Capuns

It was a rainy Saturday in the middle of summer, which really spoiled everyone’s mood for a relaxed weekend with lots of sunshine. And so, the general mood in the rehabilitation clinic high up above the valley at 950 m above sea level was somewhat subdued. One after the other visit by relatives was cancelled, which upset the mood here and there even more. The short walks in different groups that were part of the daily training program – depending on the progress of each person’s rehabilitation – were carried out after breakfast despite the huddle weather. Wrapped in waterproof anoraks and armed with umbrellas, one walking group moved slowly through the wet streets between the houses, which were surprisingly stately for this remote place, and the huge barns with the richly carved wood decorations typical for this area. A kind of filigree wood sawing, incredible craftsmanship of earlier times that hardly anyone could master nowadays.

I was visiting my husband for a long weekend. He was in rehabilitation for several weeks after major heart surgery, and I regularly commuted on Fridays and stayed until Mondays. The two of us also took a slow stroll that morning through the village after breakfast and rested briefly at different places on the rustic wooden benches spread out in front of the houses here and there. Since these were also wet, we just sat on the edge for a moment, holding our umbrellas open.

When we got back to the clinic, it was soon time for lunch. Because of the Covid situation, the meal times were organized in two shifts. So only one person sat at the small tables, and the seats were occupied diagonally at the larger tables. This seating arrangement naturally did not contribute optimally to maintaining table conversations, so the overall mood in the dining room was a bit uptight. Most convalescents sat with restrained faces in front of their plates. Outside, the sky hung low, and the dark grey clouds kept pouring thick rain streaks so that huge puddles of water formed on the paths, and the water flowed down in thin streams along the steep streets towards the valley. The prospects for the rest of the day seemed by no means inviting for outdoor activities. Rehabilitators with their walking aids crowded the corridors. Others who were already better on their feet again used the stairs as a training ground. And on one of the upper floors, a walkway along the whole corridor was marked with plastic boards so that there was now active walking training going on. Those who had almost fully recovered scurried away light-footed and with a proud expression on their face. Several people crowded the library and sat sunken in large armchairs over their books. While a woman in her fifties was trying to play some etudes on the piano that she may have mastered when she was younger.

My husband decided to try catching up on missed sleep during the afternoon. This was probably the effect of the many medications and probably also because of internal restlessness and weakness. I went on a brisk march through the village. With the hood of my anorak pulled over my forehead and the umbrella open. The village was built on a steep slope, and I followed the main road at a sporty pace. Soon I was out of the village and followed the road that wound up the hill in many curves. A short distance above the village, I stopped for a rest on a wooden bench painted red. The rain was temporarily a little lighter, so I sat there with the umbrella open and pondered the wet landscape.

I thought about my observations in the rehab clinic. A world of its own that most healthy people have no idea about. On the one hand, that is perfectly fine. On the other hand, it would be educational for everyone to take a look. And then develop a better understanding for those who are not doing well. Sickness can suddenly hit anyone. Nobody is immune. The newcomers still crept cautiously along the corridors and shyly entered the dining room, where they then walked to their table with even more tentative steps. Here and there also were suffering faces. Some were moving around more purposefully, as there was already convalescent progress. And finally, there were those who were almost at the end of their convalescence, moving around with joyful pride and taking the stairs with jumping steps. Showing that particular facial expression that expressed that horror and pain had been overcome.

Now the rain got thicker again, and I decided to go back and rest before dinner. The stress of the past months about my husband’s heart disease – the operation postponed twice because of a dental problem, causing terrible anxiety – also affected me.

When we got to the dining room later for the second session, only a few tables were occupied. Those from the previous shift had already left, and some were probably dining out with visitors. There was a strange trepidation over the premises. Hardly any voices were heard. The light seemed somehow dim, while outside, it was already a deep black night. Heavy rain pelted down incessantly, which one could both hear and see out by the street lamps. Thick welts of water streamed down in the beam of the light.

