Chapter 49: Hans Settles In
The cold nose was a shock against her sleep-warm skin. Yvonne jerked, her hand flying up instinctively, her fingers meeting wiry fur. A low, thoughtful whine vibrated through the quiet.
Dawn was a thin, grey suggestion at the edges of her bedroom window. Hans stood beside the bed, his front paws on the mattress, his bearded face inches from hers.In the dim light, his eyes were two pools of obsidian, utterly serious.
“Too early,” Yvonna mumbled, her voice thick. “The café doesn’t open for the sun, only for the customers.”
He whined again, a pragmatic sound. He had needs.They were, apparently, now her problem.
She groaned, pushing herself upright, her dreadlocks a heavy cascade over one shoulder. The blanket from the Volvo was a lump on the armchair; he had not slept on it. He had slept, she saw from the impression in the rug, directly in front of the apartment door, a small, sturdy sentinel.
Downstairs, the café was a cave of shadows and familiar shapes. The silence was different now, punctuated by the click-click of claws on terracotta tile. Hans moved with purpose, a four-legged inspector on a pre-shift audit.He sniffed the legs of each table and chair. He investigated the empty pastry case, his breath fogging the glass. He stood before the ancient espresso machine, tilting his head at its gleaming, hulking form, then let out a soft huff, as if passing judgment on its reliability.Yvonne, grinding the first batch of beans, watched him. The rhythmic crunch of the grinder was a morning prayer.The dog’s quiet exploration was another. The weight of the plasterer’s quote, which usually descended the moment she opened her eyes, felt lighter, pushed aside by this simple, immediate responsibility.He needed water. He needed to go outside.She opened the back door to the small, brick-lined yard where her herbs grew in pots. Hans trotted out, sniffed the rosemary, then attended to his business with efficient dignity. When he was done, he didn’t dart inside. He sat, looking at the early sky, then back at her.Waiting.
Joost arrived to find the café door unlocked, the lights low, and Hans sitting squarely on the woven welcome mat inside.
“Ah,” Joost said, pausing with one foot over the threshold.“The new Head of Security, I presume. Early shift?”
Hans’s tail gave a single, definitive tap on the mat.
“He’s vetting you,” Yvonne called from behind the counter, where she was arranging cups. “Continue.”
Joost stepped carefully around him, setting his backpack down. Hans observed the ritual—the tying of the apron, the tablet being retrieved, the ritualistic stretching of Joost’s lanky arms. Seemingly satisfied, Hans stood, shook himself from nose to tail, and wandered towards the kitchen.
Vita’s arrival was a burst of sound and lavender-scented air. “Guten Morgen, my suns!” she chirped, then immediately dropped to her knees, uncaring of her tights, her hands finding Hans’s face.“Did you sleep?Was it strange? You are such a good, brave boy!” Hans tolerated the affection for a count of three, then gently extricated himself, walking towards the front window and hopping onto the sill cushion with a grunt. He arranged himself into a compact loaf, a living ornament, and watched the square come to life.
The first customers of the day, a pair of freelance graphic designers with laptops, didn’t blink at the dog on the sill.It was Berlin. A terrier in a café was barely a footnote.Herr Kaya arrived at his usual time, ten-thirty precisely. He hung his worn cap on the hook, nodded at Yvonne, and took his regular seat by the window. His eyes, sharp as flint, landed on Hans. Hans, in turn, opened one eye to regard the old man.“A dog,” Herr Kaya stated, his voice like gravel.
“His name is Hans,” Yvonne said, placing his usual small black coffee on the table.
“Hmph.” Herr Kaya took a slow sip, grimaced as he always did, and set the cup down.“In my village, dogs worked.They herded sheep. They were not… decorative.”
From the sill, Hans released a sigh so profound it seemed to carry the weight of generations of working terriers denied a proper flock. Herr Kaya’s lips, buried in his grizzled moustache, twitched.Almost a smile. He took another sip, and this time the grimace seemed softer.“He looks stubborn.”
“He is,” Yvonne agreed.
“Good,” Herr Kaya grunted, and that was the end of it.
Victoria appeared just before noon.She carried a paper bag from a fancy pet boutique in Mitte. Her hair was damp from a morning run, her glasses perched on her head. Her eyes found Yvonne first, a quick, private smile passing between them, then slid to the windowsill.
“I see the supervisor has taken up his post,” she said, her tone dry but her eyes warm.
Hans, hearing her voice, unfolded himself and jumped down, padding over to her.He didn’t wag. He presented himself for inspection.
Victoria knelt, pulling a new leash from the bag—a handsome, stout leather one with a solid brass clip. She also produced a mat, a dense, felted wool bed in a muted charcoal grey. “Something that doesn’t smell of engine oil,” she explained to Yvonne, as Hans sniffed the offerings.
