for her. She touched up her blush on Saturday mornings and tried to wear a different item of clothing each time, lest anyone think she lacked enough clothes because she was poor. He imagined her face in the galleries, following the curious with her Mona Lisa gaze, being studied by European teachers and art critics.

At the end of the day, on the table Mariano had occupied, a small gift box crowned with a pink bow would appear without fail.

"Another one," Ezio grumbled. The Ant contained his euphoria. Inside the box she was surprised by pearl necklaces, rings embedded with diamonds or colourful hair clips. She made sure to show off her new gift every Saturday, ready to be drawn by that lover who didn't dare speak to her. "Since when has a student been able to pay for things like that?" Ezio growled, wanting to decipher the intentions that that strange boy could have.

“People will do anything to win someone's heart,” said Ariadna, smiling, excited.

On one of those stormy snow Saturdays, only a few of the appellants had been brave enough to brave the freezing blizzard. One of them, of course, was Mariano, who had already started with his illustrations. Seeing herself free from work, and eaten away by the anxiety of contained love, Ariadna approached her table, wearing the last of her weekly offerings: a colourful peacock pin. Ezio watched attentively.

"Why do you paint me so much?" Ariadna finally asked, trembling with emotion.

“The artist's need”, Mariano said, without taking his eyes off his notebook, blushing with surprise. Ariadne smiled.

"I really liked the gifts. I have made sure to always wear them on Saturdays."

“That was the idea”, Mariano confessed, still fearful.

“This peacock pin has been my favourite”, she added, touching her ornament with her fingertips.

At that moment, a tremulous and deep voice that confessed years of vices and the weakness of an old throat, slipped into the conversation:

"I'm so glad you liked it", said the voice.

Ariadna felt a chill run down her neck. When he turned around, he came face to face with Virgilio, another of those recurring faces. He was an old man wearing a worn black suit, with few yellowish teeth, whose penetrating and thirsty gaze moved from the girl's breasts to the pin. She, disoriented, took a step back. Mariano stood up, head down, packing his instruments. Before leaving, he tore out of his notebook the page with that day's drawing of Ariadne, and then handed it to Virgilio, who immediately presented him with a crumpled envelope. Mariano opened it, counted the contents in silence, thanked him for the coffee and disappeared under the gray and dense snow storm.