There hadn’t been a sunny day in town since the old mayor threw himself off a cliff. There were little connections that Rose would make, nod to herself about, and as quickly forget. Her fingers gently gripped her bedsheet as she looked around her room. Her posture was impeccable, but she didn’t mean anything by it. The room had gotten a lot smaller as she’d gotten bigger. By now, she was just about face to face with her bookshelf and her desk. She wouldn’t have even known to call it claustrophobia, and it wasn’t, but she desperately wanted out of her little bedroom.
“Rose,” called out her mother, with a weakness that barely floated into Rose’s room. “Rose dear, could you bring me some water?”
“Yes, Mother,” said Rose, from the hallway just beyond her doorway. She drifted through the dark, empty house towards the kitchen and tried not to examine any details as she did. Her room she could control, but for the rest of the house, it seemed nature had already claimed back what it owned. If there was any sunlight to peak in, it would only unveil memories covered in dust. Rose only needed to find the sink, so she compartmentalized her focus, a skill she’d basically mastered. She filled up an old cup, rinsing it twice, and brought it all the way across the house to Mother’s room.
“Oh good, you’re home from school,” said Mother.
“It’s summer break, Mother.” It had been for a month. Rose’s mother laid in bed and trembled trying to grab the cup from her daughter. She usually had a bandana over her head, but it had fallen off. Rose tried not to look there.
A caretaker used to come by three times a week, but that program, along with most of the other ones, went away with the new mayor. A doctor came now once a month, but only so he could update the new mayor on how long before the city could seize the house. Rose overheard her mother say that on the phone the other day, but the line was disconnected.
Mother’s desperately thin arms struggled to caress the water cup. Her stern face characterized by thin lips had grown softer, but the lips no less thin. They helped take in the water from a position barely upright enough to get it down. “Rose, do you remember being ten?” she asked.
“I am ten,” said Rose. Her mother’s mind came and went. The sickness didn’t seem particularly careful in making its way around her mother’s body.
“When I was ten,” said her mother. “There was an awful storm. I ran into my bedroom and hid under the covers. ‘It’s just rain,’ my dad would yell. He always wanted to toughen me up. He wanted a son. But instead of facing my fears I just pretended it wasn’t raining. And then the pellets on the roof just stopped. Just like that. I looked out and it was sunny. My father didn’t say anything. Whenever I asked him about the storm that just stopped that time, all he’d ever say is, ‘it takes all types of people who see the world in all types of ways.’ Rose, I try to pretend I’m not sick. I try every day. Just like I did when I was ten years old. But it doesn’t work.”
“Momma, you’re gonna be okay,” said Rose. “Not all at once, like the storm, but slowly.” It was one thing for her mother not to believe it, but Rose didn’t either. Rose sat a moment longer with her mother, but she wanted to leave. She didn’t want these memories replacing any of the ones from when her mother was healthy. She thought about a lot of things like that as she didn’t know much else to do but think. The other kids in the area didn’t want anything to do with her since her mother fell ill. They heard all the stories, and not nearly as sugar coated as Rose heard them.
“That poor girl,” their mothers would say. “Daddy’s a drunk on the road God knows where, and her mother weighs just about 25 pounds. They say the mother’s screams through the night, on and on, are ‘bout just the only thing keeping her alive. If I were her, I’d just stay quiet a night, let the neighborhood sleep, and go ahead and get it over with.” It cannot be known why these mothers spoke so bluntly to their children, but they did. And their kids, who once happily jumped rope with Rose, now shunned her, for fear that her sadness was contagious. None of the kids knew what to say so they felt most comfortable saying nothing at all.
In Rose’s room, at least there was a lightbulb on and her teddy Desmond, who she’d taken to calling Deadmom because she was alone and had no idea how to grieve. But as she tried to sneak out of the dark room that smelled faintly of death and back to her own, her mother caught her.
“Rose, I want you to go out today,” she said. “I want you to cross the river. There's a little bridge if you walk towards Mister Chester’s house for two blocks and then make a beeline for the river, through the trees and all.”
“They said never to cross the river, Mother,” said Rose. She couldn’t tell what state her mother was in.
