My chef’s getting busy again. Knives, spatulas, a big mixer, sugar, flour, eggs, butter, raspberries, lemons, crème fraiche, liquors; all’s out. He’s been making cakes all morning, trying to find a new kind that will satisfy his costumers’ taste buds. It’s the last day of winter where he would experiment. And once spring kicks in, it’s official. Those months will be his ultimate high during the year. There will be no sleep for him, or for me.
This is how it goes. Normally, a couple of months before their wedding, people would come to the cake shop and have a little talk with Stefan. He would ask them everything from personal questions like when they first met and their hobbies, to ceremonial details such as the color of the dress, the food they’re serving and the flowers in the room. You know, normal questions a wedding planner would ask to his costumer. Except he’s not one. As I’ve said before, he’s a chef.
Well, actually, he’s a baker. That’s how Stefan wants to be referred to. Once, a very satisfied costumer thanked him for making a lovely cake for their wedding. They said Stefan is the greatest chef he’s ever met. But my chef’s just the most humble man in the world. So he shook his head, smiled and said, “I am not a chef. I am just a baker with a cake shop.” But to me he will always be my number-one chef.
And who am I to dare define who he is, you ask? Not to say this in wrong way – I’d hate it if you see me as vain – but I’m his inspiration. No, I’m not kidding, and I’m not lying. I am the one he turns to at times like these. I am the face he looks at while he does his magic. I am Calliope, Erato, and Euterpe to the Greeks. I am his muse.
I am a French porcelain bride he rescued from a garage sale 19 years ago. He picked me up so gently and carefully from under a huge pile of castaway dolls and paid $20 even though the owner only asked for a buck. “She’s beautiful. I wouldn’t mind paying high money for her, even though for now a twenty’s all I got,” he said to the owner about me. And the owner just shrugged and walked away probably thinking Stefan was crazy.
That afternoon, he brought me to his daughter that helped clean me up and sew me a new dress. It took her a long time, as I am old. I am so old; ‘vintage’ just does not cut it.
His daughter handed me to him after she was finished.
“I did what I can, dad. But I hope you know I’m not a magician. I couldn’t fix that scar,” she said.
Ah yes, my scar. I remember when that happened.
Vienna, July 1940. The happy bride and groom exchanged their vows witnessed by friends and families. A little gathering followed the ceremony that afternoon; I was there. I looked on while they danced their first dance. Suddenly the song was interrupted with a loud noise coming from the sky. The next thing I know, fire was everywhere, burning everything and everyone in the building. I was lucky; I was thrown outside the window. I never knew what happened to my porcelain groom. A soldier with a swastika on his left arm picked me up, put me in his pocket. He gave me to his daughter who kept me in a box filled with scarred dolls. All were war casualties.
When Stefan found my scar, I wished I could have covered it with my hands. But I am only a doll and he did not care. He lifted me up higher so the light would shine upon me so he could see me more clearly. And although it was such a shame for me, he still said I was beautiful.
“I will call her Adiana,” he said.
“Meaning?” His daughter asked.
“It means ‘the night’s falling reveals the angel’s beauty’,” he held me up to the lamp so he could see me clearer and I him. I saw his gentle eyes looking straight to mine and I felt more loved than ever before.
Ever since then, every time he is faced with a challenge of coming up with a new creation, Stefan gets me out of the special cupboard in the pantry and sits me on his drawing board. Then he stares back and forth between me and the blank paper in front of him. And as his hand starts to draw his latest work of art, he would talk to me. He’d ask my opinion even though he knows perfectly well that I can’t reply. I can only think it, and then hope that he will hear my thoughts. And he does. There is no doubt we communicate better than most people, and I don’t even have to say anything at all.
During the past winter, the bell above the door of the cake shop never stopped ringing as customers went in and out. Spring weddings are big around here, so he had very busy days with non-stop appointments. People didn’t care that the sign for Stefan Zijta– that’s his name – Cake Shop was crooked and old. But then everybody knows the shop has been there for nearly 24 years. And of course, they only cared for what they know he was capable of, and that was more than enough.
One of the couples that came to the shop last winter was Lisa and Nick. They have known each other all their lives. Neighbors since they were born, friends through school, kept in touch through college, but at last they truly found each other just a year ago through some weird fate at a local festival. I was on the drawing board when they came to see Stefan so I witnessed their little chat.
“A festival?” Stefan asked the happy couple.
“Yes,” Nick answered enthusiastically, “the Festival Of Living Pictures.”
I guess they must’ve seen the unfamiliarity in Stefan’s reaction that Lisa started to explain what it is, “it’s a local festival. Basically the town gathers around at night and reenacts famous paintings. I got the part of Antea. You know, by Parmigianino?”
“Oh, yes! I’m familiar with that one. That’s a very beautiful painting.”
Stefan was not lying. I’ve seen his books. In fact, I think I know which painting they were talking about. It’s of a lady from the 16th century.
“If you think the painting is beautiful, you should’ve seen her version,” Nick gushed, declaring how he enjoyed the sight of Lisa as Anthea.
“And what were you posing as?” Stefan asked Nick.
“Oh, no, no. I’m more of a backstage person. I don’t really like to perform, or do anything, really, in front of the public.” Nick took a pause before he continued, ”I volunteered myself to be the prop manager.”
“And I was lucky that he handled the prop,” Lisa picked up the conversation. “I wore this gorgeous16th century dress that is very long and heavy, right? But I didn’t have the chance to do the rehearsal that afternoon so I didn’t know what the stage looked like, where the stairs were, which frame I’m going to be in. Things like that.”
“And then, what happened was that while she was walking up to the stage, she tripped over the stairs and ripped the gown she was wearing.”
