Chapter Text
" Indeed, it is said that a good espresso depends on the four M’s: Macchina, the espresso machine; Macinazione, the proper grinding of a beans; Miscela, the coffee blend and the roast; and Mano, the skilled hand of the barista, because even with the finest beans and the most advanced equipment, the shot depends on the touch and style of the barista."
- "The Long History of the Espresso Machine,” Smithsonian
Venice, Italy
December 29, 1766
His last memory is a searing haze of red as his limbs clawed for air until the very end. He could never have guessed that this would feel so much like burning. Since childhood, he had found comfort in the deep, cool abyss of the Adriatic Sea, but now it fills his vision and his lungs with liquid fire. His only regret is that he will not be able to appreciate the final solace to come, the total absence of pain.
And yet, there is silence afterward. He drifts in the waves between the waking world and the realm of dreams, letting the heavy tide of slumber pull him again and again. The journey will not be long now. He will sleep until he reaches the shore.
If only he could… A familiar aroma wafts over him, summoning the new dawn as it has so many times before. He still wants to rest, but he has never been inclined to sleep in. It is time to work. As the scent unfurls and blooms with rich spices, he grows fitful. He knows he needs to finish his work, but he is so tired. Perhaps he will stay here until the impulse grows unbearable.
When Sapiente is finally propelled into the blazing light of day, he feels nothing but relief.
Torino, Italy
November 18, 1951
After the war, thousands rushed to the industrial cities of Northern Italy, where jobs and promises of wealth flowed freely from the open doors of its factories. The so-called “economic miracle” washed away the wreckage of post-war Italy, leaving in its wake new power plants, dams, miles of highways, and dreams of a bright future.
But, behind the closed door and drawn curtains of a particular, small apartment in Torino, a different storm has raged and passed unseen.
Rows of engineering textbooks, once sorted neatly by title, now cascade from a bookcase to the desk and onto a pile of grease-stained jeans. Twisted sleeves and electrical cords splay across the floor towards the bed where a thin, lanky man stirs fitfully in a tangle of bed sheets.
His face contorts as he dreams about another young man clutching his hand. The man’s cold fingers grip his palm so tightly that they begin to shake. Angelo focuses on the watch adorning the arm that is clutching onto him and imagines that he can see its tiny gears clicking together in a reassuring cadence. Anything to obliterate the scene before him.
Don't say it. Don't make it happen.
"Angelo… the doctor gave me some bad news."
His eyes snap open.
Angelo reflexively reaches for the small watch resting by his pillow and runs his thumb over its worn face, struggling to catch his breath. He closes his eyes and tries to drift back to sleep, but his heart is still racing.
It feels like night, but a glimmer of light shines from beneath the curtain. Angelo isn't sure when he last went to work, which means he’s probably well over-due for an appearance at the clockmaker’s shop. They haven't fired him yet, out of pity, but he doesn't want to test their patience. He knows he should get out of bed, and yet.
As much as Angelo tries to generate a sense of urgency, he can’t move. It feels like time has stopped instead. Hasn't it, after all, since graduation? All of his classmates have moved back home to their families, made plans, started new jobs… Everyone has moved forward except for him.
Angelo wonders, not for the first time, what it might be like to be one of them. Acquiring a new job would have been easy. Despite his grades plummeting in the last weeks before graduation, he still received top honors and numerous job offers, which he ignored. He imagines a different version of himself walking into a house, one that he would have spent many years living in, and greeting the smiling faces of two people who also would have known him for many years. It must be reassuring to have that familiarity. It probably wouldn't feel completely alien if one were used to it.
All that is left of the closest thing that Angelo ever had to a real home now fits neatly inside four small sealed cartons by his bed. Martino didn't have any family to speak of either, so the university had allowed Angelo to keep his meager belongings after he passed away.
Angelo would wonder, in the years to come, what had made this the day. He suddenly bolts upright and finds himself staring at those boxes. He notices a small knife among a pile of scattered tools and cigarette butts nearby.
A moment later, it’s in his hand and he drives it into the closest box.
Pieces of cardboard scatter and fly to the ground. After months of treading warily around the boxes and avoiding their existence through a combination of sleep and cigarettes, Angelo is shocked at how viciously he now tears them open.
A small moka pot lies at the top of the largest box. Angelo gingerly picks it up. Martino had bought it at an antiques shop and had promised that he would make him coffee every morning when they moved in together after graduation. He knew that coffee was the only thing that could get Angelo out of bed.
