Mária & Pilvax

When I close my eyes, I can hear the chug of that steamer pulling us along the Danube...

One of my favourite things about talking to someone from a different country is getting to know their history. We all grow up learning about a fraction of the world. That fraction is usually decided by the country you grow up in. 

I'm unsure when I learnt about Petőfi - Hungary's renegade poet, but once I was told the story (you can read it here), I fell in love with him. Not many people can claim to have such broad and physical influence with their words.

To fill you in quickly: Petőfi was a nineteenth-century poet and a member of Márciusi Ifjak (Youths of March), a group of liberal students and intellectuals in Pest (one-half of modern-day Budapest). He was key in the 1848 revolution that demanded liberalisation from the Habsburg Empire. He wrote the Nemzeti dal (National song), which is said to have inspired the revolution. 

Now, where is all this going? As happens today, ideas, people, and groups need a place to congregate. Whether it's the slopes of the Acropolis, Churchill's war rooms under Westminster, or, in Petőfi's case, a café named Pilvax. This week's short story is my idea of how that place came to be. I've done as much research as possible with the time at hand, so most of the details are factual. Consider this my first attempt at historical fiction. 

When I close my eyes, I can hear the chug of that steamer pulling us along the Danube - she always looks more beautiful on summer nights when the light of the cabins creates golden ripples on her silk surface. It is one of the reasons I took jobs on the boats, besides the health of the checks. On that particular night, the quartet played Schubert. 

I can hear them now, floating above the chatter of high society. The cellist's hair is long and loose, falling in front of his eyes every other bar. A mosquito buzzes close to my ear, spoiling harmonies with its high-pitched hum. The coffee is brewing nicely, but I’m nervous as usual. People have come to expect a certain bitterness; they are unaware of what is possible with the right connections. When it comes to coffee, bitterness is base. 

“Ready to serve, Pillvax?” Franz is frantic as usual, coming and going like a yoyo in the hands of a prince. 

“Not yet. These beans need more time. Give it another two minutes.” 

“Right you are,” he says, withdrawing into the web of waving hands and snapping fingers. This brew needs to be perfect. It's my job to cause a stir, and a bland cup won't do. I want each guest to take a sip and look into their cups like they no longer trust their tongue. 

“You know, I’ve never seen anyone brew coffee. It is brewing isn't it?” A voice asks. I turn to see who the delicate words belong to. Every syllable is precious, as though her throat is the finest porcelain. German seems unnatural on her lips. Each word teeters on the edge of becoming something else.

“Where do you find the beans?” she asks, turning my cheeks red. A beautiful woman like her, in a dress like that, would turn any man pink. It is one of the dangers of working in such a place. Everywhere you look, there are untouchable gems. Her eyes pierce my skin, stoking the fire in my chest. 

“Abyssinia, my lady. Feel free to watch. I’m about to brew a new batch,” I focus on the steaming liquid between my hands. “Try this. You can be my judge tonight.” Her fingers are cold. She wraps them around the china cup. There’s a look on her face; everyone shares it when you give them something exotic for the first time. It lies someplace between distrust and elation. The elation wins out once the aroma drifts up her nose. It always does. 

“It’s like perfume,” she says, hovering her nostrils above the brown surface. “Nutty, fruity, and there’s something else... I can’t quite put my finger on it.” 

“That’s a good sign.” I wave at Franz. 

“But the colour is peculiar. It’s not as dark as usual. It looks almost edible.”

“Like cocoa, my lady?” 

“Yes, exactly like cocoa. You know, I only tried some of that last year. My cousin brought some from Antwerp.” 

“So what about the taste? That’s the most important part.” 

“Ready, Pillvax?” Franz is as eager as usual, desperate to populate his golden tray. The quartet has switched things up, bouncing Mozart off the walls. Now, that’s a better accompaniment to coffee. 

“Miss?” I say, looking over my shoulder. She gives the cup another look and then brings it gently to her lips; she tastes it like one might taste Riesling, swirling it around her mouth. 

“Perfection.” 

“You heard the lady, Franz.” 

“Right, you are,” he says, first to me, then nods to her. His cheeks are even redder than mine, but they always are; he has had rosy cheeks since I met him. 

“How long did it take you to learn all of this?” she asks, placing the porcelain on the teak counter. 

“About five years, my lady. I was taught by the best Vienna has.” A gentleman shouldn’t boast - there is no dignity in it, but in the gaze of such a lady, a man can hardly stop himself. I won’t tell you how I managed to get such prestigious training; it is a step away from boasting. Let’s leave it at this: when a man wants something badly, he will do anything to make it work. 

“Is this your first time?” I ask, opening another sack waiting by my feet.

“I have tried some before, in Pest. But it was nothing like this,” she says, and I can’t help my lips curling. That explains the accent. 

“You’re Hungarian.”

“Indeed I am. Miss Giergl Mária Terézia.”

“Pleasure, my lady” I take her hand and kiss the back of it. I’ve done this a thousand times, but this might be the first time it's actually been a pleasure. 