He examined the leash, gave it a tentative lick, then nudged Victoria’s hand with his nose.Permission granted.She clipped it on. He stood a little taller. The cheap nylon lead from the Volvo was coiled on the counter, looking suddenly pathetic.“Shall we?” Victoria asked, standing.
The three of them—woman, woman, dog—stepped out into the midday light. Hans led, not with a pull, but with a clear, confident direction. He took them past the lime trees, past the bench where the old men played chess, around the perimeter of the square. It was the same route as yesterday, but today it felt ceremonial, a ratification of the new configuration.
Victoria’s hand brushed Yvonne’s, their fingers lacing together naturally. The leather leash was a comfortable weight in Victoria’s other hand.“He slept on the rug by the door,” Yvonne said quietly. “Like he was guarding it.”
“Sensible,” Victoria replied. “He knows the value of a threshold.”
They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city a distant hum. The renovation, the plasterer, the daunting quote—they existed, but out here, with the sun on their faces and the dog setting a steady pace, they were just problems.Manageable.Shared.
Shared.
They returned to Café Klee as the first lunch customers began to drift in, the air thickening with the scent of toasted sandwiches and fresh soup. Hans led them through the door, his new leash loose, and headed directly for the water bowl Vita had placed near the register. He drank with loud, deliberate laps, then shook his head, sprinkling the floor.
A man erupted into the café just behind them, his voice a battering ram against the calm.
“Nie, nie, nie, słuchaj!” he barked into a slim phone pressed to his ear. He was big, not just tall but solid, a barrel of a man in paint-spattered work trousers and a dark jacket. His face was florid, his bald head gleaming under the lights, a bushy salt-and-pepper moustache dominating his features. He paced two sharp steps, stopped, and ran a thick hand over his scalp. “Dwa tygodnie! Ich mówili ‘tak, tak, wszystko gotowe’ i teraz? Pustka! To jest kurwa bez sensu!”
His German was heavily accented, the grammar sturdy but sprinkled with furious Polish. Yvonne froze, a clean mug in her hand. Victoria, unclipping Hans’s leash, watched with analytical curiosity. The man’s agitation was a live wire in the room.
“Co ja powiem moim chłopakom? Żeby palili papierosy i czekali?” He listened, his jaw working. “Pfui. Dziękuję za gówno.” He stabbed a finger at his screen, ending the call, and stood fuming, his breath loud in the sudden quiet.
He seemed to notice his surroundings. His eyes, a shrewd, watery blue, scanned the café: the mismatched chairs, the Paul Klee prints, the dog now sitting by Yvonne’s feet, watching him. He looked at the counter, at Yvonne behind it. He deflated slightly, a balloon losing air. “Entschuldigung,” he muttered, the word gruff. “Bad day.”
Yvonne’s heart was a sudden, swift drum against her ribs. The cursed eastern wall. The exorbitant quote. The vanished plasterer. This man’s schedule was empty.
“Your client,” she said, her voice clearer than she felt. “They cancelled a two-week job?”
The man’s eyes snapped to hers. He nodded once, a sharp, frustrated jerk. “Last minute. Big project in Charlottenburg. Poof.” He made a vanishing gesture with his broad hands. “Now I have four good men with nothing to smash for two weeks. It is… a problem.”
Victoria gently placed the new leather leash on the counter. Her gaze met Yvonne’s, a question and an answer in one look.
Yvonne wiped her hands on her apron. She stepped out from behind the counter, approaching the man as she might a nervous animal. Hans followed, a silent shadow. “What is your work?” she asked.
“Renovation. Demolition. Building.” He said the words like a mantra. “Janusz Brzezina. Good work. Solid.” He said it not as a boast, but as a simple fact, like stating the weather.
“I have a wall,” Yvonne said. The words hung in the air. She saw the sunburst arch in her mind, the way the light was supposed to fall. “Between this café and an old laundry room. It needs to come down. The arch needs to be… respected. The space needs to be made new.”
Janusz blinked. He looked from her earnest, freckled face to the cozy, bustling café, then back. His anger was evaporating, replaced by pure, professional calculation. “A wall,” he repeated. “You have plans? Permits?”
“I have plans. The permits are in progress. The last quote gave me heart palpitations.”
A snort escaped him. “Papers are a nightmare. Everyone wants to be an artist, nobody wants to pay for the bricks.” He eyed her. “You are serious?”
“She’s very serious,” Victoria said, her tone mild but firm. She came to stand beside Yvonne, a united front. “And she cares about the details. The right details.”