“That new mayor has it all twisted,” said her mother. “You can today, I’m telling you. Once you cross the bridge just keep going straight. There’s a cafe there, called Cafe Balneare. I want you to go in and spend the day there. You’ll enjoy yourself. You haven’t enjoyed yourself in a long while, dear. It breaks my heart.”
“I don’t know, Mama.”
“Do as your mother says.” Rose hesitated for a second on the pretense that her mother didn’t even remember that it was summer break or that she was ten, but eventually figured it wouldn’t hurt to explore a little. She didn’t expect the bridge to even be there at all.
The fresh air should have felt good on Rose’s skin, but it didn’t. Something had been sucked out of it; the freshness, perhaps. She looked over at Mister Chester’s house and felt small and alone, but she pushed up the block nonetheless.
Mister Chester was out watering his lawn, and he turned his attention to Rose. Rose could feel it out the side of her eyes. She hated the feeling. “That old mayor sure was kind to your mother,” said Mister Chester. Rose smiled faintly. “Too kind,” he continued. “But things are brewing now. The world’s a-changing.” Rose ignored him and sped her short strides to get past him. She made the rest of the two blocks without any interaction. The town, and her place in it seemed to be wilting at the same pace as her mother. She didn’t recognize what was once all she knew. And she felt equally unrecognizable.
She reached a crossroads exactly two blocks up from her house. To her left was the turn onto Wilton Street which would eventually hit Main Street if she took it far enough, and straight ahead was the continuation of Ox Road which would also get to Main Street, albeit in a more convoluted manner. Main Street was becoming increasingly devoid of life recently, a fact that saddened Rose. She was too young to have so many memories fading away.
The pavement of Ox Road was still as raggedy as ever under Rose’s little girl shoes. It seemed to melt into the dark fresh pavement of Wilton Road like cars were to be dragged off towards greener pastures. But across from where Wilton Road began, there was a house, and then a gap, and then a house. The gap opened to a mangled forest. If nothing else, the venture into the unkempt forest rattled around in Rose’s brain as a way to pass the time.
Rose pushed through the gap of houses and fought her way through the forest until she could hear that pleasant sound of rushing water. It drowned out the other sounds, and maybe even some of the looser thoughts. Sure enough, just a few yards down the river was a rickety wooden bridge. Rose approached it and gently placed her hand on it, more to test its reality than its structural integrity. The former, at least, was confirmed. As she began to walk on it, she was met with a wobble but no breakage.
“Hey!” shouted a voice. Rose nearly lost her balance, but used her hand upon the wooden base to give her three points of contact. She looked up, scared, not of some weird magic forest man but of a fascist, upholding the rule of not crossing the bridge. But it wasn’t the fascists that she’d encountered. On the other side of the bridge was a man with a green top hat and vest. He wore what Rose would describe as pantaloons, but weren’t actually pantaloons. They were the type of pants a ten year old girl would draw if you asked her to draw what she thought pantaloons were. They were purple. His hair was black and greasy and strands fell out of his top hat to give him a disheveled appearance. Leaves and dirt and other pieces of the forest had latched onto him, and Rose had trouble distinguishing where he ended and the forest picked back up.
“I’m Billingsly Butterbosom and this here is my bridge,” he said. His voice was whiney. He spoke like he wished he had an Irish accent.
“That’s your name for real?” asked Rose. There were more pressing questions, but also there weren’t.
“Well, my mother seems to think it’s Brandon, but we all make mistakes from time to time.” Rose nodded slowly.
“Well, I’m sorry I’m on your bridge, mister, I was just exploring, I can head back home.”
“On the contrary!” Shouted Butterbosom. “I want you on my bridge. I wish more people would cross my bridge.”
“The leaders in town won’t let people cross the river anymore.” Butterbosom’s face grew stern.
“You must reject people like that,” he said. He got off his perch and splashed around into the river to approach Rose. Rose held still.
“Please, miss, allow me,” he said. He took her hand and guided her across the bridge. Once on the other side, Butterbosom pointed up the hill, through the trees. “Up there’s the town,” he said.
