Cappuccino with Crucifixion
By Sonia L. Linebaugh

November 9, 2004



It was a routine flight. Suddenly the plane shuddered. Turbulence. The pilot announced, "Fasten seat belts. We're just flying through the contrail of an earlier plane. Nothing to be concerned about."

The air settled and we landed at Frankfurt without incident. I took the train to Balduinstein on the Lahn River where I spent the night at my usual guesthouse.

Breakfast followed the usual German routine: thick bread with cheese, poached egg, fruit salad over creamy yogurt, orange juice and a whole pot of coffee. After, I headed for the train station. Three stops and I was in Limburg waiting for a turn at the lone computer with internet access at the cyber caf�. Ten in the morning and men already slumped over tall glasses of beer at the bar. Others played arcade games in the dark. Smoke everywhere.

I put in a Euro, tried to find the letters on the keyboard. Where is the y? Don't they have an @ sign? I persevered.

Business done, I walked around the block to the Alt-Stadt, the quaint cobbled-stone old part of town. It was cold now, almost bitter. I walked wrapped up in my coat and my thoughts until I reached the Kosmol Cafe.

It was warm and comforting. A glass case displayed a dozen cakes, each more luscious than the next. I pointed to an eleven-layer wonder whose name I couldn't pronounce. It had a different cream filling or jelly between thin layer. I ordered cappuccino because I knew it would be served with a generous glob of real whipped cream. Heaven on earth.

Between bites I pulled out my travel journal and a drawing pen. I started with a winter coat and purse draped casually across a pair of empty chairs. My pen moved to a table top where a couple sat by the window. Drinks remained untouched before them. Her hands clasped one another. His held up his chin. They gazed across the table.

Tension grew. Not kids. In their 40s maybe. Married? He wore a ring but I'm never sure about Europeans. Which hand for the wedding band? They looked too intense for a married couple. This scene was as fresh and bitter as the day. My drawing hand hurt.

"Want anything from the cake assortment?"

"You know what I always say."

"You never indulge yourself. Maybe you'll indulge me this time."

Long pause. Hands clasped and unclasped.

Chin sank into hands. Eyes stared.

"Um-m-m."

An assent?

"Do you really want it?"

"Yeah. You're cracking me up."

"I'm not sure I can trust you. We're going to split up as soon as we get to Berlin."

More staring.

I stare too and continue drawing. Tight hands. Faces. Hers brittle, about to break. His obdurate. Eye glasses on both. Hair thinning on him. Long, loose hair on her. No make-up. Thin.

"Do you want the cake?"

They stared at each other.

My pen moves to the window beyond them. It's closer to Christmas than Easter, but my hand is drawing a crucifixion scene. Life-sized females figures weep in exaggerated poses on either side of a life-sized crucified Jesus. The stone figure hangs eternally in front of the stucco fa�ade of a church across the narrow plaza. Evergreens are displayed in a stone trough this side of the narrow plaza. A car pulls up. Pedestrians hurry by in heavy coats, heads bent against the wind. Outside tables chained to metal chairs wait for milder weather. The sun shines its brittle winter light.

"Holy mother of God, what do you want me to do?"

"Get me a piece of cake. Something chocolate."

Just turbulence, I think. Just passing over the contrail of some old karma. Nothing to be concerned about. Berlin is six hours away.