Chapter 80: Discussing Laura
Yvonne woke to the soft, insistent pressure of Victoria’s knee tucked behind her own, an arm slung possessively over her waist. The morning light was a pale, diluted grey seeping around the edges of the blackout blind. She lay still, listening to Victoria’s steady breath against her neck, and tried to locate the specific texture of her own feelings.The story she had told Laura was curled inside her chest like a sleeping animal. Sharing it hadn’t felt like a betrayal—it was hers to give—but it had created a faint, persistent hum, a new frequency running beneath the familiar melody of her marriage. Victoria shifted, mumbling something unintelligible into Yvonne’s dreadlocks, her grip tightening. Yvonne closed her eyes, savoring the anchor of that unconscious hold.Here was her fixed point. Yet, her mind kept returning to the garden: the cool bottle in her hand, the unguarded awe on Laura’s face, the leaf held like a sacrament. It felt like she had given Laura a key to a room even Victoria hadn’t been inside, because Victoria had built the room with her.She disentangled herself gently, sliding from the warmth of the bed. The apartment was quiet, filled with the deep green shadows of her many plants. She made coffee in the dim kitchen, the routine of it settling her nerves. By the time Victoria emerged, tousled and squinting, Yvonne was dressed and holding a second mug out to her.
“You’re deep in the machinery this morning,” Victoria said, her voice sleep-roughened, taking the coffee. She studied Yvonne’s face. “Garden thoughts?”
“Just café thoughts,” Yvonne said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. “Joost is back today.”
“Ah. The drama returns.” Victoria smiled, a slow, warm thing that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She leaned in, kissed Yvonne softly on the lips, tasting of sleep and espresso. “Try to enjoy the quiet before the storm.”
Downstairs, the café was a temple of potential. She moved through the pre-dawn rituals: flipping lights, warming ovens, grinding the first test batch of beans.The air began to smell of promise. Vita arrived in a burst of cold air and peppery perfume, her cheeks pink.“Good morning! The universe is sparkling today!” she announced, unwinding a long, rainbow-striped scarf.
“Does it?” Yvonne asked, smiling despite herself.“It must!Joost is returning! The balance will be restored!” Vita hummed as she tied her apron, immediately beginning to wipe down already-clean surfaces with exuberant energy.
The first customers trickled in, and the machine of the morning whirred to life. Yvonne was at the espresso machine, perfectly focused on the pour of a flat white, when the door chimed with a particularly sharp, aggrieved cadence.
Joost stood in the doorway, his lanky frame draped in an oversized black coat, his mess of blonde hair artfully disheveled. He looked pale, but not from illness—from sheer, theatrical affront. He closed the door with exaggerated care, as if the glass might shatter from his disappointment.Vita beamed.“Joost!You are recovered!”
He didn’t answer her. His eyes, wide and wounded, were locked on Yvonne. He walked slowly to the counter, ignoring the curious glance of a regular at the communal table. He placed both hands flat on the zinc surface and leaned forward, his voice a dramatic whisper that carried to the back room.
“I am obsolete.”
Yvonne finished steaming the milk, poured it.“Good morning, Joost. Glad you’re feeling better.”
“Am I?” he intoned. “Am I feeling? Or am I merely a ghost, a specter of service past, haunting the very space I once called my own?”
“Your desk is exactly where you left it,” Yvonne said, nodding toward the small table behind the counter where the tablet lived.
“My desk,” he scoffed, straightening up.“My desk is a sarcophagus. I was gone for a single day.One day! A biblical plague of my own intestines, and what happens?” He didn’t wait for an answer.“I am replaced.Effaced. My role, my very raison d'être, handed to a… a wandering minstrel!”
“Laura was very helpful,” Vita offered, her cheer now tinged with caution.
