Espionage: A Jigsaw in 500 Pieces [part five]

by Peter Wild

[ 1-10 ] [ 11-22 ] [ 23-30 ] [ 31-49 ]

[ 50 ]
You lift your head up from the table. It's funny, this last half hour you've been getting closer and closer, your ear almost parallel with the jigsaw. The wife whispered in my ear as I started in on the Turkish coffee - you'll remember the Turkish coffee, I said I was going to brew you some up, to keep your head strong; the wife whispered in my ear about how you were doing the jigsaw the way an Indian tracker searches for outlaws. Like in the old West or in the films of John Wayne. An actor called Bruce Cabot played an Indian tracker in an old John Wayne movie called Big Jake. Myself and the wife saw Big Jake at the cinema - oh, it must be thirty years ago. More than thirty years ago. But I digress, again. You've been so tense. Anyone would think the jigsaw was a precision instrument. I thought maybe you would start to sweat soon. But you look cool. You are looking really cool. That is what the kids say isn't it? If something is good. It is really cool. And now look at you. You are tapping the pieces gently to ensure that they are level. Here and there a join isn't what it could be. You are fixing. Tapping and fixing. It strikes me - and I tell the wife as the coffee percolates in the cezve, you are not like an Indian tracker at all, you are more like a builder, a careful builder, ensuring the foundations are solid before you proceed.

[ 51 ]
Foundations secure, you sit back in your seat and glance quickly into the kitchen at me and at my wife. You smile. You're pleased with yourself. I can tell. It's good. I'm glad you're pleased with yourself. You're smiling. I'm smiling. The wife is smiling. It doesn't last very long. The wife coughs, says you're precious Turkish coffee is burning. I raise my hands like a dithery bird assaying a flight in brisk wind and shift the copper-bottomed pan offof the stove. Turkish coffee needs precision also, I say. You have to grind the beans in a special grinder. Called a kahve degirmeni. You have to grind the beans finer than you would in Europe. Or America. The wife spits in the sink at the mention of America. This is what she thinks about American coffee. And much else that is American. After grinding the beans, you add cold water to the cezve, one cup of cold water for each person plus half a cup for the pot itself. You add the ground coffee while the water is cold, and sugar. Did you know that there are still Turkish courtship rituals that hinge upon the sweetness of a cup of coffee? Hard to imagine in this day and age, isn't it? You then have to heat the cezve very slowly, very slowly. Turkish coffee takes it's time. But it is worth the wait. Do you see where I'm driving at, my friend? The parallel between the Turkish coffee I am making and the endeavour in which you yourself are participating?

[ 52 ]
The flavour is the important thing. I find that gentle heat is not enough. I like to remove the cezve from the heat every once in a while, just for a minute or so. I find that this - this removal of heat - gives the coffee time to grow strong. That probably sounds ridiculous to you. It's only a drink, after all. I know what you young people are like. But then many of you young people take coffee very seriously indeed. But the coffee you take seriously is so - I can't think of the word. I click my fingers and my wife slaps my hand. She tells me that the word I am looking for is homogeneous. I shake my head. I don't think that is the word I was looking for at all. Not at all. But best not to start a fight. This is what marriage has taught me. So I nod in the wife's direction and repeat the word and then say, yes. When her back is turned I look at you and roll my eyes, as if to say Women. I am sure that you understand. You look to me as if you have a firm grip on the dynamics of getting along. Of course, my wife says and don't you roll your eyes at me either. So we go through the motions, the old I didn't, yes you did, no I didn't. But it's more for your benefit than anything else. We both of us know the pleasure young people take in ridiculing the spats and bickering prevalent among people who have been married as long as the wife and I. We take pleasure in fulfilling expectations.