He opens the tiny chamber. To his surprise, a bit of water gleams on the bottom and white salt is crusted on its sides. Disgusted, Angelo reaches inside and scratches at the salt. A plume of coffee-scented vapor bursts forth, knocking him against the wall.
The haze gradually solidifies into the shape of a young man.
Angelo is too stunned to scream. The ghostly figure seems equally as shocked to see him. He floats several feet off the ground wearing breeches and a long white coat with a violet waistcoat underneath. Angelo grasps onto this piece of data and identifies him as definitely Italian, possibly from the 18th century. His long black hair is pulled into a low ponytail and he has remarkably striking features. Angelo would have thought he was a woman had it not been for the breeches.
The ghost seems to recover somewhat and makes a hasty bow.
Buongiorno! You can see me, can't you? It... seems that I've returned to the world of the living.
Angelo stares at him blankly as his breathing speeds up and his hands grow numb. The figure is still speaking, but Angelo can’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears. It's happening again, this inexplicable, wretched loss of control. His vision narrows to the worried face looming over him. Wide luminous eyes, pale glowing skin, and red lips that seem almost lifelike.
“I’m hallucinating. This cannot possibly be happening. I need to reset,” he thinks frantically, as he slumps down onto the bed and shakily throws an arm over his eyes. He tries to catch his breath, but darkness quickly overtakes him.
Sapiente watches the engineer hunched over his worktable with barely concealed impatience.
His face is obscured by a mop of dark blonde hair and a magnifying eyepiece. A hollowed clock lays in front of him as his hands place a delicate gear with light, precise movements.
Upon waking, Angelo had immediately bolted out of the apartment and to this clockmaker’s shop. To both of their surprise, Sapiente was able to join him.
Sapiente is starting to feel desperate. Angelo believes him to be a figment of his broken mind and pays him as little attention as possible. Why was he given this second chance to complete his work, only to be bound to someone who apparently has no interest in coffee, or him? Was this punishment for what he had done?
"What did you say your name was again?"
The pale figure is standing mournfully by the window. At the sound of Angelo's voice, it starts in surprise and whirls to face him. Angelo suppresses a shudder.
Sapiente Francesconi, it replies cautiously.
Angelo has never known anyone by that name. And the specter doesn't resemble anyone he knows. He would remember seeing that face before. Interesting.
After ignoring its presence all day in the failed hope that it would disappear on its own, Angelo is forced to take action. The sooner he accepts his current circumstances, the sooner he will be able to analyze the situation clearly.
Angelo spends the next several hours interviewing his hallucination and becoming helplessly fascinated by the contours of his own madness. This Sapiente is apparently from Venice, a city that Angelo has never visited nor ever cares to visit. Not only that, he can rattle off Venetian landmarks and the news from his time period, which, he claims, was the mid-1700s. Angelo marvels at the sheer quantity and detail of this latent knowledge that he must have absorbed from newspapers and past history classes in order to manifest this hallucination. He will have to visit the library later to verify its accuracy.
The most baffling revelation is Sapiente's obsession with coffee. He claims to have worked at a famous Venetian coffeehouse called Caffè Florian and passionately rants about the roasts and drinks he had invented, his personal philosophy on brewing, the drink preferences of the various patrons who had frequented his coffee shop, and his claim that he has returned from the spirit world to prepare something called the “Divine Brew.”
Torino is famous for coffee and Angelo partakes in a morning cappuccino and several daily espressos like any other Italian, but he doesn’t harbor much personal interest in it otherwise. He wracks his memory trying to uncover some metaphorical link, some childhood trauma, anything that could explain such an all-consuming interest in coffee. Why on earth would any hallucination of his claim to be a ghost infatuated with coffee of all things?
Angelo realizes that he hasn’t eaten all day. He opens his small refrigerator and takes out a stale piece of bread and a block of cheese. He eyes the cheese closely before carefully paring off several suspicious dark spots. Sapiente is curiously flitting through the small apartment and exclaiming at various appliances when Angelo takes a bite.
Sapiente freezes in mid-air and gives him a look of such extreme horror that Angelo almost chokes.
That is foul! What is the matter with you?! You're as Italian as I am! Eat real food, not that garbage!
Angelo is surprised to find himself snickering.
"So you can taste, but not feel anything? What kind of a ghost are you?”
