Sketching Over Coffee
By Leilla Feldman

I watch her. She sits here, in cafe dell'Amore, alone. I have only been here a week, but every day she is here. Today I entered, and now I am sitting by the window, sipping my espresso slowly, my pad on the table. I watch her. She is always in the same spot, an inner corner of the cafe. She sits there like a matriarch, no one bothers her, yet everyone sees her, and she sees everyone. I take out my pencil, and start to sketch. I can barely look at the pad, something about that woman draws my eyes to her. I start with the things around her, I always leave the best for last. The table has three legs, and she is sitting on the only chair around it. Everything is made of wood. The wall behind her is painted, or rather splashed with the colors of the rainbow. I decide to leave the wall out of my picture. A cup of coffee, is placed on the table, slightly to her right. It is a big, round, green, cappuccino cup. She takes a sip of it every now and then, it seems to never run out of coffee. My own espresso is already gone, I order another one. My Italian is shaky, but the waiter understands. I never take my eyes off the old lady. And she is old. Her hands are full of wrinkles, her face a map of them. I wonder how many of them come from joy, and how many come from sorrow. As I draw, I imagine she is waiting for an old lover of hers, who left for the war, and never came back. I imagine her young again, and I know she must have been beautiful, she still is. I imagine a young man at her side, kissing her goodbye. I imagine a hope never ending.

All around me I hear sounds. The musical speech of the Italians fits perfectly with the serenade on the radio. The drops of rain falling on the windowsill, each carrying it's very own note. Even the sound of the dog, that just walked in with his master, shaking the water off his fur, fits in perfectly. She doesn't move much, my old lady. She sits straight, watching those who come in and out intently. Her long white hair, pure white, is braided and falls over her left shoulder. Her eyes, her eyes are still young, alive. A small smile plays on her lips, as if she knows a joke that is hidden from the rest of us. A different story fills my mind. In this one she has many children, many grandchildren. She is at the cafe, whiling away the hours, watching people, laughing at all of us. I think I might be in love, can you fall in love with a picture? My hand sketches her lines, caressing each wrinkle. I see both the joy and the pain in the picture, as if my hand knows more then I do about the woman. I slowly draw her ears, graced with two small pearl studs, and her dress, that hangs loosely from her body, as if she was once bigger. I stare at my pad, the picture is done. It looks nothing like my first impression of her, but seems to capture everything. She appears much older in the picture.

I get up, and take my pad. The waiter glances at me, perhaps afraid that I would try to sneak out without paying. I walk over to her, she looks up at me, gazing questioningly. I wordlessly present her the sketch, putting it down in front of her. She stares at it curiously, tracing my sketch lines with her finger, ever so gently. Slowly, she nods, "Si," she says, "� me". She's talking to herself, not to me. She isn't surprised that I drew her, as if this is a regular occurrence in her life. She turns to me, and smiles, the smile lights up the room. "Bella!" she announces, and gives it back to me. I return her smile, and feel true satisfaction in my work, in the world. Today the world is perfect and belissima. Tomorrow, who knows. I pay my tab, and walk out into the rain. I laugh, and my laughter joins the symphony of sounds that is Manarola.