'Proserpina rapita da Plutone', by Simone Pignoni (1650-1660).

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No one to hear how the pomegranates bloom

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I will do so indeed. For among the many excellent and indeed divine institutions which your Athens has brought forth and contributed to human life, none, in my opinion, is better than those mysteries. For by their means we have been brought out of our barbarous and savage mode of life and educated and refined to a state of civilization; and as the rites are called initiations,so in very truth we have learned from them the beginnings of life, and have gained the power not only to live happily, but also to die with a better hope.

—Marcus Tullius Cicero, 'On the Laws'

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On a recording from an old video camera, a child is playing with dolls. Amid the digital noise, the tiny figures are barely discernible, but beneath the heavy grain of the poorly framed shot, it is still visible how the March sun coppers the girl's heavy black hair. Caught up in the story she’s invented. She mumbles, shouts, all the while vying for the attention of her father. By the second minute, she diverts, and the conversation of the rabbits flock family trails off. In the silence, a finger presses the zoom button, trying to capture a fleeting moment of admiration for the floral dress of the mother rabbit—just before the daughter’s gaze flickers toward a barely audible delight, and with a smile, she returns to her whimsical play.

She stands leaning against the counter, made to resemble green marble, and, crossing her palms, covers her face with her hands. In brief anticipation, her eyes glide over the unfamiliar reliefs of the café. The huffing coffee machine. A fallen ten-cent coin. The slowly fogging pastry display. Black woolen figures wrapped in scarves of cashmere and cotton shades—too varied for her not to glance at them each time she catches their reflection in the wide mirror hanging on the wall opposite the entrance.

— Come back.

Well, show me what a beautiful dress Mama has. That’s not Mama, that’s their nanny. Alright, then let her be the nanny. But where is Mama? Mama is throwing millet to the chickens, look. How come in your family everyone is a rabbit except Mama? If Mama were a rabbit, she’d eat all the grain. That’s why she’s a cat. The grain is for the chickens. Mutually exclusive. What does that mean?

— You know that you can.

— I can.

— And we’re always gonna be glad.

— But I do love.

— I know, I know, I don’t argue, as you can see, I don’t bicker. After all, no one will hold you against your will. Come-gone, I’ll even top up the gas, if you wish.

— No one’s saying you’re at fault. You just gotta show a little bit more willingness.

He flicked his gaze upward and noticed the lemon-colored light from the overhanging lamps, shining directly onto the communal water pitcher. The mint, blackened by moisture, was pressed to the bottom by ice; a transparent stack of nested glasses sat nearby, — need some water— to wake up. You know, coffee makes me drowsy. And to be honest, I don’t quite understand the nature of your behavior. See I come across as unbearably persistent right away…

— And to calm you down… more, it’s for free! You’re all about snagging things for dirt cheap.

— Huh, making things up again.

— It’s a hit or miss. — the front door sways, and she falls back toward it at the sound of the lock tapping against the jamb — just as she always returns to the unchanging thought of scarves, but only now, she also notices how different the men’s hats and caps are, the way they hide their faces, how high their collars stand, how dark the lenses of their glasses are.

So if Mama becomes a rabbit, the grain disappears. And if the grain, then the chickens too. And if the chickens, then the rabbits? Yup, and if the rabbits? Then Mama too! Alright, and what do you see on the dress? A bouquet. I won’t argue. Let’s remember—this one? Irises. And roses. Right. And this one, do you remember? We have them in the garden, they look like our Yorkie’s muzzle. The recording cuts off—a soft click—and now she can’t stop laughing again.

— Oh, this is lovely! Berry tartlets. Want one?

— Is the strawberry fresh?

He shrugged. — gotta check at the bar. Is the strawberry fresh, miss? — The little miss nodded, absurdly certain.

— Honestly, I have no idea. — the waitress replied, embracing her utter indifference, — Strawberries don’t ripen in November.