“I’m looking for Cafe Ball-something,” said Rose. Butterbosom smiled.
“You won’t be able to miss it.” Butterbosom exchanged another peasantry or two with Rose and then sent her on his way. He claimed it was his duty to man the bridge. Rose walked up the hill towards the town, overjoyed to have encountered something strange in a good way for once.
When she got out of the forest on the other side, she saw something truly amazing: the sun. It cut through the clouds for the first time in ages, and she basked in its warmth for only a beat before noticing the beautiful building in front of it. The sun gave an angelic cast to it, and in bold ornate lettering it said CAFE BALNEARE right above its flowery door. Rose felt, perhaps oddly and perhaps sadly, the most at home she had felt in a very long while.
Rose entered the building and was met by a curious gaze from just about everyone inside. She noticed right away the gold chandelier that sat overhead. It was the main source of light besides the sunlight, some dim lamps around the sides and a few candles scattered about. The front bar had a row of pastries under glass and coffee machinery Rose could only ever dream of behind it. There was a Rube Goldberg actively creating a cold brew as Rose was looking at it. The patrons were scattered about with coffee and whisky and delicacies beside them. In the corners there were small groups engaged in conversation. Rose could as well as see their gears turning as if to prove how intellectually stimulating their battles were. An old man with a white beard and a pipe was pounding away at a typewriter like a sea captain wrangling with his ship to brave the harsh waves. A mustachioed man with a blue apron came from around the counter and approached Rose, but she barely noticed him while taking in the sights around her.
“Ah, a visitor,” he said in a French accent. “Madame, welcome to Cafe Balneare.”
“Hi, thank you,” said Rose. She took a seat up at the bar, and her short legs dangled off the high stool.
“I am Marquette. I run the establishment, although perhaps this table over here would beg to differ.” said the barista gesturing to the corner on Rose’s right. The two men and two women sitting there let out a collective cheer. “We are a cafe for writers, thinkers, artists. Protagonists even, some of the patrons think they are characters in a story and some of the writers think they are the geniuses that have created them. All the art on the wall was created in here.” Rose looked around and admired the decor. Some of the art was gorgeous, and some of it was horrible. It was perfect that way. “Cafe Balneare is for creatives to create, for the world to be changed, for ideas to percolate in the air and get stuck on like gum in hair or slipped on like a banana peel under foot. Here, have a hot chocolate.” Marquette placed a mug in front of Rose and turned the handle to her.
Rose began to reach into her pocket, and Marquette waved her off. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Your presence is payment.” He turned around and began furiously messing with industrial machinery behind her. He turned, in an instant, from friendly host to cackling Doctor Frankenstein. Rose sipped the hot chocolate and it shot through her neurons just as much as it did down her esophagus. She thought briefly of the joyous times when her mother would make her hot chocolate. But the thought of her mother did not linger on her mind.
Another man at the bar with a plaid fabric coat and a soft cap scooted over to her. This one spoke with a British accent. “It’s nice to have someone new,” he said. “Would you like to hear my poetry? Every other bloke in here has already heard it a million times over, but I cannot let fresh ears go to waste.”
“Oh okay,” said Rose. The man straightened his posture, and pulled out a crumpled paper.
“Walk on down the candlelit road, feel the bounce, they look at you, they look at you, pitchforks raised, eyes a-glazed, midnight strikes, and the sun may never raise. There’s a monkey on the horizon- ”
“Enough, Clyde!” shouted a woman from the table to Rose’s right. She had gotten up to approach him. She turned to Rose. “you have to stop him before he starts with the monkey noises or he’ll end up tearing the place apart. Come sit with us.” Rose laughed at the idea of a monkey man breaking things in the cafe and took a seat that had been pushed out for her at the table in the corner. She looked back at Clyde who is frozen in place like a windup toy that’s been held still. He slowly slunk back into his seat and began putting pen to a napkin. “This here is Lio,” said the woman. Her brown hair flowed down from a bandana tied neatly around the crown of her head. “Show the girl, Lio”
“Ah,” said Lio, shooing off his friend.
“It’s a little girl,” said the woman. “And there’s a deep sadness within her. You can tell.” Lio’s face fell like his stubbornness was being chipped away.
