Chapter 39: The Aunt Arrives
The interview process was, in Yvonne’s own private estimation, a special kind of torture. It required parsing people in the jagged intervals between pulling espresso shots and apologizing for sold-out Streuselkuchen. The eager French boy, Mathis, had sparkling eyes and an impeccable apron, but his German extended barely beyond “Kaffee” and “bitte,” leading to a small, tragic misunderstanding involving a request for oat milk and a poured latte with whole. The woman after him, Birgit, had the steady hands of a veteran waitress but a stare so sharp and impatient it seemed to slice through the café’s cozy haze; she’d tapped her fingers rhythmically, critically, on the counter as Yvonne explained the menu, and Yvonne had found herself inexplicably apologizing for the existence of gluten.
By Thursday afternoon, a low-grade pessimism had settled over her. She moved through the routines, her mind a split screen: the physical act of tamping coffee grounds, the mental replay of stilted conversations. Joost, ever the theatrical, had begun categorizing the applicants in a muttered running commentary. “The Politician,” he’d whisper, nodding at a sharply dressed man who spoke entirely in buzzwords. “The Phantom,” he’d sigh, as a skittish girl stared resolutely at the floor.
The lull came at 3:17 PM. The lunchtime rush had dissipated, leaving behind a landscape of crumb-scattered tables and empty cups.The air hung heavy with the smell of scorched milk and sugar. Yvonne was elbow-deep in the sink, scrubbing a stubborn espresso portafilter, when the bell chimed.She turned, hands dripping, and saw her.
The girl stood in the doorway, momentarily painted in a shaft of dusty sunlight, and seemed to bring a different quality of light with her. She was plump, in a soft-looking moss-green sweater and corduroy trousers, her dark blonde hair escaping a messy but deliberate bun. A small, enamel bee pin was fastened to her collar. She scanned the room, her gaze landing on Yvonne, and her whole face opened into a smile so unreservedly warm it felt, absurdly, like an apology.
“Hallo?” she called, her voice carrying a melodic, rolling accent. “I am here for interview?For work? I am Vita.”
“Come in,” Yvonne said, wiping her hands hastily on her apron.“I’m Yvonne. This is Joost.”
Joost, who had been pretending to scrutinize the inventory clipboard with deep ministerial concern, looked up and gave a slow, appraising nod.
Vita navigated the scattered chairs with an unselfconscious grace and offered a hand to Yvonne, then to Joost. Her grip was firm, her palm slightly cool.“Thank you for seeing me. Your café, it is very… gemütlich. Like a nest.”
The word, delivered in her accented German, disarmed Yvonne completely.“A nest. I like that.”
The interview, such as it was, unfolded not at a secluded table but around the service counter, punctuated by Yvonne preparing a simple filter coffee for a regular who wandered in. Vita answered questions about her two years in Berlin (“I came for study, but the city, it held me tighter”) and her previous work in a chaotic bakery near Alexanderplatz (“I was dishwasher, then I was seller, always I was smiling, even at the angry men”).Her optimism wasn’t cloying; it was a practical, stubborn force. She admitted her German was “still a little bit… wild,” and her kitchen experience limited to “making very big soups for my flatmates.”
“What would you do if you spilled a full tray of drinks?” Joost asked, adopting his most serious administrative tone.
Vita’s blue eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners. “First, I would say ‘Ach, shit!’ Probably in Latvian.Then, I would clean.Fast. And then I would make the drinks again, with my biggest smile, and maybe give a free cookie for the waiting. The mess is already there, yes? The only thing you can change is what happens after.”
Yvonne felt a deep, resonant click in her chest. It was the antithesis of the trapped, panicked feeling she herself got when things went wrong.It was actionable grace.Then came the practical test. Yvonne asked her to retrieve a new bag of coffee beans from the storeroom and restock the hopper.Vita navigated the narrow space behind the counter with careful, deliberate movements. But as she hefted the kilo bag, her sleeve caught on the handle of the commercial-grade frothing refrigerator. The door swung open, and Vita, turning in the tight space, bumped it solidly with her hip. The great steel door rebounded, and the bottle of vanilla syrup perched precariously on its top shelf teetered, fell, and hit the floor with a thick, sickening crack.
