Roast Mortem

Two

Like the accident on the bridge, I approached Enzo Testa’s caffè without knowing exactly what lay ahead, although I should have had a clue — not because of the smell of accelerants or the sound of cartoonishly loud ticking, but because of the woman who unlocked the door.

In her early forties, Enzo’s daughter Lucia seemed almost storklike in her fashionable gangliness. Her nose was long, her squinting eyes the flat color of sour pickles. Her sleek, short, slicked down hair, which should have echoed the same dark hue as her salon-shaped brows, was striated instead with the sort of shades you’d find in a jar of whole-grain Dijon (or the bottles of an uptown colorist).

Hugging her slim figure was a black designer frock with a high hemline and low neckline, the better to show off the heavy gold bling around her neck and chic gladiator sandals (also gilded) with four-inch heels that added dauntingly unnecessary height to her already lengthy legs. All of this seemed a bit much for shift work in a neighborhood coffeehouse, and I assumed she was dressed for a hot dinner date.

“We’re closed,” she said, her plum-glossed lips forming a bad-luck horseshoe.

“We have an appointment,” I began, all business.

“With Enzo, your father.” Madame stepped up, her tone of voice much more placating than mine.

“You’re late.”

“And we do apologize,” Madame told the woman. “I did call — ”

“It’s my fault,” I cut in. “I’m very sorry, but I run a coffeehouse, too, and I had trouble getting away. Then we got stuck on the bridge. There was an accident...”

Lucia propped a narrow hip, more bling clattering on her narrow wrist. “When isn’t there?”

“You’re right,” I said, biting back a less civil response. “But won’t you at least tell your father we made it?”

Lucia’s reply was to make a show of looking me up and down. I hadn’t changed from my Blend shift so my Italian roast hair was still pulled back in a barista-ready (and now supremely messy) ponytail. My makeup had sweated off in traffic, and my simple cotton Henley was tragically wrinkled.

She squinted with open disgust at my scuffed black boots and economically priced jeans, and in case I missed the squint, she threw in a smirk to go with it.

I was about to say something I’d probably regret when a deep voice boomed from inside the caffè: “Lucia, che cosa? Is that Blanche?”

Lucia stepped back — with obvious annoyance — and opened the door all the way. A gentleman in shirtsleeves strode across the spotlessly clean mosaic tile floor. Tall, like his daughter, Enzo was not at all gangly. On the contrary, he appeared especially robust for a man in his seventies. The line of his chin and jaw were giving way, like the inevitable decline of a classic old foundation, but his head was still thick with hair, albeit receding in front, the black pepper copiously sprinkled with gray salt.

When the Italian flung out his arms, Madame stepped into them, and the man’s wide smile tightened the skin at his jaw, restoring for a flickering moment the hallmarks of those Victor Mature looks. Instantly I knew that I was glimpsing a vision of Enzo’s earlier self, a long-gone ghost of youth. Like a dying ember, the apparition faded, yet the man continued to give off a color of energy I more commonly saw in the budding green of youth (or diehard romantics) — a color Madame had always embraced.

“Bella! Blanche, you are ravishing still. Bella! Bella!”

The shop was small, half the size of my Village Blend, with a marble counter the shade of mature avocado, a restored tin ceiling, and a pair of hanging fans with wooden paddles lazily stirring the air. Large and small tables of sturdy, polished, marble-topped oak crowded the floor. Behind the bar sat a modern, low-slung espresso machine, typical of a New York café.

Not at all typical, however, was the sweeping mural on the opposite wall, which stretched the length of the building. The artwork itself contained multiple images, each rendered in a different artistic style.

Is it all Enzo’s? I was unable to look away as every thoughtful section of the work evoked either meaningful recognition or absolute astonishment.

Enzo stepped back from hugging Madame, one arm continuing to claim her waist. His free hand reached into a pocket for a large pair of steel-framed glasses.

“Glasses? Oh, no!” Madame laughed. “I doubt I’ll look as ‘ravishing’ now!”

“These old eyes just need a little help for a better view of your beauty.” He slipped them on and grinned again. “You haven’t aged a day.”

Madame glanced back at me and mouthed, Didn’t I tell you? Such a charmer!

“And you, Enzo!” she said. “You’re as dashing as the day we first met!”

After more cooing and multiple cheek kisses, Madame stepped away. “There, now that all of those whopping lies are out of the way, we can talk honestly, just like old friends should.”