“Okay, madame,” he said. “See this here, I have half a croissant.” The other woman next to him silently handed him another half. “And another half, here,” he continued. “Two halves, what does that make? A hole.” He gestured down on the table and sure enough there was a hole in it about three inches in diameter. Rose was certain it wasn’t there before. Lio dropped one half of the croissant through the hole with his right hand and caught it with his left under the table. Rose’s eyes remained fixed as wide as they could go. “I suppose the cat’s out of the bag,” he said. He shook a burlap sack he pulled from his lap and proved its emptiness. Rose heard a meow and turned to see a cat behind her. It leapt into her arms.
“Kitty!” she said, holding the cat. “You’re-you’re a magician!”
“Magique?” said Lio. “No, no, no, a linguist. It’s just language.”
“Lio was written by me,” said the other man at the table. He had a sharp nose and wore the thinnest pinstriped suit ever tailored by a man of good faith. “I write characters. Lio is my best yet. A man who can bend reality with language. I’m exceptionally talented as a writer. Do you know why?”
“No,” said Rose, her face lit with excitement and her hands caressed the cat.
“Well, because I too am a character. I’m written by an inferior author, an auteur of reality, who wrote one day, ‘and so he shall be, Mandolo, the greatest writer who ever lived.’ and then my author let me write the rest of his book. The greatest book that ever was.”
“That’s a load of mumbo jumbo,” said Lio. As he did, the biggest mumbo Rose had ever seen appeared before her. But Rose had never seen mumbo.
“Believe what you will,” said Mandolo. “That’s the beauty of individualism.”
“Ah these two will go on forever if you let them,” said the woman who had introduced them to Rose. Her name was Beatrice. “I’ve found it my duty to stop them when they do. At the sacrifice of my own art.”
Rose sipped her hot chocolate and watched as the whole table battled their eccentric wits against each other. She laughed and gasped along as they made it clear that their performances were for her. At the final sip of Rose’s mug, the door swung open. Marquette’s four arms that flew wildly through his various apparatuses collapsed back into two, and he turned around in silence as the sound died down to a low hum of stationary machinery.
An officer stood in the doorway. Rose recognized his outfit and demeanor from those patrolling Main Street ever since the new mayor took over.
“Bonjour,” said Marquette, stiffly. Rose tightened up at the standoff.
“I’ve received word of wrongdoing here,” said the officer. He looked directly at Rose. His outfit was a dark gray with large militaristic brass buttons set diagonally across the chest. He had a yellow armband wrapped around his left bicep and his hat was tall and pointed with a yellow emblem on it. His expression was stern and smug.
“Surely you’ve come upon the wrong place, Monsieur,” said Beatrice.
“I’ll have silence from you, woman,” said the officer. “ I’ll speak with the owner.”
“She speaks the truth,” said Marquette. “You’re in the wrong place. You wish you weren’t much more than we do. I promise you that.” Rose stared at him attentively. The officer unhooked a baton from his belt as he walked into the center of the cafe.
“Center stage is yours,” said Mondolo. “He walked foolishly into the middle, his feet scraping the ground as he walked, but it might as well have been his knuckles. He was furious but he knew not why. He looked head on into complexity and all he ever was and all he ever knew was simple. Can we get a spotlight on him?” A spotlight fell upon the officer. The chandelier went out. Rose smiled.
Lio walked up to the officer. “That’s a sharp outfit you have on there,” he said.
“Ow!” shouted the officer. He pulled a spike out from his sleeve. “Enough. I’m taking identification from everyone here.” In his posture, he tried desperately to maintain his waning authority.
“Here you are,” said Lio. He handed the officer his passport upside down. “Oh, my mistake,” he said once it was taken from him. He took it back and turned it the right way. The officer immediately dropped it to the ground after taking it the second time.
“You’ve burned me,” he shouted, furiously.
“Well of course,” said Lio. “I’ve turned it 180 degrees, what do you expect? Good thing I didn’t turn it the full way round. We’d need first aid.”
“What is the place?” said the officer. His anger was slowly transforming to uneasiness.
