The café below the bookstore felt like a tucked-away world. Soft lighting cast amber pools on the worn wooden tables, and the scent of steeping tea mingled with cinnamon and the dry musk of old paperbacks. It was the kind of place that seemed to whisper rather than shout, the air calm with the hush of readers and clinking cups. Alex led Katarina to a corner table, offering her the seat opposite a gallery wall of framed black-and-white portraits—authors, mostly European, their gazes intense, frozen mid-thought.
Katarina eased into the chair, placing her recently acquired Bryusov anthology on the table with a kind of careful reverence, as if it might vanish if mishandled. Her earlier awkwardness had mellowed into a quiet, alert energy. She touched the book's cover lightly, like one might a keepsake from home.
"Какое милое место. Совсем не похоже на школьную столовую, слава богу," she said, her voice soft with approval. (What a lovely place. Nothing like the school cafeteria, thank goodness.)
Alex smiled. "It's a bit of a sanctuary. Good for forgetting the world for a while." A waitress came by, and he ordered a pot of Earl Grey and a plate of biscuits. He remembered her comment earlier—something about glucose and poetry—plus her delight over his grandmother's oatmeal cookies.
Katarina nodded at the choice. "Earl Grey is lovely. Thank you." Her fingers absently stroked the book's spine again. "I still can't believe I found this. I've searched everywhere for a decent Bryusov collection. Online versions just… don't feel right."
Alex leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him. "The soul of it gets lost in translation, doesn't it? The rhythm, the connotations. Like looking at a painting through fogged glass."
She looked up quickly, surprised and delighted. "Exactly! You understand." Her eyes lit up. "So many people think poetry's just… decoration. Pretty words. But it's not. It's a whole world, distilled into a few lines."
Their tea arrived. As Alex poured, steam coiled between them, fragrant and warm. Katarina wrapped her hands around the cup, inhaling deeply.
"Этот чай… он пахнет почти так же хорошо, как тот, что заваривала бабушка," she murmured, eyes distant. (This tea… it smells almost as good as the one grandmother used to brew.)
Alex watched her for a moment. There was something about the way she said "babushka"—as if the word itself carried warmth. "Tea's like that," he said gently. "It holds memories better than most things."
She smiled faintly, took a sip, and seemed to settle a bit more into herself. "It does." Then she opened the anthology. "You said you'd read his 'Pale Horse'—any others?"
The question felt delicate. How much should he show? "A few," he said carefully. "I remember 'The Coming Huns.' That tension between the ancient and the collapsing present. It's unnerving but… captivating."
She nodded, visibly pleased. "Yes! That blend of myth and modernity—he was a master of tone. And look—'In the Green Grotto.'" She flipped to a page, eyes scanning. "It's lush and strange, like stepping into a fever dream. But it's tinged with sadness, too."
She read a few lines aloud. Her voice carried the translated Russian with surprising grace, though the rhythm faltered in places—inevitable, Alex knew. Still, it was the feeling that came through, the way her face changed with each image. He knew the original by heart. His grandfather had read it often, admiring its cadence.
When she stopped, she looked up quickly, a flush rising. "Maybe I'm overdoing it. I know not everyone gets this excited about old poetry."
"Наверное, я слишком увлеклась. Он, должно быть, думает, что я сумасшедшая фанатка поэзии," she added in a quieter voice, smiling wryly. (I probably got too carried away. He must think I'm a crazy poetry fanatic.)
"Not even a little," Alex said, and let himself use her nickname again. "Katya, your passion is... rare. And honestly? It's compelling."
The pink in her cheeks deepened, but she didn't look away. "My house was always full of books," she said after a beat. "My mother teaches Meiji-era literature, and my dad's side—well, poetry was more than just reading material. My Babushka Natasha could quote Pushkin from memory. She said poetry was the soul's true voice."
He listened, absorbing it all—the professor mother, the Russian family heritage, this grandmother who sounded like a force of nature. He imagined little Katarina at a kitchen table somewhere, listening to poems as other kids might listen to fairy tales.