Golden, viscous syrup erupted across the tiles, pooling around shards of glass.
A absolute silence descended, broken only by the gentle hiss of the espresso machine.
Vita stared at the disaster, her hands flying to her mouth. For a single, suspended second, Yvonne saw the bright, uncalculated horror in her eyes.Then, Vita blinked. She didn’t look at Yvonne in shame, nor at Joost for help.She looked at the mess.
“Okay,” she breathed, a statement to herself.“Okay.”
She moved. First, she carefully stepped back from the glass shards. Then, she grabbed a roll of paper towels from under the counter and placed it like a ceremonial object beside the pool. “I must get the broom for glass,” she said, her voice remarkably steady.“And the big mop. The syrup, it is… slippery.” She looked up at Yvonne, the apology now clear and direct. “I am so sorry for this.I will pay for the syrup. Please, let me clean it.”
She didn’t wait for permission. She found the broom and dustpan in the corner, and with meticulous care, began sweeping up the larger fragments, depositing them into the bin. She worked without frantic energy, but with a thorough, focused efficiency. As she mopped, the sticky syrup resisting the first pass, she muttered under her breath, a soft, rhythmic stream of what Yvonne could only assume were Latvian expletives or encouragements. The smell of artificial vanilla bloomed, overwhelmingly sweet in the small space.Joost raised an eyebrow at Yvonne, a silent question hanging between them. She broke something.
Yvonne watched Vita’s hands, the competent way she wrung out the mop, the absence of any performative trembling. She watched the set of her shoulders: not slumped in defeat, but squared to the task.She’s fixing it.
When the floor was as clean as it could be without a deep scrub, Vita disposed of the soiled towels, washed her hands thoroughly at the sink, and stood before them again. A faint sheen of sweat glistened at her temple. “The interview is over, I think,” she said, a rueful half-smile on her face.“But thank you. It was nice to meet you.”
She gave a small, resigned bow of her head, turned, and was out the door before Yvonne could form a single syllable. The bell jangled violently in her wake.
“Wait—” Joost managed, but the door was already swinging shut.
Through the window, they saw it happen. Vita, head still down, walked straight into the solid, trench-coated form of Herr Kaya, who had been moments from entering. The impact was soft but unmistakable. He recoiled with a grunt, his weathered face tightening into familiar storm clouds.
“Achtung!” he barked, steadying himself against the doorframe.
“Oh! I am so sorry, sir!” Vita’s voice, muffled by the glass, was immediately audible, layered with genuine distress. “My head, it was in the clouds. Are you alright? Please, I am so clumsy today.”
Herr Kaya muttered something inaudible, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, his posture rigid with affront. He moved to step around her, but Vita didn’t flee. She stepped aside, holding the door open for him, her expression one of open concern. “Your coffee, you are coming for your coffee, yes? I have disturbed your peace. Please, let me…”
He scowled at her, but the door was held open, the path clear. With a harumph, he shuffled inside, the air around him crackling with promised complaints. He took his usual seat at the small corner table, the one with a view of the square’s dying chestnut tree, and placed his hands flat on the wood. Vita followed him in, not to the exit, but to the counter beside Yvonne. She leaned in, her voice a low, confidential rush. “For the gentleman, what does he take? The usual, yes? Let me, please. A small apology.”
Stunned, Yvonne merely nodded. “Filter. Black. In the yellow cup.”
Vita nodded, her focus absolute. She prepared the brew with careful, observed motions, her earlier clumsiness gone, replaced by a reverent attention. She carried the cup and saucer over, the porcelain trembling only slightly. She set it before Herr Kaya with a soft click.
“Your coffee, sir. Again, my deepest apologies.”
He grunted, not looking at her, pulling the cup toward him. “It will be terrible, like always. Water and sadness.”
Instead of retreating, Vita pulled out the opposite chair and sat. She didn’t ask. She just sat, folding her hands in her lap, her body angled toward him but not imposing. Herr Kaya’s head snapped up, his bushy eyebrows threatening to flee his forehead. “What is this?”
