Chapter 37: The 3 Newcomers
The café awaited. Joost arrived just before the breakfast hour, his energy a welcome disruption.He immediately noticed the cyclamen’s new position. “Promoted to front-of-house, I see.Wise. Improves morale.” He busied himself with restocking napkins, his long limbs folding and reaching with a clumsy grace.
It was just after the lull, when the rush time crowd had dissipated leaving behind crumbs and empty cups, that the door chimed with an unfamiliar frequency.The sound was followed by a soft, deliberate click.
A girl stood in the doorway, backlit by the afternoon sun. She was a silhouette of vibrant color: teal hair parted into two long, spiraling twintails that fell over her shoulders, a jacket adorned with anime character patches, and a skirt that seemed a collision of several different patterns. In her hands, she held a smartphone mounted on a small stabilizer grip. A tiny, furry external microphone was clipped to her jacket.“Oh… wow,” a voice said, high-pitched and soft. It came from the girl, but her eyes were fixed on her phone screen, not the room. “It’s so… authentic.So echt. You can just feel the vibe.”
Joost froze, a stack of saucers in his hands. Yvonne, who was refilling the grinder, looked up, her professional smile automatic but her mind snagging on the phone, the focused posture.This wasn’t a tourist.
The girl stepped further in, the camera panning slowly across the room—the brick wall, the plants, the worn floorboards, the award certificate. “We heard about this super cozy, award-winning café in Neukölln,” she narrated, her voice slipping into a performative, confidential whisper.“A hidden gem. Let’s see if it lives up to the hype, yeah?”
“Can I help you?” Yvonne asked, her voice cutting through the gentle narration.She wiped her hands on her apron.
The girl—Kazi, as the on-screen username presumably read—jumped slightly, as if remembering there were other real people present. She turned, and the camera turned with her, framing Yvonne behind the counter. Up close, her face was sharp-featured and clever beneath the layers of bright makeup and the wide, innocent expression she wore like a mask.“Hi!Yes!I’m Kazi. I do lifestyle streams.I read about your place online.The ‘Women-led Sustainable Businesses’ award? So inspiring!” Her words were bright, packaged. Her eyes, however, darted past Yvonne, assessing the bakery case, the machinery.
“That’s nice,” Yvonne said, her tone flat. “Would you like to order something?”
“Oh, absolutely!” Kazi chirped.She angled the phone towards the pastries.“What do you recommend, everyone? The streusel looks unglaublich.” She was speaking to her audience, not to Yvonne.Joost, ever curious, sidled over. “The Apfelstreusel is the best.She makes the filling herself. No pre-packaged goo.”
“Amazing!” Kazi exclaimed, swinging the camera to capture Joost’s tall, surprised figure. “And who are you?”
“Joost.I work here. This is Café Klee.” He puffed his chest out slightly, playing along.“Joost! Fantastic.” Kazi turned back to Yvonne.“I’ll take a slice of that, and a latte. To stay, please.”
Yvonne nodded, turning to the machine.She was acutely aware of the lens. She felt her movements become self-conscious; the graceful tamp of the coffee grounds felt staged, the pour of milk too loud. Kazi continued to narrate, her voice a soft, constant murmur describing the “authentic sound of the steamer” and the “lovely, natural light.” She took a seat at a central table, propping her phone up so it captured both her and a slice of the room.Yvonne brought the order over, setting it down carefully. Kazi thanked her, the wide-eyed persona fixed in place. She took a deliberate sip of the latte, her eyes fluttering closed for the camera.“Mmm.Smooth.Nutty undertones. You can taste the care.” She then cut a small piece of streusel, making sure the fork was in frame.The performance was meticulous, a delicate construction of cozy aesthetics.It grated. It felt like a violation of the café’s quiet pulse. The café’s warmth wasn’t a set decoration; it was the product of years of grind, of panic, of small repairs and remembered preferences. This girl was framing it as a backdrop for her own story.
Kazi took another bite, then looked directly into the camera, her expression shifting to one of intimate confession. “You know, sometimes you just need a place that feels real.Not like those sterile, over-designed spots.This feels lived-in. It feels like community.”
That was the word that broke Yvonne’s restraint. Community was Frau Engelmann’s gentle hand on hers, was Joost’s loyal bumbling, was the terror and relief of showing Victoria the ledger.It wasn’t a selling point.
“Excuse me,” Yvonne said, walking over to the table. Her voice was low, but it carried in the now-empty café. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t film in here.”
