“A coffee with milk and two croissants, these, with ham and cheese”, I tell her. She opens her eyes not like plates, like platters, like trays, like saucers, like industrial lids. She says nothing. She stares at me without moving a muscle. Not a word. So, I stare back at her. Her and me, staring at each other intently, like in a duel. Finally, to break the ice, I say: “Yes?” That slightly impertinent “yes” you use when you think someone hasn’t understood you but should have, or when someone is distracted and isn’t paying attention. She remains astonished; but does she know she is astonished? I don’t think so, because she surely doesn’t know the meaning of the word, and if she doesn’t know it, she can’t, in any way, name what is happening to her. If you simplify language, you simplify feelings.
She continues the same. What do I do? Do I tell her in Spanish? In English? In Latin? Wow, that would be difficult, considering the coffee. I should ask her for a “poculum lactis et duo panes parvos cum perna et caseo”, but it wouldn’t work. Then she reacts. “Un café con...”, she stammers. With my finger, I point to the croissants (I would say they are called “brioches” in Spanish) she has in the display case. With my fingers, I make “two”. I point to the table. “I’ll go there”, I say. And I make the gesture.
Now, sitting at the tabula, I observe how other customers ask her for the same thing as me. I no longer ask her to understand me, friends. I only ask that she not look at me with the same face as if I had said: “This is a robbery, give me the money. And the two croissants, too.” I only ask her to tell me: “Perdone, no la entiendo ni la entenderé jamás; váyase a un casal catalán, si quiere hacer cosas raras”. Now I will go out to pay. The person who charges, I have checked, understands you. The price of these two exotic meals, as well as the absurd drink, will cost me a ransom price.
