Various Flavors of Coffee (19 page)

nearer he gets to the Equator. He has been striding about manfully organizing everything, shouting at the natives and making lists. It makes me tired just to look at him.

What on earth am I doing here?
Whatever happened to beauty, and truth, and the contemplation of wonderful things? Sometimes I think I am going to wake up and find it was all some terrible dream.

The only consolation are the sunsets, the most glorious I have ever seen.The moon rises first, through a bank of mist that covers the mangroves like a layer of tracing paper: a blood-orange orb that seems to change shape as it rises, elongating as it separates from its reflection in the oil-black river. On the other side, the sun sinks down into the mist, touches the water and bursts. Flushes of gold, amethyst, carmine and violet color the sky, and then those, too, fade into the darkness, leaving only the dazzling frost of the moonlight and the utter blackness of the swamp... Oh, and a million small flying creatures that instantly come and bite your skin with all the ferocity of piranhas.

Regards, Robert

*

Dear Frog,

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You will notice this letter bears no return address: that is because we are now Nowhere. Nowhere is a topsy-turvy sort of place: trees grow in the water, as casually as if they were on dry land: the fish, meanwhile, have forgotten that they are meant to be sub-aquatic, and skip about on top of the mudflats, possibly to escape the crocodiles, who spend more time in the water than the fish do.

Our little boat measures no more than twenty feet from brass bow to

mahogany stern.We eat outside, under a kind of awning, with the Captain and his Mate, a Russian. Progress is slow: we are chugging against the current, a wide, mocca-brown, silt-filled creek that appears not to move at all but which occasionally shoots a sunken log past us at great speed toward the sea. Occasionally we pass a village, and then the natives come out onto the bank and stare.You can tell Ada that she is not doing at all the right thing pinning her hair back, if she wants to make herself marriageable. Here the accepted way to do it is to knock a couple of your front teeth out, smear your scalp with ochre paint, and carve a pattern of zigzags into your forehead with a hot knife.Then you’re considered quite a beauty, and asked out to all the dances.These take place most evenings, to the accompaniment of a jolly rump-a-tump tune not a million miles from Wagner.The children all have big tummies, as if they had been blown up with a pump.

As for me, I am looking quite the Arab these days—before leaving Aden I had my hair cut by a local barber. Now I am completely shorn except for a single lock at the occiput, by which Mohammed lifts you up on Judgment Day. Hector sighs when he looks at me and calls me a “fullish pup.”Which, no doubt, I am.

Yours fullishly,

Abu Wally (as Kuma calls me! It is Arab, I think, for “Master Wallis”)

*

Dearest Emily,

Zeilah

July

I cannot tell you how much I am missing you. Five years is such a very long time—when I think back to the brief period we spent together, those innocent days cupping coffees in your father’s office, they already feel like another lifetime.Will you still remember me in half a decade?

Will we still be able to laugh with each other? I am sorry to sound despondent—it is just that being out here, everything back in London

feels like a dream; a very dim, distant dream. Sometimes I even wonder if I am going to come back at all....I know you told me to think optimistically, but really it is almost impossible not to wallow sometimes.

These gloomy thoughts were, I suppose, partly prompted by an accident that occurred when we landed here.There is only one jetty in the harbor, a very rickety one at that, and as we unloaded our luggage one of the crates somehow got dropped into the water. It was the one containing my books, my best clothes, and the Wedgwood cups your father gave me.The books have dried, although some of the pages have stuck together.The clothes, though, are somewhat the worse for their experience: anything made of velvet now exudes a distinct smell of mold. Remarkably, only six of the cups were broken—I am trying to think of that as a good sign.

Today I opened the sample bottles in the Guide and smelled some of the scents that most remind me of home—apples, and gingerbread, and tea roses, and hazelnuts... And then I tried to mix up a scent that reminded me of you—that “Jicky” you sometimes wore: a mixture of lavender, rosemary and bergamot. It made me feel—well, quite emotional, I suppose. I cried like a child for a few minutes.

Dearest Emily, please don’t mind me missing you. I will buck up tomorrow, I expect.

Your loving, Robert

[
twenty-three
]

“Soft”—affecting the senses in a gentle and pleasant way.