— She’s right. Then let’s have the raspberry pastry. Actually, make it two — but the second one, at long last, with strawberries. — he glances at her face — she looked rancid — so he reached for the cord by the wall, flicked the switch, himself frowning and shrunken. The lamp near her shoulder cast no shadow. The little miss clinked the saucers against the counter, made to resemble green marble—saucers cast to resemble Meissen porcelain with lace-cut edges—and handed them each a real silver teaspoon.

— Silver, by the way.

— Ah, but the spoons aren’t free.

— I really don’t understand why we even need them—this is meant to be bitten into.

She crunched through the half-thawed strawberry, her eyes narrowing slightly as the cold hit her teeth, while the little miss spun between the woolen figures and their scarves—bright, almost unnervingly vivid.

— Come on now, don’t take it so hard. The poor strawberries will ripen eventually. Here, how about I get you something even better? Miss, what kind of mousse is this?

— Pomegranate, sir — she slipped past a brown shearling coat and frizzy hair, so her apron clasp brushed against her patterned kerchief sticking out of the bag.

— Now, that’s something! I’ll take it. When else would I get the chance? Oh look, she’s brought another spoon. Miss, oh miss, that’s more spoons than anyone could ever need — and, bending down, resting the palm on her sleeve, in a half-whisper — Or is this some kind of sign?

— Excuse me, sir, you’re standing on my scarf.

— In the end, how often do mischiefs go unnoticed? No one would even notice — Surely there are more …

— Sir — She tugged at the hem of his coat, but the stranger didn’t turn around, — Sir, my apologies, — she continued, hunched between chaotic, restless legs—legs wrapped in utterly unremarkable trousers, slacks, jeans, skirts, and, God help us, even elongated Lederhosen—while one dusty heel kept twisting and smearing street grime across the paisley pattern of her scarf.

— …than enough to go around.

— I heard you. Sir, do you have cloth ears? Lift your bloody shoe!

— Fascinating, how in some places, an absurd amount of attention is given to tiny details. Like, say, teaspoons.

The man snorted, finally shifting his heel, then shrugged off his coat and slid back into his conversation, laughing broadly.

— And yet, so few notice all these little efforts—things meant to show us something, to tell us something. On the other hand, what could just silver teaspoons possibly have to say to us?

— Enough of this tea tirade.

— Spoon tirade, you mean.

He took her promising silence as a hint to change the subject. In a lighthearted confusion over his complete lack of ideas, he realized that among all these beautiful people, who seemed to be celebrating some grand occasion over an ordinary cup of coffee, she looked—if we’re not exaggerating—puzzled. Whether it was the untidy state of her scarf, the icy strawberry — some thing, or perhaps he is eating away at the young lady.

— It’ll wash out, don't worry so much. It’s just a scarf.

— It’s just a shame, I’ve just bought it.

— Did you wash it after buying it?

— No, why?

— Well, now you will. Her lips twitched ever so slightly.

— What was that? Who taught you to smile like that?

— That’s enough, let me be. You, by the way, have a pink mustache.

— Nonsense, daughter, they’re gray. — And without hesitation, he grabbed a napkin to wipe the smudged raspberry from his hair, — Anyway, got it. And how are the neighbors?

— Oh, you know… As if they don’t exist. Either they’re so patient it’s downright unsettling, or…

— You’re the first person in the world to be irritated by people tolerating your own house parties. Be honest—do you make a lot of noise? — He raised his eyebrows almost comically high.

— Oh god…

— Alright, what is there that I don’t already know? I was young once too. Your mother and I, oh… we didn’t just…

Fewer and fewer figures remained. In the thinned space, the little miss grew from petite to broad; the door hushed, letting only a slight noise from the pavement drift beneath it, softly blowing inside the café; the reflection calmed down, shedding its load of colors, and her cup emptied.

His stupid conversation with himself, her stupid silence. His old eyes, hers tired. His spoon between his fingers, hers in the remains of the pomegranate mousse.

His: Look. A man with Easter flowers. Isn’t that a wonder?

Her: It is a wonder. — she poured the last of her cold milk into the cup and asked him to tell her something else.

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