"She sounds amazing," Alex said. "The soul's voice… that's beautifully said." He paused. "You mentioned Tsvetaeva earlier. What draws you to her?"
Katya's expression changed, grew thoughtful. She took another sip, then rested the cup on its saucer, fingers lingering. "Tsvetaeva…" Her brow creased. "С ней всё сложнее. Её поэзия – это крик, это боль, это такая отчаянная любовь… Она пугает и притягивает одновременно." (She's harder. Her poetry—it's a scream, it's pain, it's this desperate kind of love… It scares me, but I can't look away.)
She glanced at him. "Her life was full of sorrow. Her writing—it doesn't cushion anything. It's raw. It's not there to comfort. It just… tells the truth. Even if it hurts. Especially when it hurts."
Alex felt something shift inside him. He remembered reading Tsvetaeva for the first time and feeling like the page might ignite in his hands. "An abyss that understands you," he said softly.
Katya's eyes widened slightly, and then softened. "Yes. Exactly that." She looked at him for a long, searching moment. "Он… он действительно понимает. Не просто слова, а… суть." (He really understands. Not just the words, but… the essence.)
A quiet bloomed between them, not empty but full. Full of everything not said, not needed. The distant hum of conversation and clatter faded, their little corner drifting into its own gravity.
"It's strange," Katya said eventually, voice almost lost beneath the soft jazz playing overhead. She traced the rim of her cup. "At school, I often feel like I'm translating myself. Even when I'm speaking Japanese. Not just because I switch languages, but because… what matters to me feels foreign to others."
Alex nodded slowly. That familiar ache. "It's isolating," he admitted. "When the things you love make you feel farther away from everyone else."
Their eyes met. Her gaze, usually sharp and inquisitive, was suddenly open in a new way—unguarded, and a little scared.
"Yes," she said, her voice barely audible. "It really is."
He almost reached for her hand, but stopped. It would be too much, too soon. Still, he wanted to offer something, anything, to ease that distance.
"Sometimes," he said, "you meet someone who speaks a language you thought only you understood. Even if it's through books and over-steeped tea."
She smiled, small but real. "Да. Иногда… очень редко… находишь." (Yes. Sometimes… very rarely… you find them.)
They talked for a while longer—books, translations, the odd magic of reading a sentence that felt like it had been written just for you. Alex kept his cover about Russian knowledge intact, citing translated editions or his grandfather's influence. Still, every minute nudged the wall between them back another inch.
Eventually, the waitress came by, apologetic. The café would be closing in thirty minutes.
Katya blinked, surprised. "Oh… I didn't even notice." She tucked the Bryusov anthology carefully into her tote, as if packing up a part of herself.
As they walked out into the main bookstore, Alex found himself reluctant to part ways. The afternoon felt suspended, like a note held just long enough before the next.
"Thanks for the tea, Nakamura-kun," she said, lingering near the entrance. "And the conversation. I really enjoyed it."
"The pleasure was mine, Katya," he replied. The informal name felt natural now. He hesitated. "Would you… maybe want to do this again sometime? Unless your poetry schedule's too full."
A rush of pink bloomed across her face. She looked down, then up again, her voice barely above a breath.
"Снова? С ним? Это было бы… замечательно," she whispered. (Again? With him? That would be… wonderful.)
And then, in Japanese, a little breathless: "I'd like that very much, Alexey-kun."
The use of his first name with the soft "-kun" touched something in him. Something warm and hopeful.
"Good," he said, his own voice lighter than it had been in days. "I'll look forward to it."
They moved toward the exit, side by side. This silence, too, was comfortable. But this time, it didn't feel like something to fill. It felt like something that had been earned.
And even as the smell of Earl Grey faded into the colder scent of the bookstore's corridors, Alex carried it with him—along with the sound of her voice, the glint in her eyes, and the quiet promise of another afternoon spent bridging the distance between two people, one poem, one conversation at a time.