—
rose pangborn,
Principles of Sensory Evaluation of Food

*

mily sits at the offi table, copying fi res from a
great pile of receipts into a ledger. She can see, from the evidence in front of her, that the Guide has already proved its worth. Pinker’s is buying more high-quality coffees than ever before— principally Maracaibos and moccas. Many coffees from regions previously thought to be the finest have turned out to have quite low scores: Jamaican Blue Mountain is actually thin and watery, whilst the Monsooned Malabar so prized by many connoisseurs is surprisingly rank. But other regions have thrown up some gems: notably Antigua and Guatemala, with notes of smoke, spice, flow-

ers and chocolate, and a lively brightness on the tongue. . . .

She frowns. Along with the fine coffees that Pinker’s has been buying in such quantity, there also seems to be a large amount of inferior stuff, particularly the very cheapest coffee of all—African Liberica, dense, thick and flavorless, with a tarry mouthfeel and no

acidity to speak of. It can be picked up for almost nothing: indeed, there is a glut of it on the market at the moment: no reputable merchant would be stockpiling it, unless—

Her father is showing a visitor round the warehouse, a well-dressed man with quick eyes and a lively smile.

“Ah, Emily, there you are. Brewer, may I introduce my daughter?”

The man steps forward and shakes her hand.“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Pinker. I believe we have a friend in common—Millicent Fawcett?”

Emily is surprised, even impressed. “I do not know Mrs. Fawcett very well. But I am a member of her Society, and a great admirer of hers.”

“Mr. Brewer is the Member of Parliament for Ealing,” Pinker explains.“He has a particular interest, as I do, in Free Trade.”

She looks at the visitor with even greater interest. “You’re a Liberal?”

“Indeed.And although we currently find ourselves out of government, I have no doubt that with the aid of forward-thinking men like your father”—Pinker inclines his head, acknowledging the younger man’s words—“we will soon command a popular mandate again. Our watchword will be Freedom—freedom of thought, freedom to spend your wages as you wish, freedom to do business without government interference.”

“Change and Improvement,” Pinker agrees.“It is the only way.” “And is your party also in favor of freedom for women?” Emily

asks.

Brewer nods.“As you know, there has been a suffrage bill every year for the past five years, and every year it has been talked out by the Tories. That is the kind of abuse of procedure we are determined to stamp out.”

“But first things first, eh,Arthur?” Pinker says.“Free Trade, then social issues.”

Brewer turns his kindly eyes to Emily. For a moment a gentle

glint of amusement seems to pass between them—an acknowledgment, perhaps, that this is the way of the world; that ideals must be achieved step by careful step.“First we need to be in government,” he agrees, but he is speaking more to her now than her father. “And for that we need the support of Business. So yes, Free Trade first. It is the nature of the disenfranchised that they cannot help us win the power which we will exercise on their behalf.”

They have stopped by the door to the street. Brewer’s tour is clearly at an end, and her father impatient to get on, but both she and the MP are lingering.

“Perhaps we might discuss this again,” he says.

“I should like that,” she agrees. “Very much.” She looks at her father.

“What? Oh, yes—you must come to dinner, Arthur. In any case, we have a great deal to talk about.”

“So you are
going to support the Liberals financially?” she asks her father, when the MP has left.

“I am. It seems to be the only way to get any influence. And they need funds, if they are to oust the Tories.” He shoots her a glance.“Do you approve?”

“I think it’s an excellent idea. But why do we need influence?” He makes a sour face.“It is as we suspected—Howell has joined his plantations to the syndicate.They control the major part of the world’s coffee, now. Even with the Guide, it makes it impossible to

compete.”

“And your Mr. Brewer can help?”

“A Liberal government will no more want the market run by a few rich men and foreign governments than we do.”

“How will they stop it?”

“By regulation, if necessary. But in the short term . . .” He looks at his daughter intently, aware that she will understand the

importance of what he is about to say. “Mr. Brewer believes they can help us to smash the cartels.”

“Really?”

“It is just the Free Trade cause they have been looking for.They are already working their way onto the key committees, establishing diplomatic ties with Brazil’s neighbors.”

She sighs.“It seems a very long way from making a good cup of coffee.”

“Yes. But it is the way of all business, I suspect, to move from small issues to larger ones.”

She remembers now what she came to ask him.“Does this have anything to do with the cheap Liberica we have been purchas-ing?”

“Ah.” He nods. “In a manner of speaking, yes. You’d better come into the office.”

Half an hour
later they are still sitting at the big table where she used to work with Robert.The Guide is open on the table, and in front of them half a dozen used cups show where they have been tasting various samples.