[ 53 ]
But I was talking about the flavour of the coffee, wasn't I? There's an important difference between Turkish coffee and any other kind of coffee. Except for maybe Greek coffee. Maybe the Greeks stole this idea from the Turks. Or maybe the Turks stole the idea from the Greeks. Either way. There is one important difference. After the coffee has been heated for no small period of time, you pour some - not all, just some - of the mixture into however many cups you have. On this occasion I have three cups - one for you, one for me and one, of course, for my dear sweet little wifey. Pardon me while I kiss her cheek. There we go. Don't mind the things she says. She enjoys the kisses as much as I do. Oh be quiet wife. You know that you enjoy the kisses as much as I do. You pour some of the mixture into the cups. The rest you leave to boil some more. At this point, we each of us take our cups and we sip. Don't worry. I am careful. I will be sure not to spill a drop upon the - how many do you say? 53? I will be careful not to spill a drop of coffee upon the 53 pieces of jigsaw puzzle you have so far chanced across and upon. Now. Take your cup in your hand as if it was a champagne flute. That's right. Hold it up to your mouth. You can smell it, can't you? The smell of the coffee and the heat. It's like nothing you've ever known. Am I right?

[ 54 ]
There is definitely something earthy about it. That's the first thing that struck me, all those years ago, when my father Kemal first brewed me up a pot of the good stuff. He sat with me as I sit with you, and instructed me as I am instructing you. He took the little demi-tasse cup in his big meaty paw and told me to hold the cup like it fass a champagne flute. My father said champagne the way English people cay champion, with the hard SEE-AYTCH. He told me to hold the cup like it was a champagne flute and sniff - sniff like a pig looking for truffles in the wet French ground. I told my father that I thought the coffee smelled like dirt. He nodded and said, devam etmek which means go on. Go on or continue. Something like that. I said it smelled like dirt but not regular dirt. My father said yaraar. Which means good, if I remember correctly. I said that the coffee smelled the way I would imagine the dirt in a grave to smell. My father nodded at this point, enthusiastically. And not just the dirt in any grave, I said. It smelled like the dirt in a grave that had just been dug. The dirt in a grave that was dark as a result of the gravediggers themselves who were at that moment having a well-earned break, leaning on their spades at the side of the grave smoking their cheap brown sigara. My father clapped his hands like a child himself. And do you know what he said to me?

[ 55 ]
My father told me that I was right when I said that the coffee smelled of dirt and right when I said that the coffee smelled of the grave. My father told me that the coffee we drank was full to the brim with ölüm, which is the Turkish word for death. We drink the coffee to take the death inside, he said. We drink of death and the death makes us stronger. Drinking Turkish coffee is like laughing in the face of death. We spend time making the coffee like we each spend time making our lives. And then we welcome the coffee the way we are each of us forced at some point to welcome death. But - and this is the crucial thing, this is the thing I want to share with you, this is the thing you should know as you sit in my house chip-chip-chipping away at this little jigsaw puzzle - you drink the coffee, you make Death your own. You are the one who is in charge. You are the one in the driver's seat. My father told me something else, too. You remember I only gave you a part of a cup. I poured some of the coffee into each of our cups but some I left in the pot. You remember. Well. There is a good reason for this. You drink once. You sup up death. Perhaps you are afraid that first time. So we leave some coffee in the cezve. This means we can drink again, you see? We drink once, we swirl the grounds in the cup and then we drink again.

[ 56 ]
The first time you drink, perhaps it is not so nice. (Yes, yes. I saw the face you made when you first sipped. It's okay. A lot of people feel that way when they first taste Turkish coffee.) The first time you drink, perhaps you think you are being hospitable. When in Rome. Perhaps you think, When in Rome. But a second cup? A second cup hard on the heels of the first? This is a little harder to stomach. I know. I know. I felt the same way myself once upon a time. Don't kid yourself. You are not the first person ever to walk this Earth or experience all of the things that you are experiencing. Everything that you feel, I have felt. My wife has felt. Your own parents have more than likely felt. What is it that your Shakespeare says about there being nothing new under the sun. That was true all the way back then so it's even more true now. So the coffee, the Turkish coffee I have asked you to drink. It is not so nice at first. It is what you call an acquired taste, yes? An acquired taste that you are perhaps not all that keen to acquire. Hah. Look. You have set my wife to chuckling now. She likes to laugh, my wife. And then of course all of the things that I said, about how Turkish coffee tastes like death. That too is probably hard to stomach. Not only does it taste horrible, he tells me that I am drinking death. That is what you thought. I am almost sure of it.