“You look,” Vita said, her head tilting, “like my grandfather. When he would tend his bees. A little bit angry at the world, but only because you care how the honey tastes.”
He stared at her, his mouth a tight line. Then he took a deliberate, noisy sip of the coffee. He grimaced, but it was a performative gesture, one Yvonne had seen a hundred times. “Bitter. Weak.”
“My grandfather’s coffee was also terrible,” Vita offered, a conspiratorial smile playing on her lips. “He boiled it in a pot until it was like tar. He said good coffee should frighten the heart.”
A strange, choked sound came from Herr Kaya. It wasn’t a laugh. Not quite. It was a release of pressure. “Tar. Yes. This… this is colored water.” He took another sip, studying her over the rim. “You are not from here.”
“Latvia. A small town with more trees than people. Here, there is more… everything.”
“Hmph.” He set the cup down. “Trees are better. This city is noise and foolishness.”
“It is loud,” Vita agreed, nodding as if he’d offered a great philosophical truth. “But in the morning, very early, by the canal? It is quiet. The ducks are there. Sometimes, you can hear the trees breathe.” She paused. “You come here every week, Joost told me. You like your terrible coffee, and you like to watch the square. You are a watchman.”
His stern expression flickered. Something in the set of his jaw softened, just a millimeter. “I see what changes. What is lost.” He gestured vaguely with a knobby hand. “That bakery there? Gone. The bookbinder? A smartphone shop. Full of ghosts staring at little windows.”
“You remember the real things,” Vita said, her voice gentle. “That is a hard job. To hold the memory for a place. It must make you very tired.”
Herr Kaya was silent for a long moment. He looked down into his cup of "colored water," then out at the square. His shoulders, usually hunched near his ears, lowered. And then it happened. The corners of his mouth, deeply etched with lines of perpetual disappointment, did not just twitch. They lifted. It was a small, rusted, and utterly genuine smile, one that transformed his entire face from a monument of grumpiness into that of a simply tired old man pleased to be seen. “The cake,” he said, his voice gravelly but quieter. “The cheesecake today. It is not so bad.”
Behind the counter, Yvonne’s hand had frozen mid-wipe on the espresso machine. Joost’s clipboard hung slack at his side. They were statues, witnesses to an impossible, quiet miracle. The syrup-scented air seemed to still. Herr Kaya was smiling. He was having a conversation. He was… pleasant.
Vita, seeing his shift, smiled back, a sunrise of a thing. She made to rise. “I should go. I have caused enough trouble for one day.”
“You stay,” Herr Kaya said, the command soft. “Tell me about these Latvian trees.”
But Vita was already up, patting the table softly. “Another time, perhaps. I must let these good people close their interview.” She turned, heading once more for the door, giving Yvonne and Joost a final, warm, apologetic glance.
This time, they moved.
Joost was faster, a long-limbed blur around the counter’s end, blocking the door. Yvonne came from the other side, her pulse loud in her ears.
“No,” Yvonne said, the word coming out more forcefully than intended.
Vita stopped, eyes wide.
“You don’t just…” Yvonne began, gesturing helplessly at Herr Kaya, who was now contentedly sipping his coffee and watching the scene with detached amusement. “…do that, and then leave.”
Joost found his voice, a theatrical whisper. “What was that? What magic is this? He smiled. He smiled.”
Vita blinked, glancing back at Herr Kaya as if she’d merely passed a familiar statue. “He is just a man who misses his trees,” she said, her shoulders lifting in a soft shrug. “It is nothing special to listen.”
“It is literally a miracle,” Joost insisted, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “His smile is a historical event. I’ve worked here eighteen months and I’ve only ever seen his teeth in a snarl.”
Before Yvonne could formulate a proper question—about Latvia, about her grandfather’s bees, about the alchemy of simple attention—the bell chimed again. A wave of rosewater perfume announced Frau Engelmann, a widow in her seventies whose visits were as regular as the old cuckoo clock on the back wall. She moved in a rustle of silk scarves, her eyes already bright with the urgent need to disseminate news.