Our table was in a small side wing – mainly heart surgery patients. Eighty per cent of men sat there. On that dark and cold evening, there were only five of us at dinner. We gave a friendly greeting as we entered and took our seats. Behind Alan sat an eighty-five-year-old man of lean, sinewy stature and vivacious eyes. He could have been a high school teacher. A somewhat portly man of about sixty with a round face and a pleasant look sat on the other side. And then a quite elegantly dressed man in his mid-eighties with snow-white hair appeared. That evening he was walking on a stick – the day before he had arrived with the rollator. He exuded that certain charm peculiar to some men who had held for many years positions in public that gave them a great stage and popularity. Now his life had taken a significant turn. Furthermore– like all the others – he struggled to survive and hopefully get back on his feet.
There was silence hanging over the dining room. It was broken only by the noise of our spoons on the plates while eating our soup.

«What are ‘Capuns’?» asked my husband all of a sudden into this dreary silence. ‘Capuns’ was the main course of the dinner menu that evening.
His question hung in the room for a moment.
«Well, I only know that it is a Grisons speciality, something made of dough!» I replied and shrugged.
Again there was silence in the room.
But then, loud and clear, came the explanation from the table behind my husband. The older gentleman with watchful eyes delivered an accurate statement about the famous dish called ‘Capuns’. Namely, a delicious speciality made from dough, salsiz, bacon wrapped in Swiss mangold leaves, baked in the oven with grated cheese.
«Yes, and there are also vegetarian versions!» came the comment from the table with the elegant gentleman. He happily explained what his mother used to add. An objective – almost scientific – discussion broke out about what ingredients could be in these ‘Capuns’. There was a great atmosphere as if we had known each other for a longer time. There were comments and appreciative nods of the head from every table. The man with the round face was the first to be served his bowl of ‘Capuns’. And he began to eat with apparent interest while the rest of us craned our heads in the direction of his plate.
«And how does it taste?» I asked over to the table, eagerly awaiting the answer.
«Tastes exquisite!» came his answer with an amused smile.
Shortly afterwards, the rest of us were also served the delicious dish. There followed a general palaver about the different ingredients that could be used depending on what was available at home.

After dinner, we wished each other a good night with deep, restful sleep. Smiling friendlily at each other.
The following day started all foggy. A vast, thick blanket of fog hung heavily over the valley and depressed everyone’s spirits. At the same time, this impenetrable wall of fog shattered all plans for a cosy morning. From the terrace, one could neither see the usual group of smokers gathering on the other side of the street in front of the garage, nor the wall of the house opposite. The weather seemed to go from one extreme to the other this weekend.

At breakfast, the two over eighty-year-olds from the previous evening were now sitting at the same table. Already deeply involved in a lively conversation. They told each other with the severe facial expression of the experienced expert the technical aspects of their respective surgical interventions on the heart. In one case, the procedure was performed from the front using the conventional ‘open’ method. While in the other case, the operation could be carried out from the side with catheters. Both were deeply impressed by the surgical options available nowadays. Soon, the man with the round face arrived and joined the conversation. Finally, it was agreed that the convalescence had its pitfalls, precise, constant high and low. One day, one seemed to be able to uproot trees, getting a little exuberant. And on the next day, everything could be completely different again: swollen legs and toes, vertigo and general malaise. At this statement, the elegant older man cast a wistful glance at his rollator parked next to the table. Obviously, today was one of those arduous days for him.

In the meantime, tips of the fog moved here and there and temporarily gave a clear view of a piece of rock, a mountain peak or a group of giant pine trees. Just to make everything disappear again in the next moment. It was a strange game that the fog was playing with us. But we were at the mercy of this natural spectacle and could only wait until the mist hurried away over the side valleys and cleared the view again. But at the moment, this was not the case yet.

My husband and I finished breakfast before anyone else. On leaving, I turned to the two elderly gentlemen with the cheerful words, «I wish you a wonderful Sunday, make the best of it, despite everything and the thick fog!» And then, I took two steps, paused again and threw over my shoulder, «But please, don’t go too wild or exuberant, don’t overdo it!»
I was just about to leave the room when a burst of roaring laughter hit my back. So I turned around again. The two older gentlemen sat there, beaming at me. Their faces shone, their eyes sparkled. They rolled around in roaring laughter, and both seemed to be thirty years younger in an instant!
The elegant gentleman called after me, «Thanks for the good wishes. We will do our best!» Happy laughter followed again.
Several heads craned up from the other room, and were amazed at the laughter.
Outside, the fog cleared at a corner, even letting a gentle ray of sunshine through. As if the sun wanted to see who was laughing so heartily.