[ 57 ]
But there is a reason, a good reason, for why we drink the second time. (I say there is a reason. When you get to be as old as I am, you drink because you like the taste. You drink one cup and then another cup and then you brew up some more and you keep drinking because the coffee keeps you up and about, which is harder and harder all the time. I am not the man I once was. I don't even have to look at my wife to know that she is nodding. She is thinking, you can say that again. So I will: I am not the man I once was.) I was saying: the reason why we drink a second time. We drink a second time to show death, to convince death, that we are not afraid. Honestly and truthfully, we are not afraid. We drink once, we say to death, we are not afraid. And perhaps, that first time, the coffee tastes vile. But, by drinking what we think is vile a second time, we say yes. Truly. We are not afraid. I can see from your face that you don't really see. I can see from your face that you are thinking of another line from Shakespeare, about the lady who doth protest too much. You think death is laughing at us. You think, by drinking two-times, we are giving death too much credit. You think we are like the little children in the playground, sticking out our tongues and waggling our bottoms. Yes? You think we are more afraid of death than you are. You are wrong. We are smarter than you. We have lived longer and we know more.

[ 58 ]
My wife touches my arm. She thinks I have gone too far. She is, as ever, right. I am haranguing a guest. A guest in my own home. That is not right. And I am distracting you from the jigsaw puzzle. You did not come here for a lecture from an old man. You came here for a good time. And the best I can offer you is a jigsaw puzzle. It is a humble offering, to be sure. But then to distract you, with aimless reminiscences. It is unforgivable. You do not want to hear about my father and you do not want to hear about the history of coffee and you do not want to hear about death. Of course you don't. You do not want to hear about death. I understand. This - this motion I make in which a pretend key turns at the corner of my mouth - you know this? It means I am locking the door. I am locking the door and - look, I am throwing the imaginary key away. You will hear no more from me about coffee and death. But - and this is my last word - do not forget. I may seem like a foolish old man but there is truth, sometimes a great deal of truth, in the things I say. I won't say wisdom. I almost did. I almost said in the wisdom I impart. I really am a foolish old man. Here. Drink your coffee. Come on. Drink. It will do you good. It will fortify you. I like that word, fortify. The coffee will fortify you. Now where were we?

[ 59 ]
Let's return our gaze to the jigsaw puzzle, shall we? There are over half a hundred pieces in play. You are about a tenth of the way through the jigsaw. That is quite an achievement for a few hour's work, I think. And already we can see so much. There, look, we can see the mysterious package. The box and later the brown paper bag. I wonder what is inside. And here, yes, by all means, trace the line with your finger, is the path taken to bring the package all the way to Manchester, England. What a journey that was! So very many hundreds of miles. I see you are nervous of the deaths. There have been many deaths so far. This jigsaw has been as full of death as the coffee I serve. Haha. No, you're right. It isn't really funny. But I did say, didn't I? About how the jigsaw is like life. And what is life if not a gigantic tussle with death? Yes? I hold your gaze for a moment but I can see that it makes you uncomfortable. I will leave you be. This is your jigsaw puzzle, after all. Not mine. Not anymore. You know what to do by now, I suppose. Thrust your hand into the pile. Extract a piece. Maybe let it go, maybe see if it fits. Try this piece and that until you find a fit. What's that? Yes, yes, woman. My wife cannot shut up about my hearing. There is nothing wrong with my hearing! You say you've found another fit! How exciting! Let me see...

© Peter Wild 2006 / 2007

Peter Wild is the co-founder of Bookmunch. He is the editor of a forthcoming series of books for Serpent's Tail, the first two of which - Perverted by Language: Fiction inspired by The Fall and The Empty Page: Fiction inspired by Sonic Youth - will be published in 2007. His writing and fiction have appeared in various outlets including Scarecrow, NOO Journal, Word Riot, Laura Hird, Nude Magazine, Thieves Jargon, Dreams That Money Can Buy and Eyeballkid.