In response, the ghost only rests his chin on his hand while Angelo quietly processes this new information. The ghost begins to smile and slowly looks up. His wide eyes seem to grow even larger.
Is there a restaurant nearby?
"No," Angelo said flatly. "I'm not taking you anywhere until I figure out what you are. Enough people think I'm crazy already."
But we went to the clockmaker’s shop together!
“No one bothers me in there,” Angelo snaps.
It has been hundreds of years since I've had gnocchi! And...mio dio... espresso. Please could we just go out for dinner? I won't say a word and I'll sit far away. You won't even know I'm there.
"Whining is childish," Angelo growls. He opens his cabinets, foraging for other options. There are several cans of vegetables and sauce. That could work.
You can't analyze all this clearly unless you have a proper meal. And you know you will be useless without real coffee.
Angelo snorts. "Clever. Then again, a figment of my imagination should be clever. I can use your moka pot to make coffee, although using it might make you disappear. I should try that, actually."
Sapiente glances warily at the moka pot, but clenches his fists.
Please then, let me make coffee for you! If you are satisfied with it, then can we go to a restaurant and a caffè together?
Angelo raises an eyebrow at this. "You’ll make the coffee? And how exactly would that work?"
Sapiente flashes him a brilliant smile. Just follow my instructions!
Angelo stabs at the butter and sage drenched gnocchi with his fork and takes another bite. Sapiente sits across from him, radiant and beatific. They are outside at a small table surrounded by couples. A waiter stops to refill his water glass.
I feel like I'm closer to heaven than I already am! Although this might be my version of hell, to be stuck here with you.
The gnocchi peace offering has clearly put Sapiente in a good mood. He chatters on, as full of life as a bodiless being can be.
Angelo is quiet while he struggles to process this new information.
Sapiente apparently possesses expert knowledge of a skill that is completely foreign to Angelo.
He cannot be real, Angelo thinks desperately. Because if he’s real… what about Martino?
Suddenly the gnocchi feels thick and greasy in his throat. He swallows hard and pushes the plate away with a grimace. Sapiente objects, but Angelo tunes him out.
January 3, 1952
Another nightmare. Sapiente moves from his meditation by the window to rest a pale hand over Angelo's forehead as he thrashes in his sleep, wishing again that it wouldn't just pass right through him.
In a moment, Angelo will wake and stare at him, wild-eyed and uncomprehending. Later, he will take a small watch with him when he goes to the clockmaker's workshop. Broken timepieces will be pushed aside as Angelo takes the watch apart and reassembles it, again and again, in feverish, practiced motions like a rosary.
Sapiente fears it is his fate to bear this man's suffering. But there must be something he can do to help him.
March 27, 1952
I cannot wait until you finally quit this disgusting habit completely.
Sapiente frowns as Angelo draws a cigarette, lights it, and takes a deep, shaky drag.
"I used to smoke at least twelve of these a day before I had the bad luck of getting stuck with you. Let me enjoy this one in peace without you making me sick again," Angelo retorts, raising the cigarette to his lips with shaking hands.
How could you smoke that much? You know you're just poisoning your body. The way you cough when you sleep sounds horrible. Also, it dulls your senses, which you share now, in case you forgot.
"Well, I really don't think a man who killed himself is in a position to be giving anyone advice about their health," Angelo grits out. His breath catches in his throat, trapping the dark smoke. Sapiente is quiet as he coughs harshly.
"I probably shouldn't have said that," Angelo says after he recovers. "I don't even know if that's true. It's… just been my guess."
Angelo looks away and takes a quick, nervous puff. Was he worried that Sapiente might leave? Or that he might never leave? Sapiente begins to laugh tightly.
I'm glad to be haunting someone clever. Even if we have nothing in common.
Angelo looks relieved. They sit in silence, watching the thin wisp of smoke from his cigarette trail towards the sky.
June 3, 1952
Angelo feels a slim hand caress his neck before looping around his waist. He smirks at his shorter friend and ruffles his hair. Martino bats his hand away and keeps talking, although Angelo can't quite make out the words.
They stop at their usual corner by the flower shop, where Angelo sees his apartment to the right. Martino withdraws his arm and gives him a friendly salute as he saunters towards his dorm further down the road. As Angelo watches, Martino begins to fade away.
He wakes up trembling and covered in sweat.
Sapiente is sitting near him. Angelo throws the covers off and turns to face the wall. He forces himself to take slow, measured breaths through the deafening pounding of his heart.
