The Discovery of Chocolate (19 page)

‘I cannot know what you think. I only know that it seemed right to me.’ Again she could not look me in the eye. ‘I felt safe, for the first time in my life.’

‘Then should I stay?’

‘No. It’s too late.’

‘I could change my mind.’

‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘I do not think that it would be right. I am loved less than I love.’

And then she stopped, as if she could not contain herself any longer.

‘You didn’t even think to ask me …’ she said quickly, her voice breaking, ‘to come with you …’

The guard blew on his whistle. The carriage doors began to slam shut. How many passengers on this very train, I wondered, were frightened of the journey ahead, reluctant to leave their past and their securities?

Steam poured around us. The wind swept Claudia’s hair across her face. She clasped her handkerchief tightly, as if she was angry with herself and with the wind.

‘You must leave.’

She was crying now.

‘Try to find happiness,’ I said, holding her shoulders again.

‘If only it were so easy.’

‘It may be easier than you believe.’

‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that it is.’

‘I’ll never forget you,’ I said.

‘And I’ll always love you,’ said Claudia sadly, ‘even if you are the most selfish person I have ever met.’

‘Come,’ called the Doctor once more.

I
spent ten years in England. Although Mr Fry had become an old man, his company now stretched across the streets of Bristol. Every year extra buildings were converted from slum tenements in order to house the storing, roasting, winnowing, crushing and squeezing of cacao beans in order to make his famous concoction. Together we improved the process of manufacture still further by mixing and rolling the chocolate in a conching machine, reducing the size of the particles in order to create a new smoothness, rocking the mixture backwards and forwards for up to seventy-two hours at a time.

It was a complicated and painstaking process. In order to ensure uniformity of both colour and texture, Mr Fry and his sons had discovered that we needed to temper the chocolate. This was done by raising the heat of the cocoa mass to some one hundred and fifteen degrees, and then slowly lowering it over a large bowl of ice so that the crystal nature of the fat could be destroyed. We then re-heated the mixture for just under a minute, until the temperature reached eighty-nine degrees, and at last produced a hard and wonderfully glossy chocolate.

‘Temperature is everything,’ the elderly Mr Fry observed, looking at me seriously. ‘And do you know why?’

‘I do not.’

‘Because the melting point of chocolate is only slightly below the temperature of the human body. That is why it melts in the mouth as soon as it is placed there. Never forget temperature, Diego,’ he continued as if a professorship in chocolate had just been invented and he was its first incumbent. ‘Taste, Temperature and Texture should be your watchwords in its creation.’

And so each day, after the morning service in the factory, Mr Fry and I would taste chocolate together, as if it were a replacement for the Christian communion that I had ceased to attend. After a few months, we could almost judge a chocolate by touch alone, but we proceeded with the strictest of tests, wearing white gloves, and keeping a glass of ice-cold water by our side to preserve the acuity of our palates.

Thus we evolved the best method for evaluating our creation.

First we would examine the chocolate by eye, checking the evenness of its colour. There had to be total consistency and no bloom. Then we would test the ‘snap’. For chocolate should break cleanly, like a small section from the bark of a tree; and finally we would place each specimen in our mouths, and time the melting.

Our evaluation was a slow, savouring process, in which we explored the ‘mouthfeel’, measuring on our pocket-watches how long the flavour remained. The finer the chocolate, the longer the finish.

I learned so much from Mr Fry that I had almost become
an Englishman, knowing when, and how often, to keep silent, restraining my emotions, keeping my own counsel, and even wearing uncomfortable and impractical tweed clothing. He was truly my patron and taught me the abiding laws of friendship; and that this life which seems so long is, in fact, lived in an instant, and that we must one day be judged not so much by a divine figure as by the far more frightening prospect of our own, elderly selves.

‘Friendship,’ Mr Fry declared, ‘and respect. Follow these ideals and you will die a happy man.’

Then he stopped as if struck by a sudden random thought.

‘For we should die as we have lived. Think of a blue vase filled with anemones. Watch it change over so short a time. See how the flowers open, bloom and decay.’

It was as if he was about to cry.

‘They die so beautifully. That is how we must leave the world when our time comes, as naturally and as gracefully as possible.’