“‘Helpful.’” Joost pressed a hand to his heart.“Of course she was. She is a polyglot enchantress with cheekbones that could slice artisan bread.How can mere mortals compete? I have one language.I am suspicious of adjectives.My cheekbones are… fine. Serviceable.” He paced a short, agitated track.“I heard the reports, you know. Vita gave me the grim details.She hummed along with the system.She conducted brief, bright exchanges. She identified a Dilla sample for Christ’s sake!” He stopped, his expression one of profound betrayal.“You moved on so fast, Yvonne. It was like I never mattered.”
Yvonne felt the strange weight in her chest lift, dissolving into warm affection. This was her Joost.Her chaotic, loyal, hopelessly dramatic younger brother in all but blood. She slid the finished flat white across the counter to Vita to deliver, then walked around to face him.
“It was a disaster,” she said plainly.“The queue was out the door. Frau Engelmann complained about the temperature of her butter.I spilled an entire latte. We were sinking.”
“And she was your life raft,” Joost said, mournfully.“She was a temporary fix.A patch. You are the original code.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “The system doesn’t work without you, Joost.The tablet misses you.I miss you. Even the dirty dishes seemed sadder.”
A flicker of pride crossed his face, quickly suppressed. “The tablet missed me?”
“It was glitchy all morning. It only responds to your particular… energy.”
He considered this, his chin tilted up.“It’s true. It’s a sensitive machine. It needs a confident hand.”
“Exactly.”
He sighed, a long, suffering exhalation.“Well.I suppose even the most essential cogs need occasional maintenance. My gastrointestinal rebellion was, perhaps, a strategic retreat. To remind you all of my value.” He shrugged off his coat, revealing a crisp white shirt underneath.“I am back.The crisis is over. You may return to your usual state of reliant gratitude.”
He hung up his coat, grabbed the green apron—his green apron—and tied it on with a flourish. He picked up the tablet, swiped it awake, and immediately frowned at the previous day’s sales figures.“Who input this? The categorization is sloppy. ‘Various pastries.’ We are not savages.” He began tapping with violent precision.
Yvonne watched him, the knot of unease from the morning finally unraveling.This was her geography.This clattering, fragrant, beautifully mundane reality. Laura had stepped into it, had seen its blueprint, and had even helped shore up a wall. But the foundations were hers and Victoria’s. And the daily upkeep, as Joost so theatrically proved, belonged to all of them.The morning flowed into its familiar rhythm. Joost, restored to his throne, was more grandiose than ever, narrating his every action as if for an invisible documentary crew. Vita’s sunshine refracted through his dramatics, creating rainbows of absurdity that kept the customers smiling.Yvonne worked the machine, her hands steady, her mind clear.
It was during the lull after the mid-morning rush that she saw it. Tucked just under the edge of the cash register, a single, perfect catalpa leaf, its heart shape still green and supple. It had not been there when she’d opened.She picked it up. The stem was cleanly snipped, not torn.It held the faint, clean scent of the garden.
She didn’t look around.She didn’t need to. She simply placed the leaf carefully in the pocket of her apron, a secret weight against her thigh, and turned to wipe down the steam wand.The hum was still there, a new frequency, but it wasn’t a disruption. It was just another layer in the symphony of her day, a quiet, complicated harmony waiting to be understood.
It was just another layer in the symphony of her day, a quiet, complicated harmony waiting to be understood.She pressed a palm over her apron pocket, feeling the leaf’s delicate outline against her thigh, a biological cipher. The afternoon unfolded with its own manageable demands, each task a deliberate stitch mending the morning’s frayed edges. Joost’s melodrama settled into a familiar background hum, and Vita’s laughter bubbled up like clear water. Closing time approached with a slow, amber ease, the low sun painting long rectangles of honeyed light across the worn floorboards.They flipped chairs onto tables with soft thuds, their movements synchronized from years of shared routine. The scent of cleaning solution and damp earth from the garden passageway mixed with the lingering ghost of cinnamon.“She left a leaf,” Vita said suddenly, not looking up from sweeping around the base of the counter.
Yvonne paused, a chair leg in her hand.“What?”
“Laura.She came in around three.You were in the back room restocking. She bought a piece of apple cake, ate two bites, and then slipped out again.” Vita leaned on her broom.“She left a catalpa leaf on her saucer.I cleared it.”
