End of the World and Coffee

       It all started right after midnight when Signe Madsen née Sørensen pushed her husband in the side by sharp knuckles, and informed him that she wanted coffee. Right now. Real, ground coffee from a drip machine, and she didn’t care that the last instant coffee at Madsens’ farm was consumed some months ago, its jar buried at the backyard with honours and with a message to descendants if anyone was left over one century. When asked by Michael if she was crazy or nuts, Signe replied that a pregnant woman was entitled to any whims at any time of the day and night. Michael woke up at once. He still couldn’t decide if he was struck by joy or terror. If he was the baby he’d think twice before coming into this world on a small island in the middle of world collapse. Well, now he wanted some coffee, too, and maybe even with a drop of brandy. “Whom do I need to rob?” he sighed as he sat in the bed. “Olsens, a supermarket, the mayor?” “No one.” While he was yawning Signe sprang up and pulled on her stockings and sweater as if she had already a litre of coffee kicking in. “We’ll take it from my dowry aka dismissal compensation. I’m going to the bathroom, and you get dressed, then find a crowbar, a hand saw, wire cutter, torch, rope, black raincoats. And get two bicycles outside, but quiet.” Sure, when Signe was back Michael had been still at the first task. Together they tiptoed out of the house to a barn to collect equipment. Its list still looked like an average theft kit. Then Magnus materialized under their feet and prepared to meow at top volume so Michael had to pick him up for a cuddle, and Signe had to look for the tools all by herself. He was sorry to play with the cat while Signe did the work, but, well, cats were entitled for any whims merely for being cats. Then the three of them rode in the moonlight by a countryside lane (Magnus curled in a basket), and into a highway, through Rønne streets to a fence with barbed wire and sound of waves crushing behind it. “It’s the port,” Michael stated when Signe parked the bicycles in the thickest bush in sight of the former port parking lot and handed him the crowbar and cutter. “It’s guarded by the police and coastguard.” “I know,” She put a coat on and pulled it’s cape to her nose. “See, that corner is out of sight of the control tower, go and pull a fence sheet off to make a hole of your size.” “So, do you want to hijack a ferry and have a drive to the continent for shopping?” “No, but I still need that ferry boat where we’ve met.” Michael stared at the crowbar and thought that with any luck, they’d have a prison cell for two and some peace, and no nephews and nieces under their feet. The other side of the fence met them with abandoned buses, semitrucks, containers and a couple of floodlights but those were far and weak. In short runs or even crawls between the remnants of civilization, the criminal couple approached the ferry terminal. Magnus was walking by and looking at humans like at humans. That meant, at idiots. Then Signe swore. At the pier, a boat hull was still recognisable, but it lost all top structures and a good deal of boards, large cut fragments of which lay on the ground around. “Do you understand what it means?” Michael thought a bit, and once more. “I don’t want to, but—yes, I do. There’s nowhere to go by a ferry line now. The boat needs too much diesel to be useful for anything else. So, it’s being dismantled. You know, now I want some brandy. Maybe with a drop of coffee.” “That’s another oops.” Signe winced. “I don’t know which of those pieces of scrap is the mop closet.” “Oh… What?” “What ‘what’? Bartenders didn’t earn much at the boat, so I took a jar of coffee from the staff kitchenette as a bonus for harmful exposure, and hid it in a hollow partition space in the mop closet. But I didn’t manage to retrieve it in the bustle, with all those cancellations, announcements, rioting passengers.” She shot Michael a sly glance. “Now let’s start looking for a piece of creamy marble plastic the size of coffin. We’ll find it by the morning or even earlier.” Michael yearned for home and warm bed, and slipped to his customary pessimism. “Let’s bet on the turn to clean the cowshed that your bonus was either broken during breakdown, or it was found and enjoyed by others.” “We must not give up,” Signe was not giving up, and Michael was reminded once again why he loved in her, beside her boundless sense of humour. “It’s a pity your Magnus is not a dog and can’t find… Stop, where’s Magnus?” The cat wasn’t trying to trip his master, or sniffing the rubbish, or washing