The Coffee Grinder (Prologue)

Just a strand of raven hair

Like a stream running through the garden

The night is a beautiful fairy

Weaving a wreath of stars

And secret love

And white flowers of night trees

And a longing whisper:

“Valerie!”

Black blends with white

And there is a hiding place in the garden

And the house dawns

At the hour that never strikes

And the sweet scent of autumn

In the middle of a summer night

And a pleading cry:

“Valerie!”

Grandmother's house

And a gravestone

Hiding a white body beneath black marble

And an old grinder

Pouring the bitterness of coffee into memories

And in the silence of the winter night

A desperate cry:

“Valerie!”

 

 

At Grandma's in the village

 

A cold wind was blowing and it looked like rain. We stood in front of a dilapidated old house that I knew well from my childhood. Every corner, every room held a little secret that had never been revealed. And today... in a few moments, workers were coming to bury this refuge of so many treasures once and for all. But there was no other option. My grandmother's house, full of memories, was to disappear forever... Where there had been an attic during my childhood, now stood a beam from a half-demolished wall. And instead of glass in the window where my grandmother had grown flowers in a window box, there was an empty hole covered with a somewhat dirty sheet. Everything is different.

 

I have very fond memories of my childhood. The thoughts of an adult are often as sad and gray as a November day. The hustle and bustle of everyday life and worries overshadow the bright colors of a happy childhood, and people forget to dream because they are so worried about the future. At times like these, I dare to escape for a moment to the reality of the days when I was a little girl. I return along the narrow white road to the edge of the village, where the sun was still shining, to the big old house where someone was always waiting for me. No, I don't want to forget how to dream.

 

Easter was one of the most beautiful times of the year for me. At my grandmother's in the village, it was celebrated traditionally and in a big way. When school ended on Ash Wednesday, I quickly did all my homework, packed only the essentials into a small purple backpack, and when my parents came home from work, we drove to my grandparents' house. By Maundy Thursday evening at the latest, Eliška, my aunt on my mother's side, who was single at the time, would come to join us. We would boil eggs together and she would tell me funny stories, of which she always had plenty. To this day, I don't know how many of them she actually experienced. But that doesn't change the fact that she was a wonderful storyteller.

 

Good Friday always meant something incredibly mysterious to me. My best friend Milena, a lover of mysteries of all kinds, lived in the village. We used to go to the highest rock in the area to look for treasure, which, according to legend, only appears once a year to an honest and righteous person. We knew it was impossible and we despised the village superstitions, which we naturally didn't believe, but there was still a glimmer of hope in us that the treasure would reveal itself to us. It never happened.

 

In the evening, we would go with my mother and grandmother to the ceremonies at the local church. When we returned, we would sit down, eat Easter cake, drink warm milk, and talk about everything under the sun until late into the night.

 

On Holy Saturday, when I was little (unlike the two previous days), I refused to go to church. There was one simple reason for this. The Easter vigil usually took place at a time when our neighbors were having bonfires in their gardens and inviting my dad and grandpa over. I went with them. We sat together around the campfire, sang, talked, and sometimes roasted cheese or potatoes. We celebrated the Resurrection in our own way, we didn't even see the church that day, but I think we still felt the true Christian joy of Easter.

 

Forgive me, reader, I don't want to write in detail and nostalgically about my childhood, about Easter spent with my grandmother in the countryside. Especially now that I have grown up and had to become a serious person who cannot afford to spend precious time reminiscing. But the mysterious story I am about to tell took place at Easter in my grandmother's house.