“Oh.” Yvonne placed the chair down carefully, the sound too loud in the quiet space.
“It was a pretty leaf.Very green.” Vita’s tone was neutral, an observation of fact.Then she smiled, bright and warm.“I think she likes your garden.”
Before Yvonne could form a response, the door chimed. Victoria stepped in, shrugging off her tailored wool coat.Her shoulders carried a visible weariness, a slight slump that wasn’t just about removing a heavy garment.She looked first at Yvonne, and her professional mask—the one of crisp competence—softened at the edges, revealing the genuine fatigue underneath.
“God, what a day,” she exhaled, the British inflection sharpening her vowels with exhaustion.She walked over, not to the counter but directly to Yvonne, and wrapped her in a tight, silent hug.It wasn’t their usual greeting.Victoria buried her face in the space between Yvonne’s neck and shoulder, her breath a warm sigh against freckled skin.She smelled of cold city air, printer toner, and faint, faded perfume.“Rough one?” Yvonne murmured into her short, dark hair.
“A continuous tactical nightmare.Negotiations, retrofit permissions, a contractor who thinks ‘hermetic seal’ is a suggestion.” Victoria pulled back slightly, her hands remaining on Yvonne’s hips.“I’m sorry.I’ve been a ghost this week. A distracted, grumpy ghost.”
“You’re here now.” Yvonne traced the line of Victoria’s jaw with her thumb, feeling the tension stored there.
Vita, sensing the shift, finished her sweeping with a final, vigorous swirl.“All done!Goodnight, you two! Don’t work too hard!” The door chimed shut behind her, leaving them alone in the silent, shadowy café.The only light came from the kitchen and the soft blue glow of the pastry case.
Victoria walked to their usual table by the window, the one not yet upturned, and sank into a chair.She ran both hands over her face.“I feel like I’ve been speaking a different language all day. One made entirely of spreadsheets and compromise.”
Yvonne fetched two glasses and a bottle of natural wine from the small shelf under the counter, a crisp orange wine from the Pfalz. She poured without asking, setting one glass before Victoria and taking the seat beside her, their knees touching under the table. The first sip was a shock of apricot and minerality, a clean slate on the tongue.
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, listening to the distant hum of the refrigerator. Yvonne watched the emotions play across Victoria’s face in the dim light: frustration, relief, a fondness reserved only for this space, for her. The catalpa leaf in Yvonne’s pocket felt as large as a newspaper.
“Something happened,” Victoria stated.It wasn’t a question.She had always been able to read the small disturbances in Yvonne’s atmosphere.
Yvonne swirled the wine in her glass, watching the legs form and dissolve.“Laura helped yesterday.When Joost was sick.”
“I heard.She was shockingly useful, according to Joost’s lamentations.”
“She was.” Yvonne took a breath, focusing on the feeling of Victoria’s knee pressed firmly against her own, an anchor. “Afterwards, she asked for payment.Not money.She wanted a story.Something personal.”
Victoria’s eyes narrowed a fraction, interested, analytical.She took a slow sip.“What did you give her?”
“I told her how we met.That rainy day. The grinder setting.Salim.” The words came out in a quiet rush.“I told her what you said to me.That she should ditch the dead weight.”
A complex stillness settled over Victoria.Her gaze was fixed on Yvonne, but she was looking inward, at the memory. A faint, private smile touched her lips.“That was a good day.”
“It was the best day.” Yvonne’s voice was firm, insisting on this truth.“It shouldn’t feel wrong to share it.It’s my story too.But I met her in the garden to tell it.I gave her the key to the passageway.It felt… secretive. Not telling you felt secretive.” She looked down at her hands, at the wine glass clasped between them.“I didn’t like that.”
Victoria absorbed this. She reached out, her fingers gently tilting Yvonne’s chin up until their eyes met. Her expression held no suspicion, only a deep, curious intensity. “You gave her the geography,” she said softly, echoing Laura’s own term.
