The Discovery of Chocolate (16 page)

‘I thought you liked your life.’

‘No. You like my life. I do not. That is why I am changing it.’

‘How?’

‘Gustav has asked me to model for him.’

‘What?’

‘He is going to be a great painter. He knows about love and death.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘We have just been discussing it. He is obsessed with my hair.’

‘I’m obsessed with your hair …’

‘He says that he is going to make me eternal. My body will live for ever through his work.’

‘I do not find eternity consoling,’ I advised.

‘You’re jealous.’

‘And is he going to pay you?’

‘It’s a job.’

‘And what will become of us?’

‘We will have to be friends. You will have to talk to me.’

‘No more …?’

‘No. No more of that. But it will be a better life. We will learn to respect each other.’

‘And Gustav?’

‘Will be my employer. Nothing else.’

This was a terrible shock, and my brain was so filled with the adventures of the night that I wondered, yet again, if I might be dreaming.

I tried to concentrate.

Claudia had been given the opportunity to escape her plight and was determined that nothing must ruin her. If I wanted to find pleasure in the delights of the body I would have to let her go and seek such comforts elsewhere.

It had been an eventful night.

O
ne dark November morning – I forget the year, but it was on one of those early winter days when the sun never seems to rise before it sets once more – a kindly Englishman with sad eyes and mutton-chop whiskers arrived in our hotel. He carried a large package and, after he had taken his morning coffee, and approved most heartily of my Sachertorte, we fell into the most interesting of conversations. For it so happened that his parcel contained a new kind of press which, he informed me, would revolutionise the making of chocolate. It could extract up to two thirds of the fat from a cacao bean, producing a dark, rich and pure chocolate powder which he called cocoa. This was then pulverised, mixed with alkaline salts in order to improve its miscibility, and beaten into a concentrated paste. The result was a soft but sweet form of solid chocolate.

I could hardly contain my excitement at this discovery. Now, for the first time, it might be possible to create an actual bar of chocolate.

In the next few weeks Mr Fry and I were inseparable, experimenting with the many ways in which this pulverised
cocoa could be combined with butter, sugar and water to create these solid strips or bars. We spent hour upon hour in my laboratory, staying up so late at night that I almost forgot to drink. We were engaged on a proper enterprise at last, a project which could define the purpose of our lives.

I do not think that I had ever been so excited about the prospect of work. Each morning I rose with renewed determination, desperate to solve all the problems that lay ahead of us, resolved to create a form of chocolate that the earth had never witnessed before.

In this task I was also much supported by Claudia’s enthusiasm. She seemed, at last, to be happy.

‘This is the future,’ she said firmly, ‘chocolate for all; not just the privileged and the rich.’

‘It will be completely different, I agree,’ argued Mr Fry. ‘We will make a taste that was once the province of the elite a common pleasure. I only worry that the gratification may be too instantaneous.’

‘Like sex without love?’ asked Claudia.

‘Indeed,’ Mr Fry responded a trifle uneasily. ‘For the principal advantage of chocolate is that it cannot be taken at speed. It asks you to take time, to consider, to pause.’

‘I agree,’ I replied. ‘It is best enjoyed in silence by people who love each other.’

‘Of course, not everyone can do that,’ answered Claudia.

‘That is true. And yet I do not know a rich man who is happy,’ Mr Fry observed. ‘Even the most contented is too afraid for the loss of his wealth.’

‘And do you know how to be happy?’ I asked.

‘I certainly know that there is no happiness in desire.’

‘No,’ said Claudia, giving me a strange look.

‘Then where is happiness?’ I asked.

‘I do not know,’ Mr Fry said kindly. ‘I am neither a priest nor a philosopher. I am simply a businessman who makes chocolate. All I do know is received from study, prayer and observation. There are few rules in life, even when you have lived as long as I’ – and here I resisted the temptation to interrupt him – ‘but I believe that the greatest unhappiness often results from those times in which we think solely of ourselves.’