“Yes, and to top it off, the torn piece of my dress got stuck on this giant frame that I was supposed to be in,” Lisa started to burst into laugh. But then she calmed down and with the sincerest tone I’ve ever heard, she continued her story, “but Nick came swooping in out of nowhere and saved me.”
“She’s exaggerating. All I did was—“
“He freed me from the frame, and somehow fix this enormous slit on my dress with his electrical tape. All before the curtain opened.”
“And that’s when you both fell in love?” Stefan asked.
“Oh no. I fell in love with her because she told me she had a cat named Chicken,” Nick moved his hand towards Lisa’s and held hers. She looked down at their intertwined hands, smiled, and then looked up at Stefan. It’s her turn now.
“I knew it was love because there’s something about the way he says my name. I know my name is safe in his mouth.” Stefan smiled after her answer. I smiled without moving my lips. I know exactly what she was talking about.
That night, Nick and Lisa left the shop hand in hand without forgetting to give Stefan the challenge of building a cake that is whimsical, yet elegant. And that is what he plans to achieve tonight.
“What do you think, Adiana?” I hear his voice call my name. I looked at the clock and realize I’ve been busy with my own thoughts for hours. It’s now 9 PM.
Hmm? About what?
“About this cake I’m drawing. Is it whimsical enough?” He explains without lifting his head up. Still staring at the paper.
I think so… Mad Hatter?
“The 9 stack is deliberately asymmetrical so it would look like Mad Hatter’s top hat.”
I thought so.
“But I bet you already knew that.”
I did. Hmm… let’s see. What’ll be the color for the cake?
“I was thinking white for the color.”
Off-white’s better.
“But off-white’s better. Definitely better,” and with that he lift his head up and smiled at me sweetly.
I can’t believe anybody had ever left Stefan alone – even to die. His wife passed away a long time ago. Ilse, too, was a cook. Back when she was still alive, when they were still living in Amsterdam, she helped him with the catering. I know this because he loves to talk about his wife to me, to the customers, to everyone. One of his walls has a picture of them together. And I have to say, she seemed like a lovely person. I can tell they were very much in love. It was too obvious; their eyes gave it away. Stefan once confided to me that, “there was something about Ilse that made me want to whisper.”
I wish he would say that about me too, but it’s too much of a request. This is not a fairy tale. I’m not Pinocchio. All I can do is sit with him while he explores the endless possibilities of cakes.
“Let’s see, Alice in Wonderland? Pastel?” Stefan leaned back to his chair as he asks my opinion about the theme for Nick and Lisa’s cake.
Yes to both if you’re talking about silhouettes.
“I mean pastel silhouettes.”
Well, that settles it. A definite yes, then.
Stefan picks up a pencil and starts to draw subtle outlines of Alice, the Queen of Hearts, the White Rabbit, the Cheshire Cat, the Caterpillar, and all the other characters. I watch him draw and erase and redraw the shapes until they are perfect.
Stefan is very good with colors. By this time, he already has a clear thought on which color, hue and shade goes on what character. He has prepared a palette of watercolor paint on the desk so right away he starts to put paint on his cake design.
Everything falls into place now. Beautiful.
Funny, but every time he’s making a new cake – really, the only real moments I have alone with him – I feel something I think is love. You know how I know? Because once I took a glance at the mirror and saw my eyes were like his wife’s in the pictures. It’s inevitable, I guess. Who would not love this wonderful, gentle man? Yes, he smells like vanilla all the time. He’s old and scruffy. His hair has turned all grey. But I can’t say that I’m young, either.
It is now midnight. He is finally done with the design. He stretches his arms until they are next to me. It is obvious that he’s tired – planning a cake is a tiresome affair. And there’s nothing more I would love to do than to make him a cup of tea, bring him a pillow to rest his head, or just give him a stroke or two if it would make it better. But I am just a porcelain doll. No matter how loud I sigh, he still won’t hear it.
“What’s wrong?” Suddenly his stretched arm move towards me. He strokes my hair soft, “you’re tired, aren’t you?”
No, I’m not. You are.
“I’m tired too. But I’m luckier than you are, I guess,” he smiles at me. “I could still say that I’m tired. You, on the other hand, have that whole veneer to maintain,” he continues. “That must be breaking you heart.”
Completely. But this façade is not about feeling tired. And my breaking heart is not about that, either.
“You’re so like her – my wife. She smiled at everything, every time. Have I told you how much you’re like her?”
Yes, a million times.
“I bet I did a million times before. But I like to repeat it to myself so I won’t forget how beautiful she was… and of course, how beautiful you are.”
Sigh.
“If only my daughter was here," he chuckles. "She must think I’m going crazy for talking to you. A porcelain bride cake-topper. And what’s more, I could swear I heard you sigh.”
What? I did sigh! You heard my heart sigh?
“And I know why you sighed,” he continues.
Because I love you?
“It’s because you’re tired and need to go back in the cupboard,” he gets out his handkerchief and wipes my porcelain face with it. “It’s been a long day. A long season for you and me. I’ve been letting you out more times than usual these few months. It’s time for you to rest now.”
No, no! Ignore my sigh! It’s not what you think it is! I don’t need to rest! Why is it that you can read my mind perfectly about everything else but not about this?
I try to send him more of my mental messages. But it’s too late. He’s already putting me back into my box, getting me ready to be moved back to the cupboard in the pantry. There’s no telling when I would be out as all the cakes for the spring weddings are already drawn out.
No, no! Don’t close the lid! Please don’t put me back in the pantry!
But it’s too late. He’s closed the lid now. I can feel the box moving as he walks towards the pantry. “I will see you again, don’t worry. Wait for me, okay? You know as soon as a new cake’s ordered, I will get you out,” I can hear him faintly from outside the box. Sigh. I can only breathe his name. “Wait for me,” he said. And so I will.
Forever, with this smile on my face.
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