Whoever it is you dream about, you must have cared for them very deeply.
Angelo touches the bare wall and exhales slowly through his mouth before answering.
"He was more to me than a brother, or family."
A friend?
The dream had seemed so real. He could still feel Martino's fingers lazily scratching at the curls on his nape before skimming lightly down his back.
"Not quite... but no one would understand."
The world has not changed much then.
Sapiente's voice is almost inaudible, but it still makes Angelo's chest tighten. It has been nearly six months since he first appeared. How many times has he watched him wake up like this? Angelo starts to shiver as his skin cools, but he angrily kicks the blanket off his legs.
"Well, what about you? Why did you kill yourself anyway? Please don't tell me it was coffee-related." He laughs bitterly.
Heartbreak. I did not wish to endure the pain any longer.
Seems like your plan didn't work, Angelo almost says, but doesn't.
Angelo’s breathing echoes quietly in the small room.
"It still hurts then, after all this time?"
I have carried it for hundreds of years, I suppose... and yet for me, it was only yesterday.
"A lover then?"
Not quite a friend.
Angelo exhales sharply. For a moment, he wonders if he'll start laughing or crying, but it passes just as quickly.
"Seems like you found a solution. Would you recommend it?"
Of course not. That would be awful. We might have to spend eternity together in that case.
Angelo laughs softly. "Or it'd be back to the moka pot for you."
He closes his eyes as a sudden wave of exhaustion sweeps over him.
"I've been thinking. It might be time for a new job."
Oh?
"I need to know how real you are," he slurs sleepily. "Or if I'm just completely cracked."
He can hear Sapiente sigh from behind him as he drifts into a dreamless sleep.
Good night, Angelo.
August 3, 1952
Sapiente soars through the heavy glass door of Caffè Torino ahead of Angelo. Just as he has done every morning since they began working here, he whirls excitedly through the elegant coffee shop, gliding past the long polished wooden counter and sparkling chandeliers and up the grand curved staircase. It's just as beautiful to him as Caffè Florian in Venice, and there is the addition of the revolutionary macchina that has changed everything Sapiente knows about coffee.
Sapiente floats back down to where the metal espresso machine, the centerpiece of his strange new existence, sits gleaming on the counter. Angelo is briskly wiping it down and readying it to make a morning cup before opening. He has tried to explain to Sapiente how the small parts inside move together to create an espresso with such intense aroma and flavor, but Sapiente is still convinced it is magic. This machine was created by a man named Gaggia in Milan less than a decade ago, but the results are worthy of praising the angels who had inspired its creation and had sent Sapiente here to see it for himself.
Angelo catches his gaze and imperceptibly nods at him. Sapiente happily floats over as he places a cappuccino cup on the machine's tray. A fresh puck of espresso is already inside the machine. Angelo pulls the lever and they both watch as the intoxicating dark liquid flows into the small cup.
Sapiente bursts into a wide grin and Angelo allows himself a small smile as well as he raises the cup to his lips. After a moment, they both look at each other and wince.
Over-extracted...
"Pulled too fast," Angelo mutters and pours out the rest of the shot.
Sapiente watches Angelo clear out the filter, grind a fresh puck of espresso, and pull again. A thin creamy layer of foam forms on top of the small cup. Sapiente was originally dubious of this "scum," but later realized that it was actually a new, integral sign of quality in espresso. Angelo takes another sip and sets it aside while he froths a pitcher of milk for the cappuccino.
It has only been a little over a month since Angelo began working here, but he is quickly learning the art of coffee-making. Sapiente's guidance has certainly helped, but Angelo is clearly a remarkable student who absorbs and perfects any technical knowledge shared with him.
Only the artistry is missing and Sapiente struggles to think of how to teach something that, to him, is as simple and essential as air.
Caffè Torino is one of the busiest coffee shops in the majestic Piazza San Carlo and the days fly by in an endless stream of customers and espresso. Angelo stands at the counter as still and remote as the eye of a storm while the other baristas bustle around him. He pulls one shot after another, each shockingly identical in quality, as if his hands were an extension of the pistons inside the machine. He has even acquired some regulars who appreciate a reliably good espresso, even though he never smiles and hardly ever speaks.
Of course, Angelo is only there to try to unravel the mystery of Sapiente's existence, but Sapiente tells himself that that shouldn't matter. He is glad to be a part of Italy's coffee legacy again, whatever the circumstances.
