I take my first sip, and it’s hot on my lips, but right up against that threshold. When the sweet cardamom hits, I close my eyes and look up. “That is so good.” And I don’t take pains to temper the lust in my voice.
“Thank you. Sometimes I think the best part is afterward, when you’re alive with caffeine, and get your cup read. Anything seems possible. Reality shifts a bit when you’re reading a cup; you open yourself to seeing what could be there.”
So I’m a straight shooter when it comes to reality, but somehow, I like that she’s not. Also, she’s talking like she reads the coffee cup fortunes, which is usually a skill only the super-pro Armenian ladies can do, and even then, only select women choose to read. My mom never does, telling people’s future’s is way too much personal responsibility. If Erebuni does, I wonder how shelearned. You need to have seen a hundred cups to know what a fox emerging from a waterfall means. I take another sip and ask, “Can you do it?”
“Oh, definitely. I’ve been trained in it.” She gets that bit of shy confidence about her when she knows she’s good at something. “It’s a portal to intuition, similar to some of the Wiccan arts I follow. The art of sourj cup reading, similarly, has been passed on matrilineally. It’s a practice from the past used to divine the future. Being from a people so tied to their pasts, the tradition was irresistible; I had to learn.”
A reference again to Armenians’ past, the genocide. She breathes it into everything she does, even coffee cup reading. There’s a distant crackle of one of the candles, and I notice the room is filling with a second scent above the coffee, the candles ushering in nutmeg and orange. I make like I’m adjusting my dress and scoot the tiniest bit closer to her. When I look up I catch sight of her worktable again.
“Speaking of blending Wiccan and Armenian arts, can we talk about the khachkars? They are the most amazing things I’ve seen.”
Her back stiffens a bit, and she pushes her cup back and forth on the saucer a couple of times so it fits perfectly in the center. “No, you’re being too nice. My fear with them is that they feel like side-of-the-road tchotchkes. Do you know what I mean?”
My coffee is almost done, and I feel the hairs on the back of my arm standing straight up. This black gold is strong and hits fast. Excitement sparks in me all of a sudden, like I want to tell her everything and have her tell me everything, and that that would be the best thing ever. I say, “Like when you’re on a long-ass roadtrip to Arizona to see the Grand Canyon and the Hoover Dam all in one, and you stop at some place selling turquoise and crystals and they’re shaped like dolphins? Yeah, no, that’s not what you have here.”
She quirks out a smile, then sets her finished cup upside down on its saucer and places it on the table. Now the muddy dregs will spread down the sides of the cup and, in a couple of minutes, reveal her fortune. When she sits back, her leg brushes against mine, and I swallow my breath. She doesn’t pull back all the way. Our legs are touching, and I feel the warmth of her against my knee. This is a permanent and intentional thing, and that means it’s on. I have to tell myself to concentrate on my breathing because it’s getting heavy now, audible.
She looks at the khachkars on the table. “Thank you. I’m intimidated. My mom’s the real artist. And it’s not my job; I haven’t been giving it everything, enough attention. I dabble in too much stuff. That’s plain to see.” She motions to the room at large. “But I want these to be truly good. Meaningful and objectively excellent.” I’m about to tell her they are, but she seems like she still wants to speak—she is suspended, waiting for something. Carefully, so as not to disturb her thoughts, I place my cup on the table in the same way. When I lean, our legs mash against each other still more for a moment, then are back where they were. She is as cool as ever, as if none of it is happening. But she doesn’t take her leg away.
A moment later she says, “And once they get there, to that level—I mean if they get there—I want to make them big.” Her voice grows with awe at this idea. “The size of real khachkars. Can you imagine what it’d feel like, seeing that in crystal?”
I can, and it’s wild, and I love it, and I want one in my house,please. I tell her as much, in a tone that’s clear to me that I’m still riding the roller-coaster high of caffeine. She smiles, and I’m afraid I’m coming off as if I’m just being polite or a suck-up with licentious motives. It’s not true. I mean, not the sycophant part. She says, “It’s an expensive project. To find the perfect size, a rare shallow depth. I’m not sure it’s possible. But that’s what I could make if I had true talent.”
“Well, consider me a fan. And not to sound like I’m tooting my own horn, but I have a decent following on Instagram where I could promote it.”
“I noticed.”
I blush at the thought of her spending any amount of time gazing at my photos. “I could post your art anytime. You could create some kind of Kickstarter to fund your first project.”
She shrugs. “I’m not good at asking people for money, but I like the idea. They’re not ready yet in any case. Hopefully soon.”
I want to tell her I’ll set it up for her, I’ll do anything for her. Luckily, I don’t blather that, and she nods her head toward the cups and asks, “Should we do it? I’m not sure I should read my own, but I can read yours.”
That voice, it’s shimmering with promise.
“I’m in.”
She peeks under my cup to make sure the dregs are set, dried enough. Appearing to deem them ready, she flips over the cup with care and sets it down in its pool of mud. The inside of the cup is a cascade of sludgy coffee grounds formed into branched patterns like veins. She inspects it and, with her free hand, traces something in the air above the cup as she thinks.
“I see a deer. I should say a stag, see the antlers?”
I do not, but that instantly reminds me of the deer head atDiekkengräber’s, and I’m suddenly stupidly nervous that she’s going to see my engagement in the coffee cup, which makes me realize I never told her about it, but it’s not even happening, so it doesn’t really matter, right? There’s time to share that story later. I make a noncommittal noise.
“It symbolizes protection. A protector could be another person, but it could also be yourself. Sometimes you’re the one who steps in and defends yourself. The way he’s half-formed, the catalyst, the thing you need protection from, hasn’t happened yet, but it will.” And seeing the look on my face, like,What the hell, am I going to be mugged on my way home?she adds, “Not to worry. Your protector will arrive.”
I try not to sound scared when I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.” I know I make fun of my mom for her superstitions, but if you live in a house with a person spouting all manner of unfounded beliefs for a couple of decades, you’re going to internalize some of that magical thinking.A dream about getting your hair cut portends illness. Owls are the symbol of death. Don’t tempt the spirits by showing your joy too openly. Naming your baby before it’s born is bad luck. Dark ocean water in a dream means difficulty will come upon you. If you hand someone a knife, you will have a fight with them.Now I’m shaking in my espadrilles because a witch told me I’m going to need protecting in the near future.
She squints, then sits upright, as if surprised. “There’s something else.” I edge over, peering into the cup and enjoying this shared space we’re in. I’m in her bubble, but I feel completely invited. I smell roses again.
“I don’t want you to think I’m making this up.” She seems apologetic.
“What?”
She tilts the cup in my direction, points delicately, lovingly to the image. “What do you see?” she asks.
Eyes with lashes, a nose, the outline of a face, and curly brown hair. I see what she means. A little too on the nose, and still, there she is. “A woman?” It comes out as a whisper.
As if in response, she lowers her voice, too. It’s slower now. “Yes. What do you think of her?”