Kazi’s head snapped up, the confessional look vanishing. Behind the phone, her eyes narrowed slightly, calculating.“Oh!I’m sorry.I always ask. It’s just… the atmosphere is so perfect.It’s a positive feature! It brings awareness.”
“I appreciate that,” Yvonne said, not moving. “But the awareness I need is from the people who come in, sit down, and put their phones away. This is a place for that.”
A flicker of something impatient crossed Kazi’s face, quickly smoothed over. “Of course. Respect for the… local vibe.” She sighed, a performative sound of slight disappointment for her audience.“Alright, chat, you heard the lady. Let’s give the café its privacy.” With a tap on the screen, the streaming stopped. She lowered the phone and placed it face-down on the table.The change was instantaneous.The high-pitched, soft energy dissolved. Kazi’s shoulders dropped half an inch. She took another bite of the streusel, chewing thoughtfully, her gaze now direct and assessing as it swept over Yvonne. “It really is good,” she said, her natural voice lower, flatter, devoid of its performative sugar. “The award wasn’t just for the plants outside, then.”
Yvonne crossed her arms, leaning a hip against a nearby chair.“No. It wasn’t.”
Kazi shrugged, a sharp, economical movement.“Look, I get it. You think I’m just packaging your authenticity for clicks.” She took a swig of the latte.“Maybe I am. But I also know a genuinely good thing when I step into it.The streaming thing… it’s a job. The persona is the product. This,” she gestured around with her fork, “isn’t a persona.It’s just what it is. That’s rare.”
Joost, who had been eavesdropping while pretending to polish the same spot on the counter, drifted closer. “So the shy anime girl thing is an act?”
Kazi shot him a look that was both weary and amused. “Obviously.The market for sarcastic, observant realism is depressingly niche. Cute and cozy sells.” She looked back at Yvonne.“I won’t stream in here again. Scout’s honor.But I might come back.As a customer. The coffee’s better than at my usual place.”
Yvonne studied her. The sharp eyes, the direct tone, the lack of pretension now that the camera was off. It was a different kind of performance, perhaps, but it felt more real. “You’re welcome back as a customer,” she said finally, her voice softening a fraction.“Good.” Kazi finished the last of her streusel.
Kazi stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.She picked up her phone but didn’t turn it on. “Thanks for the food.” She paid in exact change at the counter, gave a casual, two-fingered salute to Joost, and left. The bell chimed, and the café settled back into its own silence.Joost exhaled loudly.“Whoa. That was intense.”
Yvonne said nothing.She walked over to clear the empty plate and cup. The latte cup was half-full, now cold.The streusel plate held only crumbs.It was just a normal transaction, after all. But the ghost of the performance lingered.
She washed the dishes, the hot water scalding her hands. The girl’s sharp, off-camera eyes had seen too much, had named the unnamable weight in the room. It felt exposing, and yet, strangely, not entirely unwelcome. Someone else, from a world of manufactured coziness, had looked at her real, messy, debt-ridden café and had called it rare.Had called it good.
Yvonne looked at the award on the wall again.It was just a piece of paper. But maybe, just maybe, it was also a signpost for others to find their way here.For all kinds of people. Even teal-haired ones with two different voices. She finished wiping the table, erasing the last trace of the encounter, leaving the wood clean and ready for the next story to unfold.
She finished wiping the table, erasing the last trace of the encounter, leaving the wood clean and ready for the next story to unfold.
The lunchtime sun was high now, a solid bar of heat across the floorboards. The café hummed with a different energy: the clatter of cutlery on plates, the richer smells of open-faced sandwiches and daily soups, the low chatter of neighbors sharing a meal. Yvonne moved between tables, refilling water glasses, her mind still parsing Kazi’s sharp insight.The debt will pass. It felt less like a prediction and more like a dare.
Then the door opened, and the light from the square framed a new silhouette.
The woman stood with an almost investigative stillness, her eyes scanning the room with a methodical precision. She looked to be in her mid-forties, dressed in loose, undyed linen trousers and a simple hemp-blend tunic the color of moss after rain. Her hair, a careful cascade of subtle silver streaks through light brown, was held back by a hand-carved wooden clip. She wore no makeup, but her skin had the polished gleam of meticulous care. Everything about her proclaimed a raw, ethical purity, so studied it felt like a uniform.
She approached the counter where Yvonne stood. “Yvonne Weber?” Her voice was calm, resonant, and left no space for pleasantries.
“Yes.”