Mr Fry was a Quaker. He was a kindly man with bushy eyebrows, sallow skin and gentle blue eyes. He had spent his whole life living and working with chocolate, being the third generation of his family to work in the field. I realised that if the earlier part of my life had been different I could have known his grandfather when he was a boy.

As we worked together, Mr Fry confided in me that he had begun to import and manufacture chocolate as an alternative to alcohol, which he considered to be one of the greatest of evils on earth.

‘Such suffering,’ he observed, ‘such pain, such delusion. We are here on earth for so short a time. Why do so many people spend so much time trying to forget that we are here?’

‘Loneliness,’ I answered, ‘fear of failure. Desperation.’

I thought of Claudia, and of how much she had taught me.

‘You can always redeem yourself,’ Mr Fry offered. ‘It is never too late.’

‘To stop drinking?’ I asked.

‘Or to listen to the promises of Christ.’

I remembered why we had first travelled to Mexico, and could not help but think of the hypocrisy of our conquest.

‘It is hard for me to have the faith of which you speak,’ I answered.

‘And why is that?’

I could not answer such a question. I had seen such violence and so many of the cruel accidents of fate. I had witnessed the powerlessness of humanity. I had seen how fragile and how temporary mortality must necessarily be and I had experienced the random nature of sudden death. And, having lived so long, I did not find the idea of everlasting life a comfort. I had glimpsed its reality, and the assurance of an extended life beyond our own seemed not so much a paradise as a purgatory in which we were condemned endlessly to repeat our lives without the necessary knowledge to change our mistakes or advance our understanding.

‘You do not believe in God?’ asked Mr Fry.

I hesitated.

What did I think now of religion, of the Catholic faith into which I had been raised?

‘I feel that faith has left me; religion has abandoned me.’

‘You do not fear damnation?’

‘No. That is the one thing in which I definitely do not believe,’ I answered sadly. ‘There is punishment enough upon earth.’

‘It is hard that we should suffer so,’ Mr Fry agreed quietly. ‘But what is life without faith; what hope is there then?’

‘I do not know,’ I answered. ‘I lead a bereft life, as if perhaps I had already died and failed to notice.’

‘I think we know when we die,’ said Mr Fry simply, grinding away at his cacao beans.

He was lost in his work, filled perhaps with abstract thoughts of life, death, philosophy and good works. For he was a noble man, proof perhaps that there could be strength in gentility.

And even though he was most definitely a businessman, wealth was not his primary concern. Indeed he sometimes avoided the most profitable of possibilities, commenting specifically on the exploitation of many plantation workers who picked cacao. He refused to endorse slavery, and did not buy from the plantations of Portuguese West Africa. The good must make a stand, he argued; the virtuous man must do nothing that might weaken his integrity.

He also insisted that I abandon the making of liqueur chocolates, and that my only salvation lay in total abstinence from alcohol.

‘You cannot continue in this manner,’ he told me. ‘Something has to change.’

He repeated the idea that chocolate taken on its own could be used medicinally. It should be the drink of choice for those with decayed health, weak lungs and scorbutic tendencies.

‘Chocolate,’ he argued, ‘is the true drink of consolation.’

I resolved to follow his example and join the temperance movement.

It was not an easy thing to do. The abandonment of alcohol made my life even more interminable as time stretched slowly before me. I was now so awake, adding some two or three hours to my consciousness each day, that I found the prolongation of my waking hours a terrible
torment. I wanted less time in the day rather than more.

After four weeks of constant observation, and assured that I was making progress, Mr Fry announced that he must return to the family firm in Bristol, England, in time for Christmas. He told me, in the strongest of terms, that he did not like to leave me alone with the temptations of the bottle. Chocolate was surely the cure for my addiction and he would be happy both to provide employment for me in his factory and keep a fatherly eye upon me if only I would accompany him.

He looked so kindly upon me that I felt that I would have to agree. But fear filled my being.

What if I let Mr Fry down? If I fell into debauchery once more? He would be so disappointed.