“Would you like to hear my poem?” asked the British man from the bar.
“No,” snapped the officer.
“First correct thing he’s done,” said Beatrice to Rose. Rose giggled.
“You’re all under arrest,” said the officer. Lio looked up at the ceiling. He pointed out that they were rather under a roof, though a rest would be nice. The officer told Lio that he was under arrest for assaulting an officer, though he knew he’d have a hard time explaining how exactly it happened. He pulled out handcuffs and ordered Lio to turn around with his hands behind his back. The patrons of Cafe Balneare simply smirked at him, and Rose sat enthralled with the heroes and villains before her.
“Monsieur, what have we done wrong?” asked Lio sweetly. His eyes squinted in a faint smile that only infuriated the officer further.
“You’ve resisted my authority and assaulted me. These are serious offenses. It is your duty to the land and to the peace to accept who is in charge and respect the ordinances set out for you. Now turn around with your hands behind your back!” The officer prepared his handcuffs, while Lio slowly turned away from the officer to present his hands.
“But I’m afraid you’ve got it all twisted,” said Lio. The officer moved to cuff him but found that the handcuffs had gotten themselves tied up in a wicked knot. He let out a quick exasperated sigh. “But if your equipment doesn’t work, I suppose you calm back down. You’re making a fool of yourself in front of our guest of honor.” Lio gestured to Rose, as she beamed from ear to ear.
Beatrice handed the officer a portrait she’d hastily put together during the conversation of the officer shrouded in his militaristic gray outfit with his eyes crossed under big silly glasses. “For you, sir,” she said. He accepted the offering by nature of it being shoved into his hands. “I call in the Picture of Dorky in Gray.” He looked at it briefly before casting it aside in a huff.
“Rose, would you like to see some idioms?” asked Mondolo gently from his sitting position.
“Idioms!” shouted Rose. She found herself fully embracing the moment. Before the officer could do anything, Marquette strapped an astronaut's helmet to him, equipped with a full oxygen tank.
Look how excited the fella is,” said Lio. “He’s over the moon!” The officer disappeared in an instant. Lio looked around, put his hand up, gave it a beat and then spoke again. “He’s actually quite a down to Earth guy.” The officer appeared back, sitting on the floor with abject terror in his eyes. “It could have been any of you horrible fascists to come here and endure the torture of language, but you’re the one who had to bite the bullet.” The officer screamed and spit out lead and blood into his helmet. He ripped the bowl off his head and gasped at the cafe air.
“But buddy if you hang in there long enough, I’ll let you off the hook, no need to get all bent out of shape,” said Lio, quickly. You can only imagine the whirlwind that put the officer through. He finally crumpled to the ground and crawled his way to the exit. Rose cheered on in delight. “Now get out of here. I’ll need to have Marquette make me a coffee after this.” Marquette approached Lio and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Ah, speak of the devil,” said Lio, looking at Marquette. A small devil appeared on his shoulder. He gasped in faux horror and continued. “Ah but that’s actually a blessing in disguise.” He ripped a mask off the tiny devil and it revealed itself to be an angel. Lio took the angel and placed it onto Rose’s shoulder. Rose smiled and clapped as the officer found his way out of the cafe.
Rose woke up at 10 AM the next day. She vaguely remembered the rest of the raucous time at the cafe and the journey home. She thought about how she got into her pajamas and slipped into bed, into dreams not possibly more magical than her experiences of the day. She didn’t think about her mother, the parts she didn’t want to think about at least.
She awoke to a dark house and moans of pain. She could hear, but more torturously feel, her mother’s suffering. Very little light came through her window as dark clouds continued their reign on the weather. She could feel her mouth draw up and her eyes slant down, both finding what was becoming their resting positions, but then she noticed something peculiar on her desk.
There was a large hardcover book with a bookmark about a third of the way in. She could barely tell if she recognized it or not. On the cover, it read, The Linguist of Cafe Balneare by B.R.R.R. Butterbosom. She opened to the bookmarked page, and when she did, the sun peeked through the clouds and her mother’s wailing came to silence.
“Bonjour,” said Marquette, warmly.