“Yvonne, dear, Joost,” she began, settling at the nearest table without ordering, her handbag clutched like a treasured tome. “You will not believe what Stefan has done now. My youngest grandson. He has purchased a motorcycle. A red one. Italian.”
She said ‘Italian’ as if describing a communicable disease. Yvonne opened her mouth to offer condolences, but Vita was already there.
Vita had not returned to the door. She had simply flowed toward the sound of a story, pulling a chair out smoothly to sit beside Frau Engelmann. “A red motorcycle,” Vita repeated, her tone weaving between concern and admiration. “This is very brave. And very loud, I think.”
Frau Engelmann turned, startled for a second to find a new audience, then seized upon it with gravitational force. “Loud! It is a menace. His mother is beside herself. He says it is for zipping to university. I say it is for breaking his neck!”
“My cousin in Riga, he also bought such a machine,” Vita confided, leaning in. “He said it made him feel like a hawk. But then he drove into a lake. A very small lake, but still. He was wet, and the hawk was very sad.”
Frau Engelmann let out a gasp that dissolved into a sudden, cackling laugh. She patted Vita’s hand. “A lake! Serves him right. Perhaps I will tell Stefan this story. A preventative lesson.”
“You should,” Vita nodded solemnly. “Tell him the hawk-drowning story. It is a good, wet story.”
Behind the counter, Yvonne and Joost stood immobilized. The hiss of the espresso machine seemed distant. They watched Vita listen, her head tilted, interjecting with perfect, unscripted notes that spun Frau Engelmann’s worry into shared, gentle comedy. She wasn’t performing. She was simply there, fully, turning a monologue into a conversation. The older woman’s face, usually pinched with lonely drama, softened into animated, connected joy.
Joost slowly turned his head toward Yvonne. His expression had shed all its earlier theatricality. It was pure, unvarnished certainty. He spoke under the rhythm of Frau Engelmann’s continuing saga about Stefan’s dubious helmet choice.
“If we don’t hire her,” he murmured, his voice low and flat with finality, “we are the stupidest people in Berlin. We will die old and alone, surrounded by ledgers we don’t understand, served by people who think Herr Kaya is just a rude man.”
Yvonne felt the truth of it settle in her bones, a solid, warm weight. It wasn’t just about fixing the syrup spill. It was about this—the unasked-for repair of tiny, daily lonelinesses. It was the quiet magic of turning colored water and remembered trees into a truce, of transforming a worried grandmother’s fear into a laugh by a hypothetical lake. This was the texture her café needed, the very thing she tried to weave but couldn’t always manifest. Vita didn’t see it as skill. She breathed it.
She met Joost’s gaze and gave a single, sharp nod.
Yvonne walked over, the sounds of Vita discussing appropriate motorcycle gloves with Frau Engelmann fading into a pleasant background hum. She waited for a slight pause. “Vita?”
Vita looked up, her blue eyes clear. “Yes?”
“When can you start?”
For a moment, Vita simply stared. Her gaze flickered between Yvonne’s serious face and Joost’s emphatic nodding. The meaning broke over her features not as a shock, but as a slow, dawning warmth. Her smile, which had been bright before, now became something radiant and deep, softening the entire architecture of her face.
“Really?” The word was a soft exhalation.
“Really,” Yvonne said, a smile breaking through her own professional reserve.
Vita stood so quickly her chair scraped. She didn’t say thank you. She moved. First, she turned to Frau Engelmann, placing a hand on her scarfed shoulder. “I must go be hired now. Your Stefan will be okay. He has you to worry for him, which is a very strong helmet.” Then she crossed the short distance and wrapped Yvonne in a tight, fierce hug.
The embrace was firm and wholehearted, smelling of vanilla syrup and rosewater and summer. It was the hug of someone who gave all of herself without calculation. Yvonne, momentarily stiff, then melted into it, her cheek against Vita’s soft sweater.
Vita released her and turned to Joost, who put his hands up in mock defense. “I’m a hugger!” he proclaimed, and she laughed, pulling his lanky frame into an equally sincere squeeze that left him pretending to gasp for air.
“Monday,” Vita stated, stepping back, her hands clasped together. “I start Monday. Early. I will be here to learn the ducks-and-canal quiet.”