his behinds, he just disappeared, and didn’t answer a quiet call. Now Michael had no choice but to search through the junk. And they crawled forth. Signe was looking for her closet or its remnants, Michael was calling his cat in whisper by the name and all aliases ranging from ‘stray mop’ to ‘precious kitty’, and wondered where watchdogs were. Signe was the first to hear a strange sound. Fast, regular grating of something sharp on something hard and flat. She was turning to flee when Michael caught her and dragged towards the sound. He recognised it. It was Magnus burying his liquid or solid waste. It came from the left, not far from them, behind one truck. For safety, Michael chose to crawl under the truck instead of veering it, and got stuck, promised to all cosmic powers to start a diet, and got pulled out by his dear wife. Indeed it was Magnus trying to fill up a pile of boards with nothing. Signe laughed out, for it were just the right boards, and called Magnus a genius. Well, the cat really hated all cleaning paraphernalia and would pee on any mop or a place where it had been stored for a long time. In just ten minutes of crowbar application, Signe held the desired jar and didn’t even mention the bet and cowshed. Michael thought the universe had long owed him at least a bit of luck and was starting to pay the debt at last. Maybe the universe or god were offended by such ingratitude; on the way back, Michael almost stomped on a cat. A stranger cat, red one, with a collar and a police tag. So, the rumours that the police was using cats instead of dogs were true? The police cat inspected Michael and turned to go, but Magnus was opposed to other animals sniffing his human, and he protested loudly. The cat replied in kind, and a cat opera and ballet ensued. Now any human guards would definitely hear it. There was no need to say ‘run’, they both dashed to the fence hole. Well, haste was a bad advisor. Michael didn’t pass through the hole quickly, or slowly, or anyhow; his coat was strong enough to catch on the uneven edges and not to rip. Trying to wriggle out like a circus seal Michael didn’t notice that fast beat in his ears was not his heart but someone’s boots clicking on the ground. When a watchman with an automatic gun reached the intruder’s rear part and asked what the hell, Michael could only smile and wave hello. As far as he remembered, the island prison was several blocks from there. *** For a bribe of half a jar of coffee, the watchman agreed to ignore this silly, harmless incident. It was dawning when two happy people locked their room after procuring themselves two mugs and a fresh-boiled kettle. If anyone pressed an ear to the keyhole he or she’d hear content sighs. “A great celebration of our anniversary, right?” Signe smiled, and Michael’s breath hitched. She was so pretty even when tired and ruffled, with bags under her eyes, and wrapped in a plaid. And so smart, so brave, and she had excellent memory. He had forgotten that one year ago he was travelling by boat from Ystad to Bornholm for one day to leave his cat to his sister, and stayed for so long, and not alone. With all the global disasters, it felt ages ago. It was a miracle (unfathomable like any miracles) that this woman had chosen him as a friend, a husband, a father of her future child… Maybe it wasn’t fair to ask the universe for any more luck? “Isn’t this just like that time? Do you remember, we took two cups of Caffe Americano—at my cost, by the way—and had a nice long talk. The ferry going to unknown future, but we had coffee and us. And Magnus, of course.” The cat at their feet mmred hearing his name. “You know, dear, I don’t think anymore that you family naming tradition is stupid. Let’s name the baby Magnus.” “And what if it’s a girl?” Michael thought of the worst case, as usually. “What ‘what’? Why can’t it be a girl’s name? Prejudice, nothing more.” The future father didn’t have time to save his potential daughter from grisly fate; outside of their tiny room in the attic, someone knocked on the door, high-pitched voices whined. “Uncle Michael, let us in! Or we’ll tell Mom! Auntie Kirsten, uncle Michael is–” “Quiet, Markus! You shouldn’t eavesdrop when adults make out.” Delicacy was a feature passed down to all Madsens. “No-o! They make coffee! I can smell it from here!” “Please remind me why we want to have a child,” Michael asked his wife in whisper. “Why, it’s evident,” Signe was sincerely surprised. “So that our brat is the youngest, the most pampered, and bothers everyone, wakes others up at dawn and pries out the sweetest pieces.” “Indeed. Okay, I’m in, then.”