Mira’s Cafe

Everyone in the old city knew it well. The famous café by the market close to the town square. There were many like it, almost too many; all lined up and down the street, vying for people’s attention with gestures of enticement, greetings, or small offerings of baklava and halvah; in the hopes that curiosity would turn to interest and then a small snack, a hookah, or a cup of coffee would create the kind of loyal customer that a Syrian coffee shop owner could count on to feed his family.

But none were like Mira’s. She was unique. A hostess that commanded the kind of respect, admiration, and loyalty that would not be denied. She was a force of nature. To share a few words with her brightened your day. To stand in her presence made you feel the warmth and tenderness of family and friends. A woman of many talents, she hosted the patrons at her café like a master of ceremonies, weaving together a tapestry composed of equal parts service, food, drink, and merrymaking. She had the busiest café in all of Damascus and the steady stream of regulars turned it into the city’s main social gathering place; from the shopkeepers to the inn keepers to the government workers to the old men who had nothing else to do with the remainder of their time alive, they all gathered and they all exchanged stories, gossip, laughter, and sorrow.

There was also Mira’s gift. Her family had been bestowed with the soothsayer’s ability to read Turkish coffee grinds and determine someone’s destiny from the markings at the bottom of the coffee cup. Her family had been exiled from Turkey at the turn of the 18th century. Her great grandmother was conscribed to the court of Mahmoud the Second, the great reformer of the Ottoman Empire and the first Sultan to usher in its modern era. As the Sultan’s mystic advisor, she had the unfortunate duty of informing the ruler of the eventual demise of the empire, less than a century after his death. Her reward was exile.

Their family fled south to Syria and settled in Damascus, where the men continued their tradition of working with copper and steel, forging — among other things — the very tea kettles used by the women in their craft. The women, in turn, would entertain the neighbors with their gift and word began to spread when the prophesies proved to be eerily accurate. Thus, they continued their tradition in Damascus, from their humble home near Bab Touma, the Northeast corner of the city.

Mira’s grandmother, Sarah, was the last woman in the family to have the gift before Mira. Sometimes the gift skipped a generation or two, and Sarah’s disappointment at her own daughter’s inability to show any talent for it left her with a void that was later filled by Mira. With dogged determination, Sarah poured all of her knowledge into the little girl, trying to impart as much wisdom as possible at the end of her days, knowing it was a race against time. Mira was the youngest of thirteen and by the time she had matured, Sarah was entering the twilight of her life. But the old woman persisted in passing on the legacy so that it would not die with her.

Mira, on the other hand, was never interested in such things. From a very early age she had been blessed with a clever tongue and a beautiful face. She also had an abundance of charm that radiated so loudly, people were naturally drawn to her. She, in turn, reveled in the attention. Her extroverted nature always sought a way to be out in the world and among others. Her grandmother’s insistence that she study the art required a commitment to isolation that she was not prepared to give willingly. Eventually, for the sake of appeasing each other, they found a way to make their relationship work: each having enough respect for the other to allow Mira to keep an active social life while devoting two evenings a week to her grandmother’s lesson.

When Mira was old enough to take a husband, she decided on Hakim, the son of the coffee merchant, who had a stand at the market and a thriving coffee business. From there, it only made sense that the two would open a shop in the area, making their way as a young couple and eventually, with the passage of time and the addition of several offspring, as a family of their own.

Mira used her gifts to attract customers and entertain guests, finding that the men were just as enchanted with her feminine charms as they were with her mystical arts. To her it didn’t matter much, as long as they paid for their coffee and ordered additional helpings of pastries, fruit, and tobacco. Her youngest daughter, Naima, shy but diligent, was always at Mira’s side ready to tend to whatever the customers wanted but never daring to make any eye contact or say anything more than the customary exchange of pleasantries.

It was during one of those routine evenings — where everything seemed to be going along its intended course as Mira held court for a house full of customers — that the man in white appeared. He materialized as if out of the shadows. No one saw him approach the shop. In an instant, the tall lanky figure in the white suit with the bright blue eyes and the gaunt features beckoned to Mira from just outside her door. She walked over to him, unsure of herself and uncomfortable with the emotion, as she was blatantly aware that this was self-doubt and insecurity, a feeling she was wholly unfamiliar with. She opened the door and poked her head out, but before she could say anything, he stroked her black hair with his long sinewy fingers and gently placed his other hand on her shoulder to guide her outside.

“Ahhh, Mira. Lovely Mira. The tales of your beauty have not been exaggerated. I hope that the same holds true for your hospitality. I am in need of fine company tonight and I have heard nothing but great things of your little shop and the comradery that envelops its patrons; turning strangers into friends and friends into family.”

Silence had taken hold of her. Her power to speak was somehow dampened; and getting the words from her mind to her tongue proved too great a task. That is, until he stopped stroking her hair and removed his hand from her shoulder. Then the words came back quickly, “I see the wind has brought me another desert orphan. Come inside and let’s see if we can change that…shall we?”

She grabbed his hand and ushered him through the door, ordering her sons to clear the corner table while she pulled a chair out from under it and beckoned him to sit down. All the while, Naima watched from the edge of the kitchen, unsure of what to make of this stranger.

“I will bring your argeeleh right away. What else would you like?”

The man asked for very little — some dates and a small sliver of baklava, along with a cup of Turkish coffee.

Mira obliged quickly, making her oldest son personally responsible for tending to the man’s needs.