Some people carry an aura, as if they are rarely troubled by the trivialities of everyday existence. I hesitate to use the word ‘holy’ but I do believe that Mr Fry was such a man.

And yet …

After I had spent some ten years in his employ, Mr Fry became blind and his health began to fail. Unable to work further on his utopian dream of restoring the centre of the city, he became increasingly frail. I knew that he must die, but could not accept this inevitability, and was overwhelmed, yet again, with the fears that had struck me in the cathedral with Claudia. I simply could not bear the prospect of his impending death.

I would be alone once again.

The thought filled me with dread.

I had to escape these feelings.

And so I come to another point in my life for which I can only feel embarrassment and shame.

The more I thought about my past, the more dreadfully it seemed I had behaved. I could not face the truths of life. I could not stare it in the face as Claudia had done. Inconstant, selfish, wilful, and frequently drunken, I could not find any justification for the length of my existence.

Falling into yet another of my black despairs, I could only seek further escape from the realities of life. Removed from the immediate sphere of Mr Fry’s fatherly influence, my imagination, my dreams and, it must be confessed, my self-obsession now took control of the very fibre of my being.

I began to gamble.

Each night I crept away from the factory and joined a group of card players in a Bristol coffee-house down by the docks, involving myself in cribbage, poker, whist, bridge, and gin rummy. I drank ruby port and consorted with all manner of unruly characters as we hazarded our fortunes upon the tables.

I knew that this was wrong, and that the Quaker doctrine specifically forbade such activity, believing it unprincipled to gain by other people’s losses, but I was desperate to escape both the mortality of my friends and the length of my eternity. Recklessness became my creed. Money was of no concern, and I lived each day as if it were my last.

After considerable initial success I began to bet on anything: how long it would take a woman to cross a road, the chances of rain in the next three days, or the likelihood of
Queen Victoria lasting another year. It was the only excitement in my life, and I viewed every event in terms of risk, living in a perpetual world of ‘What next?’

Even though I sustained heavy losses at the table, I was convinced that I could always win more money back. I was, in a way, invincible, for I would eventually outlive any who played against me. This longevity gave me a confidence and a daring which amazed all who saw me.

But as my debts increased I was forced to borrow money from a fellow gambler, Mr Sid ‘The Nose’ Green, a stocky Londoner who seemed happy to accommodate my needs. He was a practical man with gaudy tastes, being particularly partial to yellow waistcoats, possessing not a morsel of self-doubt in his body, and owning one of the loudest voices I think that I have ever heard. He offered me all the lines of credit that I might need.

‘The Nose’ seemed initially unconcerned at the large sums he was lending me (at an interest rate of some twenty-five per cent per annum) and only became keen to reclaim his money when he required a large sum to invest in a new business activity. And so, one dark night, at the end of a particularly difficult game of poker in which I had failed to anticipate the royal flush of an opponent, my creditor leaned over, and whispered in my ear: ‘I require the return of four hundred pounds by Monday.’

‘What?’ I cried out loud, and then checked myself in a whisper. ‘You know I cannot honour such a loan.’

‘There can be no delay.’

‘But I have not the money to repay you,’ I hissed.

‘Then it will be the debtors’ prison at best or vengeance at worst.’

‘But you are my friend.’

‘A businessman has no friends.’

‘Mr Fry is my friend,’ I argued.

‘That dying philanthropist? Don’t make me laugh.’

‘I cannot pay you what I owe.’

‘Then you must do the only thing that you can do to save yourself from a life of poverty and desperation.’

‘And what is that?’

‘You must stand me your greyhound.’

‘What?’

‘He has a long stride, and should be good on the bunny after three hundred yards. He could be the dark horse I need.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Racing, my Spanish friend. Greyhound racing. Your dog could be hot if he pings the lids.’

I was amazed by his belief in Pedro’s prospects, and could not accept that any good might ensue from his involvement in such a race. But I also could not avoid the sad fact of my indebtedness.

I would have to agree to the demands of The Nose.

And so, reluctantly, but in a mood of some desperation, I took Pedro on a series of long runs on the downs around Bristol. I thought of all the times that we had shared together, of how long we had lived, and what a friend he had been. I was asking him, once more, to save my life.