“I am Katarina Blumschein.” She did not offer a hand.“A follower of mine mentioned your establishment. This award.” Her gaze lifted briefly to the framed certificate, then dropped back to Yvonne, sharp as a clinical probe. “I wanted to see it for myself.”
“Well, you’ve found it,” Yvonne said, keeping her tone neutral. “Can I get you something?”
“Perhaps.” Katarina’s eyes were now inventorying the bakery case, the bags of coffee, the ceramic containers of tea. “First, I have questions. Your ‘sustainable’ and ‘women-led’ practices intrigue me.But labels can be hollow. What fills yours?”
Joost, sensing a new form of drama, drifted over, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Our labels are pretty full, I’d say.”
Katarina’s focus shifted to him without a hint of a smile. “Your milk.Is it regional?From grass-fed herds? Are the cows treated ethically, with meaningful pasture access?”
“It’s from the dairy cooperative in Brandenburg,” Yvonne answered, crossing her arms. She felt her defensiveness rising, a prickling along her skin.“I know the farmer. His cows have names and fields. I visit.”
“Do you have documentation?” Katarina’s head tilted slightly.“Proof of his organic certifications?”
“I have his word. And my eyes.”
“Subjective,” Katarina noted, making a mental mark in some invisible ledger. “Your pastries.The flour.Is it stone-ground? The sugar—fair trade, or preferably, unrefined cane?”
Joost leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “The flour is from the mill near Potsdam.The sugar is the kind that comes in big brown blocks. She has to smash it with a hammer. It’s very theatrical.”
“Theatricality is not a metric for sustainability.” Katarina’s gaze returned to Yvonne.“Your coffee. Direct trade? Or is it merely ‘fair trade’ with its problematic, top-down profit structures?”
Yvonne took a slow breath, the scent of lemon and browning butter from the kitchen anchoring her.“The roaster is a friend.She visits the co-ops in Guatemala herself. She tells me stories.I tell my customers. The money goes where it should.”
“Stories are not receipts.” Katarina paused, her intense scrutiny finally landing on Yvonne’s face. “You seem irritated.”
“I seem busy,” Yvonne corrected, though her voice was tight. “This is a café, not an audit.”
“Every conscious choice is an audit,” Katarina replied, unblinking.“Now, the plants.I saw your window boxes. Are you using collected rainwater? Or are you taxing the municipal supply?”
“I collect it in barrels out back,” Yvonne said, her patience thinning to a fine wire.“I also talk to them. The plants. I doubt that’s in any certification booklet.”
For the first time, a flicker of something other than analysis passed through Katarina’s eyes. It was faint, like a distant light in a deep forest. “Dialogue with non-human life is a valid practice.” She stated it as fact.“Your cleaning products.Vinegar?Citrus? Or commercial chemicals?”
“Vinegar.Citrus.Sometimes a bit of Dr. Bronner’s.” Yvonne uncrossed her arms, planting her palms on the counter. Her strong, capable hands, freckled and stained with coffee grounds, looked suddenly very real against the polished wood.“Look. I’m just trying to run a place that doesn’t make the world worse. Sometimes I succeed.Sometimes I buy a plastic bin bag because I’m tired.It’s not perfect. It’s just… what I can do.”
The wire of tension between them vibrated in the lunchtime chatter. Katarina studied Yvonne’s hands, then her eyes, then the stubborn set of her jaw beneath the frames of her red glasses.
“Imperfection acknowledged is more truthful than perfection claimed,” Katarina said, her voice dropping its prosecutorial edge by a single degree. “The lemon meringue pie.What is in it?”
“Lemons.Eggs.Sugar. Butter.”
“The lemons?”
“From a market gardener at the Maybachufer market. Her brother has trees in Sicily. She brings them back.”
“Transport miles,” Katarina murmured, but it sounded less like an accusation now, more like a genuine calculation. “Yet, supporting a small-scale female grower… that has value. May I try a slice?”
Yvonne nodded, turning to the case. She cut a generous wedge, the meringue peaks golden and soft, the lemon curd a vibrant, sunlit yellow. She placed it on a plate with a simple cloth napkin.Katarina took the plate to a small table and sat. She did not take out a phone. Instead, she examined the pie with the same intensity she’d applied to her questioning. She used her fork to break through the toasted meringue, through the curd, into the shortbread crust.She brought the bite to her mouth.A change happened. It was minute, but Yvonne, watching from behind the counter, saw it. Katarina’s shoulders, which had been held like drawn bows, softened. Her eyes, which had been lasers of assessment, closed for a full three seconds. When she opened them, she looked not at the room, but down at the plate, as if seeing something new there.
