The Legend of Don Conrado Pt.7

A row of walkers, solemn looking, with dark umbrellas and briefcases — and a few with hats and rucksacks strapped to their backs — brushed past him, but he strode forward along the curved road where pools of water had settled from the earlier downpour. Further up the cobbled path, the facade of a shop stood out from amongst the others; it was home to a bustling coffee establishment. The light-blue colour of the facade, with wide and unobstructed glass windows, was rather inviting in this murky weather, so he pressed on towards it until he could read the bold letters just above the door. Directly before him, it was written out, boldly: NERO.

The door burst open with a flourish, and he dared to enter. And within a few moments, he had waltzed right into the very heart — the lair — of the former Emperor himself. He stood cool and erect before the counter; it was chock-full of alien beans, from the counter to the ceiling. A ritual of a sort was taking place — and he watched the dance and rhythm of skilled harvesters unfold before him. These agents — who could be the very servants of the Emperor himself — worked fine-ground beans into tamping spoons. With one eye on the puck, they pressed the tamper into the spoon, masterfully — as if to thwart any channelling for the likes of his tastes. And just then, his very own French Press from back home came to mind, and the number of times he had plunged it like a weapon over the course of his lifetime, and the resulting displacement in doing so, which could’ve moved the valour of his arm a total of at least a few kilometres, in hindsight. And so he concluded that this ritual was an expression and testament of superior skill, and even the prospect of meeting the Emperor, just then, faded as he witnessed this act taking place before him.

Even so, nothing could unsettle the very marbles of our noble hero set on his current quest for truth and discovery, not the Emperor himself — save for having to pronounce some ancient latin, perhaps; such as if the word: hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia, just happened to be written up on the chalkboard behind the counter, for instance; which, he would then be expected to pronounce; and, such a word being of considerable length (a sly attempt to outmatch the length of his royal sash, no doubt), it would have to be practiced aloud, of course, if he were to attempt to pass for a local.

And, he imagined doing so, just then in this reverie, but the pleasant scent of some newly pressed alien beans going right up his nostrils instantly brought him out of this lull, and he fixed his gaze up at the chalkboard where the prices were set in semi-cursive hand, and which neatly displayed units in both pounds and pence. So he dug into the pockets of his royal robe to check, perchance, if he still had his wallet, which he did, and he rummaged through it until he produced some dollars. It was as if by way of clairvoyance that he knew it would not be legal tender. So the attempt to relieve his throbbing headache would have to be put on hold, for the present. And he would need to find a method of exchange.

The door, now held open by an older man in a dark pea coat, was beaded with rain as he approached. But he waltzed out, nonetheless, into the wet unknown, on his mission, and he did it without so much as lifting his royal sash to contend with the gatekeeper; yet he held the sash loosely in his left hand, as if in precaution, and as if it were the umbo of a toga; better still, a boss shield! — And he summoned forth his warrior spirit from the ancient bloodline, and he felt the Latin flow out of him as if he were channelling himself through the alien beans, and now belonged rather fittingly to this newly adopted era and age. Until, of course, he moved rather much like a phantom — wandering through the high street of these citadels, startling locals, in search of the most aroma-inducing alien beans to quench his thirst and quell his throbbing headache.