She gestured in my direction. “This is my manager, Clare.”

Forcing myself to stop gawking at the finely wrought fresco, I smiled. “So nice to meet you, Signore Testa.”

He shook my hand, his grip warm, firm, a little stiff (the beginnings of arthritis?). “At last we meet. I’ve heard so much about you over the years...”

Enzo’s stare was as penetrating as his offspring’s but held no scorn. I sensed only the painter inside him, evaluating my colors and contours, contemplating depths with his eyes.

“Bellissima,” he whispered, lifting the back of my hand to his lips. As he held my gaze, he spoke softly to Madame: “Such a jewel, Blanche. Eyes like emeralds set afire. Lady Apples for cheeks, lips full and pillowy, yet the girlish face sits upon a ripened figure. So lush!”

Oh, good God.

“She is another Claudia Cardinale!”

“I always thought so,” Madame said.

Lucia made a noise behind me. It sounded like a snort. I didn’t blame her. A Fellini leading lady I wasn’t. Clearly, the prescription on the man’s glasses had expired.

“And you have given Blanche a granddaughter as beautiful?”

“I, uh...” The man’s aura was so hypnotic I had a hard time finding my tongue. Madame really wasn’t kidding about this guy’s mojo. “Yes, I have a daughter.” I finally replied. “Her name is Joy, and she’s — ”

“A chef! That’s right! Blanche told me this morning in our phone call. She is at work in Paris.”

“Not a chef yet. Just a line cook. Of course, in my mind she’s still twelve years old, inventing cake-mix biscotti in our New Jersey kitchen.”

Enzo’s eyes smiled. “Where does the time go, eh?” Then he looked away in what appeared to be a pointedly unhappy frown for his daughter.

“Speaking of time,” Lucia interrupted. “It’s Thursday, and your bocce game is starting very soon.” She glared at us. “They’re expecting my father at the park.”

Enzo waved his hand. “Luigi and Thomas can wait.”

“But what about Mrs. Quadrelli.” Lucia’s gaze stabbed Madame on that one. “You know she’ll be disappointed if you’re late.”

Enzo folded his arms. “Rita Quadrelli will find some other man’s ear to talk off until I get there.”

“We always close early on Thursday, just so you can play your weekly game. I don’t see why you should let their lateness change your plans.”

“That’s no way to treat guests!” Enzo replied in Italian. “Show some respect — ”

A hesitant knock interrupted. “Yo, Lucy! You in there? I’m double-parked.”

A wiry, gum-chewing male about ten years Lucia’s junior emerged from the shadows of the sidewalk. His cuffed gabardine slacks, two-toned bowling shirt, and black-and-brown saddle shoes looked like a tribute to the Happy Days wardrobe department. Platinum pompadour cocked, he moved to join us.

“Sorry, Glenn,” Lucia folded her arms. “I was going to meet you outside, but these people came.”

Madame shot me a glance.

There’s an old Italian saying: “With a contented stomach, your heart is forgiving; with an empty stomach, you forgive nothing.” Madame had to be thinking the same thing I was: Lucia Testa is in sore need of a decent meal.

Glenn didn’t answer his girlfriend. Instead, he put on a warm smile and approached her father, extending a sinewy arm. “Mr. T, how you doin’ tonight, sir?”

Enzo shook the man’s hand and then gestured toward me and Madame. “This is Glenn Duffy, Lucia’s boyfriend — ”

“Fiancé, Papa, Lucia corrected.

“Yes, yes,” Enzo said, but under his breath I heard him mutter. “Who ever heard of an engagement with no ring?”

To this, Glenn made no reply — maybe he hadn’t heard Enzo’s low remark or maybe he was smart enough to pretend he hadn’t. Either way, he turned his full attention to greeting us. As he happily chewed his gum, dimples appeared in his lean cheeks. A bleach-blond Elvis.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything here,” Glenn said.

“You are always welcome,” Enzo replied. “How about an espresso?”

“Sure.” Glenn shrugged, taking out his gum. “Maybe a few cookies, too?” He smiled a little sheepishly, “I really liked those Italian ones — ”

Enzo snorted. “They’re all Italian.”

Lucia tapped her watch. “No coffee tonight, Glenn! We have to go.”

“Why?” he asked. “What’s the hurry?”

“You said it yourself. You’re double-parked! You didn’t work for a solid year to restore that car of yours just so some jerk can sideswipe you!”

