Mister Barnabu was a distinguished little man of indefinite age. He wore a greyish moustache larger than his pointy face, a wide-brimmed black hat that hid half his forehead, and yellow-lensed glasses resting on his long aquiline nose. Nevertheless, what set him apart was his long, camel-coloured trenchcoat, which he wore even in the sunny summers. It was the trademark for the short and thin man.
When the customers of the Italian Cafe, the oldest and only one in the village, saw that little brown coat coming, they needed no calendar: it was Tuesday. Mr Barnabu, every second day of the week, at eight in the morning, would come there with his newspaper under his arm, order a cappuccino, take a seat by the window, and without taking off his long trenchcoat or hat, start reading the news. Now and then, he would lower the newspaper, scan the various customers, as if looking for someone in particular, and then carefully resume his reading. Noon corresponded to the time of day when he would finally get up, pay, and greet everyone by making a sign with his hat. Then, he disappeared until the Tuesday after. It has happened for the last twenty years. Indeed, even the most loyal and elderly customers remembered the strange man in the Italian Cafe. Nobody knew anything about Mr Barnabu, where he lived, what he did for a living, or how he used to spend the other days of the week.
Even his name was unknown; people of the village had nicknamed him "Barnabu" because of the brand of his trenchcoat. Never had anyone heard his voice either. Having been a regular since immemorial time, he had his cappuccino ready. And if ever some young waiter tried to ask him a question, “May I take the cup away?“, or, “Have you seen how much it is raining today?“, he would reply with a guttural sound, shaking his head intensively, yet not so hard that his big moustache or black brim hat could move.
Many over the years have wondered about the identity of Mr Barnabu. Someone thought he was a spy from a distant country, some others a secret agent looking for a fugitive, for someone he was an art thief or even the ghost of the first owner of the Cafe. But then, on a Tuesday like any other, Mr Barnabu had not yet arrived at his usual hour. At nine, all the customers were astonished and even a little worried. By ten o'clock, it was clear that something was wrong. Mr Barnabu had never missed a Tuesday at the Cafe, even on the day when the whole village was snowbound, he was there with the newspaper under his arm, waiting for his cappuccino. He stayed there that day, from eight to noon, waiting, in silence, under the snowstorm, only to leave and return the following Tuesday. Thus, his absence was more than suspicious. At twelve and one minutes, a waitress called the police, the mayor, the army, and the Head of State. It was more than a serious matter. The whole village then began to search for him. Research began in houses, shops, woods, and even under the pebbles on the shore. There was no sign of that little brown coat. For the whole week, the customers mourned. Some left a flower, some a newspaper, and some paid for a cappuccino without drinking it. When they thought they had finally found him it was a Thursday, in the park. However, it was just a man wearing the same trenchcoat. “I bought it because I miss Mr Barnabu”, he confessed to the police.
The following week, at eight, everyone was at the Cafe, hoping to see him again, to get an explanation for that strange absence, but he did not come. Another week passed, and then another, but nothing. Soon after, the inquiry was closed: funds shortage. As the time passed, people stopped paying for a cappuccino, flowers withered, and old ladies stopped crying. When one day, on a Wednesday, out of the blue, a man in a black trenchcoat arrived at the Cafe. It was Mr Barnabu. They were all speechless, they did not know whether to be amazed at his return, at his new coat or why he was there at the Cafe on a Wednesday. The barmaid stammered in a low voice, almost frightened, and asked him, “The...the usual, yes...sir? A...a cappu...cappuccino, sir?”.
And he nodded, bowing his head and touching his hat. He then sat down in his usual place, opened his newspaper and began reading. Until, at about eleven, a chubby little boy, with some chocolate cake crumbs near his mouth, asked him the question everyone wanted, “Mr Barnabu, but you disappeared, how come? We have all been worried about you.”
The man, lowered the paper, and looked at the child questioningly for about ten seconds, then raised the newspaper again and continued his reading. The child was soon after tugged by his mother, “I told you not to bother people, excuse me sir”, and walked out of the Cafe a little embarrassed.
At noon Mr Barnabu got up and performed his ritual leaving the Cafe. From that day on, every Wednesday he came there and sat down without taking off his long black coat. He read his newspaper and drank a cappuccino without speaking to anyone.
Who Mr Barnabu will remain a mystery forever.