My life now seemed to be one of dread, in which the future offered only fear. I had lost so much of my confidence. My fate seemed like a wave, far off in the distance, and I did not know how large it was or the speed at which it was coming to meet me, but I knew that it was there, that it would break all over me, and that there was nothing I could do to escape it.

It was the first time in my life that I had turned down the prospect of adventure.

Mr Fry was extremely disappointed, but told me that he felt in his bones that he was sure to see me again, and insisted that there would always be a welcome for me in Bristol if I should ever change my mind.

He left the hotel with his chocolate and his press, shaking me by the hand and kissing Claudia upon the cheeks, telling her that she was one of the most admirable women he had met in his life.

We waved him away energetically, and my heart was filled with sadness. Turning back into the hotel after his carriage had receded into the distance, I looked at Claudia.

‘I think he has taken a shine to you.’

‘Are you jealous?’

‘Of course not,’ I lied.

‘You should be,’ she said boldly, and then added quietly, ‘Perhaps we should have gone.’

‘We?’ I asked.

There were times when I just could not understand her.

B
ecause Claudia spent so much time in the company of artists (‘Secessionists’, I think she called them), I had need of new friends, and now spent much of my time in the kitchens of the hotel with Antonio, the chef. He was something of a philosopher, a well-read and handsome Italian who was keen to draw comparisons between the art of cooking and the meaning of life.

Antonio’s principal belief was that we should not expect too much from our existence but simply seek out that which is good and pure and true, taking our pleasure from the natural combination of the finest ingredients available to us. Such a philosophy was universal, and could be applied equally to food, to friends and to work. He believed that only those who know how to savour each ingredient, recognising its meaning and its purpose, could ever understand the true benefits of life. We must appreciate order and pattern in cooking, learning the sequence in which each constituent part is added, acknowledging, and then knowing in the very fibre of our being, the way in which each flavour mingles with that which surrounds it. If we can but understand how such sapidities relate to each other, and
appreciate the time they need to blend in order to create a richer and deeper taste, we can perhaps begin to understand not only the nature of cooking but also the art of living, and even, he believed, the harmony of the spheres.

One day, Antonio required my advice on the creation of a suitable ragout for a wild hare that had been caught in the Vienna Woods. He was convinced that the addition of chocolate to the sauce might produce an extraordinary combination of flavours. Being an expert in the creation of the none too dissimilar
mole poblano
myself, I could not see how he could fail.

Happy to watch and advise, I did, however, feel somewhat strange when observing his cooking in detail. For Antonio possessed an enthusiasm and an energy that I had long since lost, and as I studied his preparations I could not help but notice that he was so much faster than me in everything he did. Perhaps age was creeping up upon me at last?

‘Everything can be explained by the culinary life,’ Antonio observed as he sliced onions, diced carrots, halved chillies, and crushed juniper berries at speed. ‘We must live our lives as if we are following the rhythm of the ragout.’

The onions were cooked first, on a low heat until they softened and became a pale gold. Then he stirred in the carrots for two to three minutes, before adding, in turn, six tablespoons of celeriac, ten peppercorns, three cloves, two bay leaves, five crushed juniper berries, two garlic cloves, a quarter of a cinnamon stick, and sprigs of rosemary, bay and thyme.

‘Listen,’ he said, and we stood in silence in the kitchen. ‘The tremor of ragout on a low heat should be like the sound of distant rain.’

And, indeed, we stood as if we were sheltering from a storm, so warm had the kitchen become as Antonio added burgundy, stock, and, at last, some grated chocolate to his culinary delight.

‘This will be our finest creation. Wild hare in a chocolate sauce with chestnuts. I will serve it with dumplings. Look how the flavour rises up before us,’ Antonio said, coaxing the ragout, persuading each ingredient to reach its full potential. ‘Delight in each scent. Let these sweet flavours reach out to embrace you.’

I leaned over the pan.

‘You must distinguish every subtlety,’ he continued, stirring the mixture and adding tomatoes, ‘for if you cannot, you can be neither chef nor connoisseur. Furthermore, you will never understand food, people or even life itself. For this ragout is the truest and the richest symbol of the complexities of our existence.’