“This,” Katarina said, and her voice had lost all its resonant challenge, becoming almost quiet.“This is exceptional. The balance is precise. The citrus is profound, not merely sharp.” She took another bite, slower.“You understand the essence of the ingredient. You are not masking it with ideology.”
Joost peered over. “So it passes the test?”
“It transcends testing.” Katarina looked up, seeking Yvonne.“This… this is the point. The care is in the result, not just the sourcing. You have to love the thing you are making, or the ethics are just packaging.”
Yvonne felt the unexpected sting of being understood, from this most unlikely source. “Yeah,” she said, her throat suddenly thick. “Yeah, I do.”
Katarina finished the pie in thoughtful silence. When she was done, she brought the clean plate back to the counter.“You should charge more for this. Its value is not reflected in the price.”
“I charge what my neighbors can pay,” Yvonne said.
Katarina absorbed this, then gave a single, slow nod. It was a conceding nod, a finding of common ground on a narrow, truthful ledge.“A circular economy of care. That is valid.” She paid, leaving exact change stacked neatly beside the register.“I will recommend this.Not just the pie. The… integrity of the effort.”
She left as deliberately as she had arrived, a figure of linen and conviction merging back into the bright chaos of the square.The door sighed shut behind her.
Joost let out a long, low whistle.“Okay. That was like being interrogated by a very calm, very serious tree.”
Yvonne picked up the empty plate.It was still warm from the pie. She smiled a small, weary, genuine smile. The award had brought the streamer with two voices, and now the influencer with no camera but a thousand questions. It was pulling the world in, refracting her little café through all kinds of prisms. Victoria was holding her at night.Frau Engelmann believed in anchors. And now a woman dressed like a principled forest had tasted her pie and found it worthy.
She carried the plate to the sink, the afternoon stretching ahead, full of unknown customers and their own quiet stories. The momentum was with her now, a slow, gathering current. She turned on the hot water, ready for whatever came next.
She turned on the hot water, ready for whatever came next.
The afternoon dissolved into the soft, blue-grey haze of early evening. The café emptied, then filled again with a quieter crowd seeking post-work coffees and the last slices of cake. The steam from the espresso machine became lazy curls in the low light. Joost recounted the Blumschein interrogation to a pair of regulars, embellishing the pie judgement into a mythical trial. Yvonne listened, smiling faintly as she wiped down the grinder, the memory already softening into just another story her walls would hold.
The door opened, a cooler draft slipping in with the scent of pavement and distant traffic.
A woman stood there, catching her breath. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, with a wild mane of black hair escaping a rough bun. Her clothes were a uniform of well-worn rebellion: faded black jeans with frayed hems, a threadbare band t-shirt for a group Yvonne didn’t recognize, and a bulky military surplus jacket slung over one arm. A woven patch on the jacket depicted a fist clutching a wilted flower. She had smudges of what looked like chalk or dust on her cheek and forearms.
She scanned the room, her dark eyes sharp and tired, and landed on the award sticker on the door with a skeptical raise of her brow. Then she strode to the counter, movements loose and economical. “You the award-winning sustainable business?” Her voice was raspy, as if she’d been shouting.
“That’s what the certificate says,” Yvonne replied, nodding toward the frame.
A quick, genuine grin flashed across the woman’s face. “Cool. I’ll support that. Need the strongest coffee you’ve got.Black. My brain’s soup.” She dropped her jacket on a stool and ran a hand through her chaotic hair. “Just came from the district hall. Three hours of shouting at bureaucrats about a concrete monstrosity they want to drop on the Tempelhofer Feld edges. It’s fucking exhausting.”
Joost drifted closer, intrigued by the new energy. “The mall thing? I saw posters.”
“The mall thing,” the woman confirmed, pulling out a crumpled pack of tobacco. She caught Yvonne’s glance at it. “I won’t. Promise. Just a nervous habit.” She put it away. “Yeah. They wear you down with procedure and polite nods until you want to scream. So I did. Then I needed coffee and saw your write-up in the free paper. Tanaka. Toni.”
Yvonne set about pulling a ruthless double espresso, the grounds packed tight. “Sounds like a long day.”
“Every day’s a long day when you’re trying to stop the world from being paved over,” Toni said, but her tone was more wry than bitter. She watched Yvonne work. “You get it, maybe. The award says ‘sustainable.’ That’s a political word. It’s not just about bamboo straws.”