It was strange to see the manner in which he was regarded. I had bought him a special coat, and passers-by admired his sleekness, even commenting that he looked a ‘sleek-headed little racer’, and ‘a decent stayer’.

I was so proud. I had taken him on as a puppy, and now here he was, elegant, graceful and, it seemed, eternal, ageing at an even slower rate than I was myself, perhaps a tenth as fast, for whereas people took me to be a man between forty and fifty, they assumed Pedro to be some eight or nine years old.

And then the great day arrived.

‘We’ll have to change his name, of course,’ said Mr Green when we arrived at the racetrack. ‘He can’t just be called Pedro. The name’s too short.’

‘What name had you in mind?’

‘Spanish Lady.’

‘He isn’t a lady.’

This gave him pause.

‘What?’

‘Didn’t you notice?’

‘No, of course not. I’ve only seen him running in the distance, shooting after rabbits in the woods.’

‘What about Spanish Gold?’ I suggested.

‘Very good,’ he replied, ‘you’re beginning to get the hang of this. Ten pounds on him and your advance is paid if he wins. I’ll even lend you the money,’ he added in a conspiratorial whisper.

‘I will take no more money from you,’ I said sternly.

I was determined that from this moment on, no matter how long my life, I would neither drink, gamble, nor live on credit: for in these three things lies the greatest cause of our unhappiness upon this earth.

And yet how often had I vowed this, only to break my promises?

As the excitement mounted, Pedro was given a green and
red racing jacket and examined by a veterinary surgeon who placed a muzzle over his mouth. This was not a popular move with Pedro, but I was assured that this was to prevent snapping and biting during the race (a form of sportsmanship from which I was sure that Pedro was immune).

All the dogs paraded before the public, and were then led from the paddock area down to the start.

Pedro eyed me with extreme suspicion as I placed him in the trap. Perhaps it reminded him of being crated on the long train journey from Vienna. He was resentful of being enclosed, especially since he had led a life so devoid of canine company and was now being denied the opportunity to frolic with the five other greyhounds with whom he was to compete: Fleet of Foot, Gothic Knight, Mercury Breeze,. Sweet-Toothed Parisian, and Jackpot Glory.

The race was about to begin, and the January air was full of frost, tension, and the sharpening comfort of hip-flask whisky. I stood beside a large American in a full-dress business suit smoking a Corona-Corona cigar.

‘Have you got a dog?’ he asked.

‘I have.’

‘My money’s on Sweet-Toothed Parisian. She’s been knocking on the door for a while and is hot to crack at this grade.’

‘I think Spanish Gold might win,’ I said tentatively, but before the American could reply, a gun was fired, the traps were freed, and the dogs were chasing after an artificial hare, mounted on a roller skate, and pulled by a windlass.

The dogs approached the first bend in a frenzy, front down, backs up, and with their tails wagging furiously. I
could see Pedro straining every muscle as the patently false hare raced ahead.

‘Go, Pedro, go!’ I cried. ‘Come on, Spanish Gold!’

‘Get on the bunny!’ shouted Mr Green.

After three bends the dogs were closely bunched but Pedro broke free of the pack with a sudden surge of speed, and raced with the most majestic stride ever a dog strode, flying towards the finishing line with a grace of movement that amazed all who saw him. There was no question that he was the finest dog in the race, and indeed, he went on running, chasing the hare as it reached the end of its pulley, intent on its destruction.

‘What a dog!’ cried Mr Green, as he slapped me on the back. ‘I’ve made a fortune. You should have listened to me.’

‘I hope I can claim him now.’

‘Certainly not. There’s plenty left in his locker. I’ve entered him for another race in half an hour. Get him ready.’

‘That’s a fine dog of yours,’ said the cigar-smoking American. ‘I think I’ll put some money on him in the next race.’

‘Please don’t,’ I said. ‘I would not like you to lose it.’

I was fearful for Pedro, and did not like to see how profusely he had begun to sweat.

After drying him off with a towel, I rubbed a little mink oil into his coat, and gave him a small amount of fresh water.