“I showed her the fixed point.”
“And she took a leaf.” Victoria’s thumb stroked Yvonne’s cheek, a thoughtful gesture. “It’s your story to tell, Liebling.You own it. You built it.” She paused, her gaze searching Yvonne’s. “The secrecy is the part that’s sticking in your gears, isn’t it? Not the sharing.”
Yvonne nodded, a tightness in her throat loosening at being so precisely understood.
“Good.” Victoria leaned back, taking her hand but keeping their knees locked together under the table. “Then we acknowledge the new variable.” She said it like a project parameter, but her eyes were warm.“She’s fascinated with us.Our chemistry. She collects stories for her songs.” She finished her wine in one long swallow. “And now she has the origin story. A powerful artifact.”
“Does that change anything?”
“It changes the fact that she has it.” Victoria stood, collecting the glasses. “It doesn’t change what’s in the jar.” She placed a kiss on top of Yvonne’s head. “Come on.Let’s go upstairs. I want to forget about hermetic seals and listen to you tell me that story again.Just for us. No payment required.”
Yvonne stood, the leaf in her pocket whispering against the fabric as she moved. She turned off the last lights, plunging the café into darkness save for the exit sign’s faint red glow. Victoria waited by the door, a silhouette of patient certainty. Yvonne crossed the room toward her, each step on the familiar tiles feeling newly deliberate, the complicated harmony of her day resolving into a single, clear note of choice. She took Victoria’s offered hand, and they stepped out into the cool Berlin evening, the weight of the leaf already feeling less like a secret and more like a simple, curious fact—a new piece of data in the ecosystem they tended together.
She took Victoria’s offered hand, and they stepped out into the cool Berlin evening, the weight of the leaf already feeling less like a secret and more like a simple, curious fact—a new piece of data in the ecosystem they tended together. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell, a syncopated rhythm on the worn stone steps. Victoria’s key clicked in the lock of their apartment door, and they tumbled into the warm, green-scented darkness of their own space, leaving the public world of the café firmly below.
The familiar chaos of their shared life greeted them: a sweater draped over a chair, a stack of gardening books teetering on the sideboard, the dense jungle of plants silhouetted against the window. Victoria shrugged off her blazer, letting it fall uncharacteristically to the floor, and kicked off her shoes. “Silence,” she commanded, not to Yvonne but to the room itself. “And tea. Proper tea.”
Yvonne moved to the kitchen, filling the kettle with a quiet, purposeful clink. She chose the strong, malty Assam Victoria preferred, sensing the need for grounding. Behind her, she heard the soft thud of cushions and a long, weary sigh. When she carried two steaming mugs into the living room, Victoria had curled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, looking younger and softer in the dim light from a single floor lamp.
“Here.” Yvonne handed her the mug and settled close, their sides pressed together from hip to shoulder.
Victoria wrapped both hands around the warmth, inhaling the steam. For a few minutes, they simply sat, sipping, letting the quiet wrap around them like a blanket. The city’s distant murmur was a faraway river. Yvonne felt the coiled tension in Victoria’s frame gradually begin to unravel, muscle by muscle.
“Tell me again,” Victoria murmured, her head resting back against the cushions, eyes closed. “From your perspective. The rain. The machine. What you saw.”
So Yvonne did. She described the slick grey light on Kastanienplatz that day, the acidic knot of her frustration, the precise sound of Victoria’s heels on the wood. She lingered on details she’d condensed for Laura: the way the raindrops had clung to Victoria’s eyelashes like tiny jewels, the exact placement of her hands on the counter—competent, steady—and the shocking, electric clarity of her critique.
“You said, ‘It’s a fraction too coarse,’ and I felt… seen. Not flattered. Seen. Like someone had finally read the footnotes.” Yvonne’s voice was low, a private confession in the dark room.