“So you see,” Pinker is saying, “the Guide has turned out to have a double function. It is the work Robert did for me on blending, in those last weeks.” He glances at his daughter: Robert is still a subject on which she is reticent. He points to a cup.“Take a cheap, coarse coffee like this; categorize its deficits, then add just enough of those coffees which you see, from the Guide, will com-pensate for them.” He gestures to three or four other cups. “And then you have a coffee which has no discernible faults.”

“But a coffee which also has no particular virtues, surely,” she points out.

“Yes—but that can itself be a virtue.You know, Emily, people don’t always agree on what flavors they actually like in a coffee.To

you and I, perhaps, it will be an African, rich and bright. But to others, the stronger, thicker taste of a South American will be preferable. Robert, I know, likes the fine moccas and Yemenis, but many find those floral attributes too scented for their tastes. By blending a coffee according to the principles of the Guide, we can eradicate all those attributes which might otherwise stop people from buying Castle. We end up with a coffee which no one dislikes.A coffee whose taste is consistent, irrespective of what coffees go into it. And all for a fraction of the cost.”

“Robert would be somewhat unhappy to hear you say that, I imagine.”

“Robert is not a businessman.” He looks at her carefully. “There was a reason why I sent him away, you know, and it was not only to do with money.”

“Yes,” she says.“I know.”

She does not meet her father’s eye.Two spots of pink appear in her cheeks.

He says quietly, “Perhaps, once distance has cooled your affection, you will decide that he is not the man for you after all. If that happens . . . You have no obligation to him.”

“I would not go back on our understanding, Father.”

“In matters of the heart, as in business, we must do what is best. Not necessarily what we had planned. An understanding is simply that: one person’s perception of the truth.”

She does not reply. Instead she reaches for the Guide, her finger moving along the corked tops of the phials, choosing one. She takes it out, opens it, lets the fragrance fill her nostrils.

“Of course,” she says. “You are quite right, Father, to counsel me to be cautious. And I promise I will make no hasty decision.”

[
twenty-four
]

*

Zeilah

31st July

Dear Hunt,

We have been waiting in this godforsaken shit-hole for three weeks now. Only now do I realize what a haven Aden was—it might have been a dump, but it was an orderly, well-stocked, well-run sort of dump, with proper buildings and regular gaps between them that could almost be described as streets. Here there are just huts, mud, and choking swirls of dry red dust.This dust—peppery, pungent, leathery, slightly rancid— is the smell of Africa, it seems: I cannot get it out of my nostrils.

The people here are Somalis, but they are governed by another tribe called Danakils, who control the trade routes. Danakils carry spears or swords and wear necklaces of strange, shrunken, globular things that look like dried dates but are actually their enemies’ testicles.Yes, that’s correct: the penalty for any minor infringement here—say, failure to pay a bill on time—is to have your bollocks lopped off with a sword. Adulterers get off lightly by comparison, being simply stoned to death.The whole place is under the aegis of a savage called Abou Bekr and his eleven sons. I do not use the word “savage” here in its ethnic sense: the man

has personally disemboweled over a hundred people. His cruelty is legendary. Needless to say, we are not going anywhere until we have his permission.

Every few days we are shown into his courtyard—sic: a patch of red earth, surrounded by palisades, which combines the functions of a royal court and a farmyard. An elderly man with a wispy beard, he reclines under an awning on a couch of animal skins. Even from a distance, they smell of goat. He wears a filthy white robe and an enormous onion-shaped turban. Behind him stand a Somali or two, in slightly cleaner robes, who whisk flies away from his head with an implement not unlike something you might use at home to sweep out the fire. In his left hand is a necklace of prayer beads, which constantly click under his fingers: with his right he works away at a toothpick. His eyes are dead and weary, the eyes of a tyrant. Periodically during your conversation he will spit, silently and without warning, without much bothering where he is aiming. If you are currently in favor, coffee is brought—excellent coffee, in tiny cups, poured by a
kavedjabouchi
who stands ready at all times, a flagon with a tiny spout nestled under his arm.To any question concerning the caravan, Abou Bekr answers
“Insh’ Allah”
—if it please God.What he actually means, of course, is “If it please me.” And what will please him? We do not know.We are waiting for something—some sign, some request.When we ask Abou Bekr what it will take to allow us to travel, he frowns: when we ask his courtiers, they shrug and repeat the same formula, “Soon,
inshallah
, very soon.”