Glenn put the gum back in his mouth. “The New Jersey Custom Car Show’s this weekend,” he informed us, jerking his thumb toward the door. “I’m showing my ’68 Mustang.”

Madame and I moved to the caffè’s picture window. The restored coup sported a chassis that gleamed redder than strawberries in a newly glazed tart. The convertible top and leather interior were whiter than castor sugar. Racing stripes ran like Christmas ribbons from bumper to fender, a retro bonnet scoop topped the hood, and the chrome grill was so highly polished it could have been cut from a mirror.

Note to self: Do not, under any circumstances, let Lucia Testa see my car!

As Madame and I gushed compliments to Glenn, Enzo turned to his daughter and spoke in Italian. “What’s one espresso? What would your mama say about your rude behavior?”

“Well, I don’t want you to be rude to Mrs. Quadrelli,” Lucia replied in English.

“Basta, child! Blanche and Clare do not have all night to sit here with me! We will drink our coffee, and I will be on the bocce court in less than an hour. Okay? Happy?”

“Okay! That’s all I wanted to hear!” Lucia finally looked relieved. “I’ll see you on Sunday, Papa. C’mon, Glenn. Don’t forget my bag.” She pointed to a Pullman in the corner as her gilded gladiators clicked toward the front door.

“Sorry, Mr. T,” Glenn shrugged again, grabbed the Pullman’s handle. “Maybe next time. Nice to meet you, ladies.”

A moment later the door shut, and we heard Lucia struggling to throw the old lock. Silence hovered. Finally, Madame cleared her throat.

“Mr. Duffy seems like a nice young man...”

Enzo let out a breath. “He’s nice enough, sì. And he has a good job working on cars. That is how he met my daughter. Car trouble. Mr. Fix-it comes to the rescue, but Lucia, she is pushing too hard...”

He shook his head with that exasperated parent shake (one I knew oh so well). “For years, she had offers to marry — plenty. None of them were good enough. Now she is finally feeling the hands of life’s clock spinning faster. But Glenn is still a boy. Time passes slower for the young. He is in no hurry. That’s why there is no ring!”

Madame and I exchanged glances. What do you say to that?

“Well,” Madame finally replied, “Lucia wasn’t wrong about our tardiness. If you have someplace else to go, perhaps we can reschedule — ”

“Nonsense! Sit down!”

We did, taking seats at one of the marble-topped caffè tables.

“I have no intention of playing bocce tonight,” he said as he slipped behind the counter and prepared our espressos. “I fibbed to my daughter to send her on her way. Meeting up with that donna pazzesca, Mrs. Quadrelli? That’s Lucia’s idea, not mine.”

Donna pazzesca? My eyebrows rose. Crazy woman? I mouthed to Madame.

“She’s trying to fix you up?” Madame asked, obviously curious.

“I take her to dinner a few times. Nothing special. A movie once or twice. Now the woman stalks me at my game every Thursday, and how she talks my ear off! Madonna mia!”

Madame sent me an amused look.

“Knows all the gossip in the neighborhood, that one! And she’s always complaining — the daughter-in-law, the store clerk, the upstairs neighbor, eh! Enough already! I told her last week, as clear as I could, that my business was taking too much of my time so she should leave me alone.”

Enzo crossed the room with a small tray, set the espressos in front of us. “I don’t want to hear complaining tonight.” He lifted his demitasse and made a toast. “Tonight I am visiting with my ravishing Blanche and her Clare...”

Two hours later, Enzo and Madame were reliving their past via an illustrated narrative of old photo albums. They’d continued toasting, too, only now they’d moved on to grappa.

“It’s so quiet down here,” Madame declared (because we’d also moved on to the caffè’s basement). She proffered her drained glass for a refill.

“I’ll put on some records,” Enzo said. “Good stuff, too. Not that crap kids listen to today.”

He rose, a little wobbly, and crossed to an ancient machine with an actual diamond needle. I checked my watch. Being the designated driver, I’d declined the Italian brandy — no big sacrifice since I was still drying out from last night’s green beer — and I was beginning to wonder when this visit was going to end.

As Madame and Enzo fox-trotted around stacks of clutter, I felt my jeans vibrating. Assuming a certain NYPD detective was the reason once more, I dug into my pocket with relish. (Watching these two old friends reflame their affections had me aching for my own man.) But it wasn’t Mike on the line. The cell call came from Dante Silva, one of my baristas.