Victoria turned her head, opening her eyes. Their faces were inches apart. “The footnotes are the best part,” she whispered. She set her mug aside and shifted, pulling Yvonne down so they lay tangled on the sofa, Yvonne’s head on her chest. Victoria’s fingers began to trace idle patterns through Yvonne’s dreadlocks, a slow, soothing ritual.
“I was so tired that day,” Victoria said, her voice a rumble Yvonne felt through her bones. “Tired of convincing rich men that double-glazing was a moral imperative. I walked in and saw you… a storm contained behind an espresso machine. You were magnificent. And you looked so lonely.” Her tracing fingers stilled. “I wanted to crack the cynicism I’d built up. So I led with the one technical flaw I could find. A key to pick the lock.”
Yvonne smiled against Victoria’s shirt. “It worked.”
“It did.” Victoria’s arms tightened around her. They lay there, breathing together, the shared memory reforging a connection that busy days had worn thin. The leaf, the story, Laura—it all receded, momentarily unimportant against the solid reality of this embrace. The tea cooled on the table. The clock ticked. Yvonne listened to the steady thump of Victoria’s heart under her ear, a rhythm more familiar than her own.
Later, when the streetlights outside glowed bright orange and their limbs had grown stiff, Victoria stirred. “I should take the bin bags down. They’re starting to smell like Joost’s existential dread.”
Yvonne grunted, reluctant to move from the warm nest. “Mmm. Trade secret.”
With a groan, Victoria extricated herself, padding to the kitchen in socked feet. Yvonne heard the rustle of plastic, the twist of a tie. The apartment door opened and closed. She stretched, savoring the residual warmth, the deep sense of repair. She looked at the empty mug, the dent in the cushion, the quiet peace of their home. It felt fortified again.
On the stairwell, the fluorescent light buzzed a flat, white note. Victoria balanced the two overfull trash bags, grimacing at a leak of coffee grounds, when the door to the upstairs apartment clicked open.
Laura descended, a black reusable bag slung over her shoulder, likely heading to the Späti. She was in soft-looking grey sweats, her blue-tipped hair damp from a shower, her face bare of makeup. She looked younger, and utterly unguarded. She stopped a few steps above Victoria, her pale eyes widening slightly behind her round glasses.
“Oh. Hey,” Laura said, her voice quieter, less performative than its usual café lilt.
“Evening,” Victoria replied, shifting the bags. Her consultant’s mind, never fully offline, noted the absence of Laura’s usual curated aesthetic.
Laura continued down until they were level on the landing, the space suddenly intimate with the smell of trash and Laura’s clean, citrus shampoo. She seemed to hesitate, her gaze flicking over Victoria’s casual posture—the socked feet, the old band t-shirt. Then she smiled, a small, genuine curve of her lips.
“I got a story from Yvonne,” Laura said, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “A good one.” She paused, her head tilting just a fraction. “I’m wondering when I’ll get to hear yours.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. With another fleeting, unreadable smile, she moved past Victoria, her shoulder brushing lightly against the wall, and continued down the stairs. Her footsteps faded, leaving only the stale buzz of the light.
Victoria stood frozen on the landing, the plastic bag handles digging into her palms. The words hung in the dank air, precise as a scalpel. I’m wondering when I’ll get to hear yours. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of intent. A mapping of future terrain.
The cozy warmth of the apartment above vanished. The encounter stripped the moment of its casualness, replanting it in the fertile, complicated ground Laura had been cultivating. This wasn’t idle curiosity. It was a targeted inquiry, an expression of a specific desire. She hadn’t asked for a story. She’d asked for Victoria’s.
Victoria looked down at the leaking trash bags, then back up the empty staircase where Laura had been. A slow, prickling awareness traveled up her spine. This was no longer just Yvonne’s story to give, or a shared artifact of their history. Laura had formally signaled her interest in the other half of the equation. She was studying the blueprint, and now she wanted to examine the architect.
Victoria took a slow, deliberate breath, the smell of garbage suddenly sharp and real. She hefted the bags and continued down to the bins, each step a measured beat in the new, quiet tension thrumming in the building’s core. The door to the street clanged shut behind her, a cold final note.