by Geoff Gouveia

Grandfather Luca told me the best coffee in the world comes from Croatia. “Croatian coffee,” he said, “is the kind you drink in the morning right before creation.” Grandfather Luca explained that he wrote the most magnificent stories after drinking his Croatian coffee. He called me in as I walked by the hallway and asked me to pour him a cup.

“What’s so special about this Croatian blend?” I asked the old man.

“Well, let me tell me you son. And before we get any further, it’s not a blend.” Grandfather Luca had a wispy Croatian mustache, white and curled on the edges like most men from his town of Hučhen (“Pronounced who-can,” Grandfather Luca loved to say, setting himself up for his own Croatian village jokes. “Like Hučhen get me some more coffee? Eh!”).

I scooted closer and the old man leaned in. His breath hit me in the face but he told me it was the Croatian coffee and I should learn to love the smell.

“So you want to know about Croatian coffee, eh? It begins in the town I’m from. Little Hučhen. Have I told you my Hučhen joke?”

“Yes Grandfather Luca.”

“Anyways, it begins in Hučhen. Along the western hills that roll with yellow leaves all year round. Everyone knows that yellow leaves mark the greatest areas to grow the best coffee. Look it up on your Google, I dare you to defy me.”

“Grandfather Luca I believe you.”

“Google has nothing on my Croatian coffee- why? Because I’ll tell you. Sit down, sit down.”

“I’m pouring myself some water Grandfather Luca.”

“Water? No one needs water. Only Croatian coffee. Under the yellow leaves that never turn green or red because Croatia is in the tropics you see.”

“Now wait a minute Grandfather Luca-“

“No- you listen here, sonny. Your Google will verify the geo-coordinates of my Croatia. Type them in. No service here? Ah too bad. No Google, just Grandfather Luca. Same thing. Listen up. It’s hot in Croatia, burning hot, but the leaves are yellow because they hold the moisture. You don’t believe me?”

“Grandfather Luca I’m not questioning you.”

“Ah yes. That’s right because you shouldn’t. I’m from Hučhen and Hučhen can question me! Ah ha ha-” Grandfather Luca trailed off into a wheeze that he extinguished with a quick Croatian coffee rinse.

“Where were we?”

“The yellow leaves, Grandfather Luca.”

“The yellow leaves…the yellow leaves ah yes - the yellow leaves that never turn anything other than yellow.” His silver eyes lit up, his hands revealed the effects of the Croatian coffee by fidgeting with the knobs on his wheelchair. “They are the tell tale sign of some strong coffee growing underneath the soil. Now the soil in Croatia is not like the soil here, the soil here is brown. Nasty brown. There the soil is clay red and that’s because it is clay-"

“Croatian coffee is grown in clay, Grandfather Luca?”

Grandfather Luca snorted and his eyes widened, the thin wispy mustache dangling on edge, teetering towards the ground. I almost reached to save it before he reprimanded me.

“Of course Croatian coffee is grown in clay- how else do you suppose it takes on the reddish brown when you pour it from the special Croatian coffee tin?” Grandfather Luca held up a silver tin with the words Croatian Coffee splashed across the side. He popped the plastic top and whiffed the dust. The dry fragrance wafted into my nostrils but disappointed me.

“Smells like all coffee.”

“Smells like, smells like all coffee?,” Grandfather Luca nodded his head up and down, the eyes slitting in anger. A crooked index finger rose to strike me down. “Smell here. Smell closer. You smell that? That’s the stuff. That’s the Croatian clay molding the molecules to the perfect coffee honeycomb. Google it. You see, Croatian coffee isn’t just beautiful, it’s a science. Croatian coffee, I tell you, is the secret behind my stories. It wakes me up, keeps me up and allows the ink to flow. I write stories, you know?”

“Yes Grandfather Luca, I know. I do enjoy your stories.”

“Well I’ll have you know that the first time I tried Croatian coffee was not in Croatia but right next door, in Haiti. Right across the bay, right on Haitian soil. Haitians make a mean sweet Hawaiian bread. I’ll tell you that the first sip of my Croatia coffee as I sat on the beaches of Haiti was delicious. Then we shipped out. Cucumber shippers, I tell you-"

“Grandfather Luca, you’re making this up as you go-"

Grandfather Luca swiveled his head with such a violent shake that I thought his mustache would spin from its fragile resting place and land on my lap. The piercing silver eyes were too much to bear and I relented, retracting my statement. After all, I didn’t have Google to prove him wrong. There was never any reception at work.

“I'm telling the truth, the Croatian truth. Croatian coffee is the best coffee in the land. I’d like another cup. I feel another story about to burst from these-” he wiggled his fingers “and they are itching to tell the truth.” The blue knitted beanie he wore had been slipping towards the right, but I reached out to push it back towards the proper perch. A knock at the door came before a young woman in muted blue scrubs walked in. My coworker greeted me with a smile as she pushed a cart of supplies into the room.

“Grandfather Luca this is Nurse Rebecca.”

Rebecca waved at Grandfather Luca.

“How are you today Mr. Luca?”

“My name’s Grandfather Luca.”

Rebecca smiled. “That’s right. Grandfather Luca, I’m sorry.”

“Nurse Rebecca here will take you to your appointment.”

I gave him a sheet of paper with a pen and then poured a fresh cup of the Croatian coffee. Back in the kitchen, I removed the labels on the new tin cans of coffee that Rebecca brought. The Croatian Coffee labels I printed earlier were then fastened to the side of the tins with glue. I restocked his pens and paper and tidied up the eating area. A small bit of Croatian coffee spilled on my scrubs as I lifted the pot to wash it. Mechanical pops came from the other room as Rebecca prepared the wheelchair for Grandfather Luca’s next destination.

The pen rested on the paper and his chin on his chest as I tapped Grandfather Luca’s shoulder though the silver eyes wakened and then sat back, eager to talk with me.

“Grandfather Luca, I’m leaving. Nurse Rebecca will be here tomorrow. I’ll be back the next day, please do take your medicine.”

“Medicine? I don’t need medicine. I need Croatian coffee. Do you know where Croatian coffee comes from? It comes from Hučhen.”

“That’s right, you’ve told me that,” I said as Rebecca began to push Grandfather Luca out towards the hallway. They disappeared in a slow aging parade of two.

From out in the hallway I hear, no doubt emanating underneath a wispy white Croatian mustache, “Have I told you my Hučhen joke?”

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