I looked at him in terror.

‘I cannot smell anything,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘I must have a cold. I have lost my sense of smell.’

‘How can this be?’

Antonio fetched the most pungent items he could find: ginger, garlic, basil, and chocolate. He placed them under my nose in turn and asked me to inhale deeply.

It was to no avail.

Disaster had struck.

I was unable to shake off this condition for the next four days, and became terrified that I might be damaged permanently. I considered the olfactory nerve to be the primary nerve in the body and shuddered to think what
might happen if my sense of smell should disappear; perhaps my sense of taste would also be lost to me for ever? Never again would I be able to savour the aroma of newly cut grass or the first woodsmoke of autumn. The scent of rosemary, bergamot, lavender or frangipani would be unknown to me. Apples stored in a loft would become a distant memory. I would even, and here I shuddered, forget the scent of chocolate, and with it, perhaps, the memory of Ignacia.

What could I do?

After two weeks in which nothing had improved and despair filled my soul, I made my way to Vienna General Hospital. Here I was shown into the rooms of a well-dressed and serious doctor. He seemed surprisingly young, perhaps some twenty-eight years old, and was of solid build, possessing a dark beard and a waxed Kaiser moustache. He shook my hand firmly, inquired what was the matter, and began to examine my nose with brisk efficiency.

He then asked me to distinguish between certain aromas, submitting each nostril in turn to oil of cloves, peppermint, and a tincture of asafoetida from which I was expected to detect the aroma of garlic.

I could still smell nothing.

‘Is this common?’ I asked.

‘You have anosmia,’ he answered, shining a narrow beam of light into my nose. ‘It is not uncommon.’

‘There are other cases?’

The Doctor examined my second nostril.

‘I can think of a patient who would be interested in your condition,’ he continued in an animated fashion, ‘a poet who wore no cologne
so that he could smell women better
. He
then lost all sense of aroma himself, so guilty did he become with his olfactory infidelity to his wife. Simply by smelling other women, he was, he thought, unfaithful.’

‘Extraordinary.’

The Doctor laid aside his torch and looked me in the eye.

‘I have been thinking that it is sometimes the mind that triggers illness. Have you been unhappy?’

‘I have not been happy for a long time.’

‘And you have concerns, anxieties, bad dreams?’

‘I do.’

‘Sometimes the balance of nature is upset,’ he said. ‘Let me feel your pulse.’

I gave him my right arm and his attentiveness changed from routine familiarity to utter concentration.

‘I have never felt such a pulse,’ he said. ‘It is about one tenth of the normal rate.’

‘It has been so for a long time.’

‘How long?’

I could not tell him. It was too complicated. I wanted him to concentrate on my nose and nothing else.

‘As long as I can remember. But it’s the fact that I cannot smell anything at all that is giving me the greatest concern.’

‘Very well.’ The Doctor then opened a silver canister and picked out a white powder between his fingers which he placed on the back of his hand like snuff.

‘What is this?’ I asked.

Without answering, the Doctor leaned over the back of his hand and snorted the white powder into his right nostril. He repeated the action with his left nostril, and then tilted his head back, sniffing profusely, as if he was trying to force the powder deep up into his nose.

‘Please do the same,’ he said. ‘You will find it remarkably pleasant.’

I placed the powder on the back of my hand and began to snort, rocking the back of my hand to allow each nostril to benefit from its power. I felt my senses numb, as if I could no longer feel my face, and a strange lightheadedness spread through me, as if I was separated from the world.

‘You can lie down,’ suggested the Doctor. ‘I will observe you from my chair.’

I lay down on the couch and stared at the stucco patterns on the ceiling.

Nothing seemed to be happening.

But then, after perhaps some ten minutes, I felt a slow welling sensation in my head. It seemed to build and build, until I found myself sneezing as violently as I had ever sneezed in my life.

Taking out my handkerchief to blow my nose, I was now aware of the vaguest sensations: linen, air from the window, perhaps even the leather from the Doctor’s chair.