November 28, 1952
How can you act like a machine all day? Sapiente sputters as he goes out the door ahead of Angelo and plants himself in front of him.
"I thought you agreed that you wouldn't talk to me during my only smoke break," Angelo snaps. He fumbles as he pulls out a cigarette and drops it. "Merda!"
Sai che cosa… you are worse than a machine! At least a machine can't help being anything but a machine! And when else am I supposed to talk to you, since you just ignore me when we're inside?
"You know what?" Angelo mocks. "Sai this, sai that. That's all I hear from you all day long and you wonder why I tune you out. Isn't this what you wanted? You came back from the dead because of coffee and now you're bored of it?"
Sai che-- Sapiente catches himself and puffs his cheeks out in irritation.
Angelo's lips twitch despite himself as Sapiente attempts to stamp his foot.
"You know what… you're several hundred years old. You should really start acting like it," Angelo says as he flicks the stub of his cigarette to the ground and steps on it before heading back inside.
For months now, Sapiente has watched with mounting frustration while Angelo pulls espresso shots with the same lack of enthusiasm he would show pulling weeds from the ground. His espresso shots never vary. The crema is always exactly the same color and each cappuccino is identical to the next whether they are being served to a young woman with a sweet tooth or the old shopkeeper who always adds a bit of rum from his flask.
Worst of all are the endless orders of bicerin. Torino is famous for its chocolate, its coffee, and this sickly sweet combination of both. Sapiente has never enjoyed sweet drinks in any life and certainly not the constant smell of burnt sugar.
Angelo places a row of small, clear glasses on the counter and neatly assembles the layers of espresso, chocolate, and cream en masse. Judging from his pinched expression, Sapiente doesn't think he cares for them either.
Finally, the shop empties as night falls. It's Angelo's turn to close up and he finishes placing the last of the washed cups on the drying rack with more force than necessary.
Wait. I want you to make a drink before we leave.
He can’t be serious, Angelo thinks, groaning in disbelief and fatigue. "Really? Now?"
Yes, now.
Sapiente is gazing at him steadily, which Angelo always finds more unnerving than his tantrums. Still, he sighs and gestures at the bare counter.
"Everything's turned off and closed. You should have said something earlier."
Not everything. Sapiente points at the coffee plunger tucked inside an open cabinet.
"We hardly ever use that," Angelo muses. But he fetches the glass pot with its fitted plunger and lid. It was invented not too long ago, in Milan in 1929, but it isn't widely-used at all. Nonetheless, Angelo likes it for its simple, elegant design.
"Fine. One cup. Since you've been in such a sour mood."
Use the manual grinder to make two coarse tablespoons of the French roast.
"Yes, sir," Angelo mutters as he scoops the thick, crumb-like grounds into the glass pot and puts a kettle on the stove. When it boils, he lets the water cool for exactly 15 seconds before pouring it into the pot and fitting the plunger loosely on top.
They haven't made coffee together like this in a while, not since Angelo learned how to make the shop's menu flawlessly and Sapiente started complaining that Angelo wasn't excited enough when he prepared coffee. Angelo respects Sapiente's knowledge, but he doesn't have patience for anyone, dead or alive, who tries to lecture him about things like feelings or intuition. It had created a distance between them… as much as there could be in their case.
After five long minutes, Angelo slowly presses the plunger down, letting the metal filter push the grounds to the bottom.
The coffee is a rich, glossy black. As he lifts the cup to his face, the intoxicating, smoky aroma surges into his lungs as satisfyingly as a freshly lit cigarette. He takes a sip. The flavor is so intense that it hits him like a bracing January wind, even as it scorches his tongue.
He loves it.
Angelo stares at Sapiente with something like wonder. He isn't sure exactly what it is, because he’s never felt this way before.
Good, isn't it?
"It's… not another goddamn bicerin, that's for sure."
Sapiente lets out a peal of laughter. Angelo grins too.
"This is what's been missing," Angelo says. "But of course you knew that. Sai this, sai that."
Sapiente only beams at him in response.
Angelo downs the rest of the coffee before it cools and quickly washes the plunger and cup.
"All right. Let's go home, Sai," he says as he flicks the lights off and opens the door.
Sapiente glows faintly inside the darkened coffee shop as he looks at him, startled.
"Yeah, you. Sai, Mister Know-it-All," Angelo smirks and cocks his head towards the street outside. Sai smiles at his new nickname, and happily soars through the door like a shooting star.
Yes... let's go home!