“Please stop calling me that. I'm no more a lady than you are. Call me Mária.”

“Mária it is.” 

“And Pillvax, what can I call you?” 

“Karl Pillvax, Miss. You can call me what you want.” 

“How about…Károly. It’s easier on my tongue,” she says, and I spill a cup of beans on the floor. 

Since that night, when she lingered at the end of my bar, asking questions and smiling wide, I knew I’d follow her anywhere. Pest, Paris, Petersburg or the new world - I would go anywhere she wanted. All she had to do was look into my eyes and call me Károly. 

The next time we found ourselves on a steamer, it was pulling us down the Danube, this time away from Vienna and towards her hometown. It rained that first night, turning the streets into rivers of filth and caking our boots with it.

Buda Castle sits magnanimously on the hill as though it is holding the nation on its broad shoulders. It’s a statement to the world: here we are; ignore us if you dare. Szechenyi’s chain bridge stretches effortlessly across the Danube, with yawning lions guarding either side. It is another statement to the world: this is the future roaring into life, and that’s without the finishing touches. Pest is not Vienna, but it’s unfair to compare anything with the centre of the world. It is, however, one of the finest cities I've set foot in. 

She’s here now, sleeping across from me, with that look on her face I’ve only seen when she speaks her native tongue. Tomorrow is the day! We are looking at a shop at noon, somewhere to start our life on land. A place I can roast and pour. Pest is not my beloved Vienna, but she has something Vienna will never have - Mária. A glaring difference is the absence of that bitter-sweet smell, the steaming brown liquid. If not the absence, then the frequency of its scent in the air. I’ll change that soon, I write, committing my thoughts to the world. 

“Coming to bed,” she lifts her head off her pillow. It is heavy from the travel. 

“I can’t sleep,” I say, keeping my eyes on the cracking fire by my feet. How can anyone sleep when so much unknown lies ahead? 

“Suit yourself.” 

It’s another hour before the embers have lost their glow. The house is quiet, but the street outside is not. The metronome of the rain and the irregular shouts of drunkards wandering the streets drift into my ears as though they are dreams.

“Dragam, dragram, hol vagy? - My love, my love, where are you?” One repeats, circling the block like a band of gipsies. 

My eyes open to a cold, ash-ridden fireplace. My big toe is grey, and the floor is dusted with its colourless powder. Over my shoulder, Mária’s bed is empty and made. There’s a note tucked in my breast pocket. Heading down for breakfast, I’ll try and bring you some up - a smile breaks on my lips, quickly spreading into a yawn. 

She’s just finishing her plate of eggs when I sit next to her. The little dining hall is humming with a mixture of German, French, Croatian, Serbian and Hungarian. Between every hushed sentence, bellowing boast and good morning, the sound of silverware grazing china plates. 

“Morning,” a man with a military moustache grumbles as I take my place opposite. Men like him despise people like me - those who sleep past dawn. I suppose it is much later than that. 

“Good morning, sir,” I reply, and he warms with my respect - however false it is. “And good morning to you, my lady,” I say to his ballooning wife before kissing mine on her eternally cold hand. 

“Sleep well, dear?” 

“Very. I always sleep well here. There’s something about being home.”

“Tell that to the English,” the moustache chimes; his rapturous laughter follows his joke as a band of men blindly follow their leader.

“Ready to go soon? We’re meeting the landlord on the hour.”

“Goodness, I hadn’t realised how late it was.” She flicks her gaze to the lady across the table. 

“That’s what happens when he gets going,” she says, nudging him with her elbow. 

“Sorry dear, there are some things I’m passionate about: when it comes to them, I can speak all day.” He's spinning the tips of his moustache with greasy fingertips - a piece of stray yoke yellows his greying hair. 

Last night's downpour feels like a myth when we walk along the streets; carriages bob gently on the dry cobbles almost as frequently as they do in Vienna, and on our way, we pass a handful of bakeries any major city would be proud to have. 

“So what was the colonel so passionate about?” I ask, stepping over an empty bottle.  

“The colonel? I’m not sure he was a colonel.”

“A major then, or a captain at the very least: with a moustache like that, he must have some rank to boast about.” 

“You’re probably right. He’s one of yours for sure.” 

“Mine?” 

“Austrian.”

“You know I’m not...” 

“If you claim Vienna as you do, you’re Austrian to me. He was going on about the generosity of the Habsburgs. God knows what would become of this place if we were not here, he said.”

“No wonder you were quiet.” 

“People like him don’t bother me..... we grow up with that nonsense.” 

“So, how far is this place?” 

“Just up here on the left. It’s called Cáfe Renaissance.”

“That's a mouthful?” 

“It is worse for us.” 

“Then we have our reason to change it. What about Cáfe Mária?”

“You’re not romantic enough to name it after me, darling."

“Cáfe Pest or Vienna?”

“There are twenty cáfe Pest's. If you call it Vienna, we will only have Austrians to serve. What about Cáfe Pilvax?” 

“It’s a bit..... braggadocious.” 

“Once they taste your coffee, they will call it that anyway.” 

---

Love, Luke