“Hey, boss. Did you get it? The Blend’s old roaster?”

In fact, the vintage German Probat was standing right in front of me. It was about the girth of a small washing machine (only taller) and tarnished with age and neglect — nothing I couldn’t remedy with a lot of polish and elbow grease. (Seeing Glenn’s restoration job was sufficiently inspiring.)

Of course, I wasn’t enough of a mechanic to get the thing up and running again, but that was never my intention. I wanted the antique for display purposes.

“How did you know about the Probat?” I asked Dante, raising my voice over Tony Bennett’s dulcet crooning. “You didn’t have a shift today.”

“I called in to check my schedule and Tuck told me about it. And since I was here in Queens anyway, I thought I’d snap a few pics.”

“You’re in Queens now? Where?”

“Here. On the sidewalk out in front of Caffè Lucia,” he said. “Unless I’m at the wrong Caffè Lucia. The lights are off and the place looks closed.”

“We’re in the basement. I’ll be right up to let you in.”

Topside, I spotted Dante’s form hovering near the picture window, his trendy chin stubble a textural contrast to the clean geometry of his shaved head. A distressed leather jacket covered the self-designed tattoos on his ropy arms, and around his neck hung a digital camera, which he used for artistic studies, capturing the play of light on urban images from dawn till dusk.

He waved at me as I emerged from the back of the shop. The door’s old lock was gluey as Marshmallow Fluff, but I managed to throw the bolt. Then my young, talented barista breezed in, full of beer and good cheer.

“Is that knockwurst on your breath?”

“And sauerkraut. But mostly hops, boss. Lots of hops.”

“Where were you, anyway?”

Dante grinned, glassy-eyed. “I helped a buddy install his exhibit at the Socrates Sculpture Park; then I hung at the Bohemian Hall Beer Garden with a bunch of aspiring Jasper Johns.”

I almost laughed. Not so long ago someone as terminally hip as Dante Silva wouldn’t have been caught dead at an outer-borough beer hall. But that was before the Great Recession completely flipped New York’s social scene. These days, slick neon bars with velvet ropes were out. Keggers and kielbasa were in.

Then again, every few years I’d notice my collegiate coffeehouse customers celebrating some kind of music, clothing, food, or art form that had become so outdated and square it went all the way around the wheel to come up hip again: bowling, bacon, sliders, cupcakes, hip-hugger jeans, Tom Jones, Neil Diamond... I dreaded the day preground coffee in a can made a comeback.

“So where’s this roaster?” Dante asked.

“Let me lock this door and I’ll show you.”

“Whoa, boss,” Dante murmured.

He’d stopped in the middle of the room to stare at Enzo’s mural. I walked up to join him. “What do you think?”

“Freakin’ awesome.”

“That’s what I thought.”

In a phrase, looking at Enzo’s mural was like taking a visual journey through the movements of modern art. The narrative began with impressionism, moved to expressionism, fauvism, cubism, Dadaism, surrealism, and abstract expressionism. Layered in among it all were touches of Iberian art, as well as Japonism and primitivism — all of which influenced twentieth-century artistic developments.

Paul Gauguin’s fascination with Polynesian culture and Oceanic art was represented, as well as Parisian fascination with African fetish sculptures. The postmodern movement was explored, with its blurring of high and low cultural lines; the vibrant pop images of spoof and irony were also here, along with the (often misunderstood) reframing of common objects by those visual poets who helped us see with new eyes our cans of soup and boxes of Brillo pads.

Enzo’s work served it all up in one continuous masterpiece that felt (like Pollack’s best) as if it would go on and on, and yet, this fresco was more than a succession of finely wrought forgeries. He’d stirred the ingredients into an epic stew of modernism, simmering iconic ideas to form a wholly new dish, and while some areas of the mural were no more than well-executed servings of familiar flavors, other sections displayed expressions of color, texture, and imagery that I’d never seen before.

“I’ve got to get some snaps of this.”

“Take your time.”

I turned on the lights and Dante clicked away, capturing every foot of the expansive wall art. Then I returned to secure the front door. Unfortunately, the lock started giving me real agita. I jiggled the key several times. No luck. I half opened the door and knelt down to see if I could fix the thing.

“You need help, boss?” Dante turned, took a few steps toward me.

That’s when the bomb went off.