A few hours passed and the man had settled in with the locals. For some reason, they were all too eager to share everything with this stranger. Tawfeek told him about the time he almost lost his leg in the war. Hashem bragged about his business acumen and his ability to charm any woman he met, no matter how aloof. Old Bashar kept talking about the Damascus he remembered from long ago; a place untainted by the declining morals of today’s youth.

Mira did her part as well, walking amongst them, seamlessly partaking in the exchanges while simultaneously making sure their tables were always full. Her keen eye was well aware of the fact that, throughout the entire evening, the stranger had only sipped his coffee in dribs and drabs, going to great lengths to keep the cup from emptying until all conversation had been exhausted and the evening began to wind down. At that point, the man in white gestured over to Mira, who had Naima by her side, clinging to her long skirt as a child usually does, in an attempt at some security.

“Can I get you anything else Shabaab?’

“Shabaab? Please Mira, you flatter me. I have not been a young man for a very long time. Instead of shabaab, you might as well call me Jiddo, as I am old enough to be your grandfather.”

“Nonsense! You cannot be older than 38 and by my standards, that still qualifies; especially when the man has a certain level of charm and wit about him; along with such a handsome face to match.”

The man in white smiled, “Your gift for hospitality and flattery has no rival.” He sat back in his chair and with his leg, kicked the chair opposite him away from the table.

“Please… have a seat. You know what I really came here for. The last few hours have been a pleasant diversion, but people like us must tend to what needs tending.”

He took his last sip of the coffee and slid the cup over to the other side of the table, where Mira had taken a seat and Naima stood right beside her, afraid of something, but not really sure what.

Mira smiled and took the cup, placed it sideways along the saucer and began, “You have traveled far to be here, and your loneliness requires that you keep searching. You will not find peace until you reach your beloved.”

“And… Miss Mira, who exactly is my beloved?” The man grabbed Mira’s hand and fixed his gaze upon hers, his eyes boring deep into her soul. She was in shock and could not speak. She uttered a few phrases of nonsense before regaining her composure and pulling her hand away.

“I’m sorry. I got flustered for a minute…” She paused and took a deep breath. Then, she glanced down at the grinds in the cup — the patterns were completely unfamiliar to her. There was nothing that she recognized, no sign of the marks that her grandmother had trained her to notice. She was in foreign territory but couldn’t concede that. She pressed on, digging her heels harder and committing to her original interpretation, “Your beloved is right here, waiting for you. She is in this city as we speak. A young widow, whose husband recently died, having no luck with children and no longer bearing a family name, she waits for an older gentleman to give her both.”

The man in white smiled. He looked down at the coffee grinds and began studying them intently. After a few seconds, his smile turned to laughter and it pierced Mira’s soul. Even before he opened his mouth she knew she had been exposed.

“That is not what the fortune says. You do not know much, but Sarah has taught you enough to know that.” He grabbed her hand once more, “Do not trifle with me child. Your grandmother knew better than to do that.” He studied her face briefly and then his laughter returned, but this time, it seemed a bit less maniacal and a lot more deliberate.

“You my dear child, do not understand what the coffee grinds are trying to tell you. The gift inside you is very limited, forced upon you by Sarah. In her haste to leave a legacy she failed to notice that her torchbearer’s flame was only a wisp. But there is something else here. There must be. I was drawn here by someone. I assumed it was you but…”

The man’s attention turned to the little girl, who buried her face deep into her mother’s skirt and shut her eyes tight. The man’s smile widened. He waved his hand over the table and the coffee cup that was in front of Mira moved a few inches to the right. His open hand shut and he waved his fist in the air, producing a jolting effect from underneath the table that dragged Mira’s chair to the other side of it, separating her from her daughter.

The little girl’s eyes remained closed, even though she had lost the security blanket of her mother’s skirt.

“You will tell me what I need to know child.” The stranger leaned forward and placed one elbow on top of the table while his other hand began stroking Mira’s hair. She sat beside him frozen and helpless — unable to intervene on her daughter’s behalf.

The girl approached the table. The cup moved away from the stranger with every step Naima took, and they eventually both met in the middle. Naima’s eyes blazed with hues of amber. As the gift took hold of her, Naima began to speak, no longer as a child or even as an adult, but as an instrument of the supernatural.

“Your beloved is the dessert rose that awaits at the end of the long journey across the sand. Your beloved is the moon and the sun, together as one, the nature of light and darkness transfixed into one soul, with you as its desire. You will find your beloved and free her from the chains of bondage. You will find her at the edge of the ruins of Palmyra and you will know fear for the first time in centuries. You are the djinn that is torn between your place amongst your kind and the power you yield over the ones made of clay. You can either be a prophet or a god, but you cannot be both. The longer you walk between two worlds, the more distant both shall become. Your fire will burn out and your ashes will scatter in the wind, leaving behind only a memory and a curse.”

The light from Naima’s eyes intensified: “The one that walked between both worlds shall be no more.”

Her last words trailed off into deafening silence as the crowd around them was too stunned to speak. Naima’s eyes returned to normal and she looked over at Mira, her face terrified and in disbelief. The man in white released her mother and she quickly ran to Naima and embraced her.

“Thank you, Naima,” he said. “You have done well.”

The man stood up, placed a twenty-pound note on the table, and walked out the door. He disappeared into the night. The little girl, her mother, and a handful of patrons remained; stunned in silence.

Everything was the same and everything had changed. This was the beginning for Naima; and the beginning of the end for Mira.