The espresso machine hissed a dark stream into the small cup. “It’s about lasting,” Yvonne said, placing the fierce little drink before her. “Things that last need care. Not just transactions.”
Toni took the cup, inhaling the bitter aroma with a grateful sigh. “There you go. That’s the talk. Care over transactions. That’s the radical part.” She took a scalding sip and didn’t flinch. “This is good. This is a weapon.”
Joost leaned his elbows on the counter. “So do you, like, live in a tree?”
Toni barked a laugh. “I wish. Rent’s cheaper. No, I run a community repair collective out of a garage in Wedding. We fix bikes, appliances, try to teach people their stuff isn’t just disposable. Fight the planned obsolescence empire from the ground up.” She took another drink, her energy palpably settling. “This place is nice. It feels… maintained. Not just decorated.”
“She fixes the espresso machine herself,” Joost offered proudly.
“Smart.” Toni’s eyes appraised Yvonne with new interest. “Practical resistance. I respect it.”
They talked for twenty minutes. Toni spoke about the protest, the infuriating calm of the city planner, the solidarity of the small group who’d shown up. Joost asked earnest questions about the repair collective. Yvonne listened, polishing cups, interjecting only to ask about the specific tools needed for bike repairs or where she sourced spare parts. It was a conversation grounded in the tangible, in grease and roots and stubbornness, and it felt like a deep, clean breath after the performative intensities of the earlier customers.
The bell chimed, softly.
Victoria entered, the structured black wool of her blazer absorbing the café’s warm light. She looked elegantly drained, a faint line of tension between her brows. Her eyes found Yvonne instantly, and the line softened. She walked straight to the counter, bypassing empty tables, and without hesitation, leaned in to press a firm, lingering kiss to Yvonne’s lips. It was a quiet claiming, a re-establishment of their private world in the public space.
“Hi,” Victoria murmured, her voice a private rumble close to Yvonne’s ear. “Missed you.”
Toni watched, her expression shifting from surprise to amused comprehension. She took a slow final sip of her coffee, a smile playing on her lips.
“Well, well,” Toni said, her tone teasing but not unkind. She gestured with her empty cup between Yvonne and Victoria. “So that’s the shape of things. Supporting woman-led business is one thing. But I see you’re also personally romancing the face of capitalism over here. Bold move.”
Victoria pulled back, keeping an arm around Yvonne’s waist, and turned to face Toni. She assessed the dust, the patches, the challenging smile. A flicker of her own professional mask fell into place, then dissolved into something more genuine, tired. “The face of capitalism is currently obsessed with spreadsheet archaeology and needs a very large glass of wine,” Victoria said dryly. “But I’ll take the romance.”
Toni chuckled, a real, warm sound. “Fair enough. The enemy is the system, not the individuals trapped in it. Even the sharp-looking ones.” She stood, slinging her jacket over her shoulder. “Thanks for the fuel, Yvonne. And the talk. I’ll be back. Need to know where the good, stubborn people are.”
She left a few coins on the counter, nodded to Joost, and was gone, melting into the deepening twilight of the square.
The café was suddenly, profoundly quiet. Joost busied himself in the back, giving them the muffled illusion of privacy.
Victoria rested her forehead against Yvonne’s temple. “Who was that?”
Yvonne let out a long, slow breath she felt she’d been holding since the teal-haired girl walked in. She turned in Victoria’s arms, the soft wool of the blazer under her palms, the familiar scent of her skin cutting through the coffee and lemon. “That,” she said, her words a soft tumble, “was the third act. First there was a streamer who turned into a real person. Then a sustainable lifestyle influencer who basically audited the soul of my lemon pie. And now a revolutionary who liked my coffee. All because of that damn award.”
Victoria listened, her hands moving in slow circles on Yvonne’s back. “The award opened a door.”
“It let in the whole neighborhood. All the different versions of it.” Yvonne closed her eyes, the weight of the day finally settling. “It was exhausting. And strange. And… kind of wonderful. They all saw something different. But they all saw something.”
“They saw what’s here,” Victoria said simply. She kissed Yvonne’s forehead. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs. You can tell me about the pie audit and the spreadsheet update. I think your day was more colorful.”
Yvonne nodded, leaning into her. She flipped the sign on the door, locked it, and turned off the main lights, leaving the café in the gentle glow of the streetlamp filtering through the bay window. The award certificate was a pale rectangle in the dark. The cyclamen was a silent witness. Together, they climbed the stairs to the apartment, leaving the day’ stories behind them, already woven into the fabric of the walls.