Janusz’s eyes flicked between them, then down to Hans, who sat with his paw resting on Yvonne’s boot. He seemed to find something convincing in this tableau—the determined woman, her watchful partner, the dog claiming territory. “Two weeks,” he mused, thinking aloud. “To break the wall, frame the arch proper, first fix of plaster… maybe.” He looked directly at Yvonne. “You are not… how you say… flaky? You will not change your mind about tile color tomorrow and cry?”
“I don’t cry over tiles,” Yvonne said, a faint smile touching her lips. “I have the tiles. They’re in the back room. You can see them.”
For the first time, Janusz Brzezina smiled. It transformed his face, cutting through the gruffness like sun through cloud. “Okay. Then maybe fate is not such a bitch today. Show me this famous wall.”
The wall in question was at the very back, past the kitchen’s heat and the low hum of the refrigerators. It was a blank, unremarkable stretch of painted plaster, but to Yvonne, it was a barrier she’d stared at for years. She unlocked the adjacent door, revealing the old laundry room—a narrow, dusty space smelling of forgotten lint and old pipes, where weak light filtered through a cobwebbed window.
Janusz filled the doorway, his bulk blocking the light for a moment as he assessed. He stepped inside, his work boots loud on the concrete. He didn’t speak. He knocked on the wall with a heavy knuckle, listening to the echo. He ran a thumb along the edge where it met the ceiling, feeling for the seam of the original structure. He grunted.
“So this comes down,” Yvonne said, her voice smaller in the confined space. She pointed to Kira’s blueprint, which she’d retrieved from the chaos of the back room. “The arch is here, see? It’s original to the building. It needs to be exposed, not just copied.”
Janusz took the paper, holding it close to his face. He traced the drawn lines with a thick, calloused finger. He looked from the paper to the solid wall, then back. “This line here,” he said, his finger tapping the blueprint. “This is load-bearing? Or is this just a wish from your architect?”
“It’s not a wish,” Victoria interjected smoothly, leaning against the doorframe. “The original architectural drawings from the Bezirksamt confirm it. We have them.”
“Hah.” Janusz’s mustache twitched. He handed the blueprint back. “Good. So we are not guessing. We are respecting history while we smash it. I like this.” He turned, squeezing back past them into the bustling café. “First, coffee. And maybe a sandwich. My brain works better with fuel.”
They settled at a small table near the window, Hans curling beneath it, his side warm against Yvonne’s ankle. Janusz ordered a black coffee and a simple cheese sandwich. He ate with methodical efficiency, taking a large bite, chewing thoughtfully as Yvonne spread the full set of plans before him. He sipped his coffee, no grimace, just a steady consumption.
“The plumbing here,” he said around a mouthful, pointing a finger at a junction on the utilities plan. “We will need to reroute. A day’s work, if we are lucky.” He took another sip, listening as Yvonne explained her vision for the light, the tiles she had already chosen, the reclaimed oak for the new service counter that would replace the wall.
Victoria watched Janusz’s eyes. They weren’t glossing over with dollar signs or bored impatience. They were moving, measuring, solving. He saw the problems, but he also saw the path through them.
Finishing his sandwich, he brushed crumbs from his mustache with the back of his hand. He pulled out his phone, a worn, cracked thing, and dialed. He kept his eyes on the blueprint as the line rang.
“Marcin. Listen. The Charlottenburg job is a ghost. Forget it.” He listened, his expression neutral. “No, I have something else. A small café. A smart job. Neukölln.” A pause. His eyes lifted, meeting Yvonne’s across the table. A faint, almost imperceptible nod. “Yeah. The vacancy is probably already filled. Surprised me how fast, too. Tell the boys to be here tomorrow morning, eight. Bring the gear for careful demolition. There’s an arch to save.”
He ended the call and placed the phone on the table with a definitive tap. The café sounds swirled around them—the clink of cups, Vita’s laughter, the hiss of milk being steamed. Janusz leaned forward, folding his heavy arms on the table. “Okay. The price.”
Yvonne’s stomach tightened. Victoria’s foot found hers under the table, a subtle pressure.
Janusz named a figure. It was not the exorbitant number from the dachshund owner’s note. It was firm, clear, and itemized in his head. It accounted for his team, the materials he would source, the two weeks of their time. It was, against all odds and past experience, surprisingly reasonable. It was real.
The air left Yvonne’s lungs in a soft rush. She looked at Victoria, who gave a single, slight nod. She looked at Janusz’s steady, waiting face. “Yes,” Yvonne said, the word solid and certain. “That works.”
Janusz Brzezina’s face split into a wide, genuine smile. He reached his large hand across the table. Yvonne took it, his grip warm and enveloping, a pact sealed in flour-dust and coffee grounds. “Gut,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Then we start tomorrow. Chefin.”