‘Is it working?’ he asked.

‘I think that it is. Can I have some more?’

‘I will prescribe some for you.’

Everything around me now began to smell of soft furnishings.

‘Better?’ the Doctor asked.

‘I cannot thank you enough,’ I replied. ‘Everything seems so much sharper, so much clearer.’

‘Happy?’

‘Yes, I am …’

I hesitated. There was something about the way he looked
at me. It was as if he didn’t quite believe me, as if he knew that there was something more.

‘This is not all, is it? Tell me …’

I will never quite know why I broke down at this moment. Perhaps it was because I felt so peaceful on the couch. Or perhaps it was because I sensed this man would understand why I felt so lonely, so depressed, and so unable to find any comfort for my misery.

‘Oh, Doctor …’

I could hardly speak.

‘Often the presentation of a small complaint is but the precursor to the discussion of a deeper malady,’ he told me kindly. And, indeed, it was true. For the restoration of my sense of smell had only exaggerated the subterranean malaise of my unhappiness.

‘I have recently travelled to Paris and Berlin,’ the Doctor continued, ‘and there have been some most interesting advances in the field of cerebral anatomy in these cities. If you would like to talk further about this I would be happy to see you in my rooms at the Sühnhaus, on Maria-Theresienstrasse.’

There was something about this man’s sincerity and intelligence I felt that I could trust. Here at last was a person who might listen to me, believe me, and even cure me of the strange detachment I felt in life.

And so I found myself walking into a series of rooms in one of the most beautiful houses in Vienna. The Doctor had recently married, and his wife showed me into a small study in which they hoped to establish a private practice.

‘Before we begin, and before I can say anything or analyse your condition, I must know a great deal about you,’ the Doctor said firmly. ‘I must ask you to lie on the couch. I will sit behind your head, and out of your vision, on that chair. Then, when you are ready, we can commence. Please tell me what you know about yourself.’

‘I don’t know what to say or where to begin.’

‘Do not worry about the beginning. Imagine perhaps that you are in a railway carriage, and you see moments of your life flashing past. Tell me what you see.’

‘I do not know. It all comes at a rush. If I am on this train of which you speak, I do not know where it is going or if I will ever be able to alight …’

‘Lie down,’ urged the Doctor.

I moved over to a low couch covered with an Iranian rug. It was even more comfortable than the one in the hospital.

‘How is your nose?’ asked the Doctor kindly.

‘Much better,’ I replied. ‘I was so afraid. How can it have happened?’

‘An infection probably …

‘But for so long?’

‘I read a paper recently,’ mused the Doctor at last, ‘in which it was suggested that nasal illness is frequently prompted by masturbatory activity.’

What was he talking about?

‘Close your eyes,’ he continued.

I could not think of anything to say, and a long pause then ensued. The couch was extremely comfortable and I wondered if I might fall asleep. Only the possibility of one of my terrible dreams kept me awake, for to be observed dreaming was something that I could not countenance.

‘I do not know what to say,’ I protested. ‘I have never done this before.’

‘Then let us start with a few facts. What is your profession?’

‘I am Diego de Godoy, notary to the Emperor Charles V, and now the licensed creator of the famous Sachertorte in the hotel of my benefactors, Franz and Edward Sacher,’ I replied.

‘And when and where were you born?’

‘That is a difficult question to answer.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I fear that you will not believe me.’

‘Anything that is said here is between ourselves. You need not fear me, and I can assure you that you will not surprise me.’

‘I do not want to tell you.’

‘Very well. Would you like to tell me how old you are?’

‘I cannot.’

‘Do you have parents still living?’

‘No.’

‘How do you remember them?’

‘My mother died when I was a child. My father when I was twenty.’

‘And so you are alone?’

‘I think so.’

‘And you are Spanish?’

‘I am.’

‘And you have travelled much?’

‘I have. I began this life as a conquistador.’

‘You discovered gold?’

‘And chocolate,’ I added, somewhat distractedly.