Various Flavors of Coffee (15 page)

It was a
curious conversation, and one which I took up again with Emily when we were alone.

“Your father seems very keen on these blends of his,” I commented.

“It is nothing new.” She picked up some of the beans we were examining. “This Java, for example, has an excellent body but is a little bland in taste. Mocca is more likely to be the opposite—full of flavor but thin in the mouth. Combining them makes for a cof-fee that is easy to enjoy.”

I glanced at her.“It is a kind of marriage of flavors.” “It is,” she agreed.“But . . .”

“What is it?”

She sighed. “I think it is like mixing colors on a palette. It is easy to produce brown by combining the other colors together, but just because it is easy does not mean you should.”

“Quite.The colors are much better appreciated on their own.” She was silent for a moment. It was not often that she criticized her father.“Of course, he has commercial considerations to think of.”

“He is clearly very good at making money.”

“He has plans—such great plans. If you only knew the half of them.”

“I should like to.”

Another sigh.“He has to be careful whom he tells, and when.” “Of course. And you are family, and I am not. Although I hope

that one day I may be considered more close than I am.” At that, she blushed.

“And now,” I said, “let us perform a marriage of our own.” I held out my hand to her.

“What
do
you mean?”

“I mean, between these two coffees,” I said, pointing to the mocca and the Java on the table in front of us.“Their flavors have been flirting for such a long time now, ever since they were introduced at a dance. Let us bless their union, and assist them in con-summating it.”

“Robert!”

I raised my eyebrows innocently. “I am speaking metaphori-cally, of course.” I put the beans together into the grinder and worked it vigorously. “It will be interesting, as you say, to see how the two bodies combine—”

“Robert! Stop it.” “Very well.”

I spooned the grounds into the cups and added the water.The mix, in fact, was not bad. “A happy union after all,” I said, but she

was trying to ignore me. I smiled at her, until eventually she grew pert and pretended to hit me.

And so, through flirtations and false constructions, we danced our way in mutual ignorance toward the greatest misunderstanding of all.

[
nineteen
]

ow do we do?” Pinker demanded for the twentieth

time, stepping into the room.“Are my blends concluded?” “Very nearly,” I admitted. I was alone there except for the Frog,

Emily having taken the afternoon off to go shopping.

Pinker stopped dead. “What on earth are you wearing, Robert?”

“It is a jacket made in the Indian style.”

“And in Indian colors, too, I see. Though perhaps it would seem less . . . brilliant under the glare of an Oriental sun.”

“Perhaps,” I said airily.

“It cost eight pounds,” the Frog said eagerly from the floor, where she was squatting in her usual posture.“It’s the only one of its kind in all London.”

“I am not surprised.” Pinker looked at me and sighed. “Leave us, would you, dear Philomena? Mr.Wallis and I have some matters to discuss.”

Obligingly the Frog hopped away, croaking.

“I have no idea why she insists on making that extraordinary noise,” Pinker muttered. “I suppose she’ll grow out of it.” He

glanced at me. “My daughters—my daughters are each in their own way unconventional, Robert.”

“They are a great credit to you,” I said politely.

“They are a great worry. Doubtless all parents fret about their children. But when there is only one parent the sum of worry must be doubled, rather than divided.”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you?” He glanced at me again.“You must think it strange I employ them in the business.”

“I had not considered it,” I said carefully.

“Emily needs to be occupied. She gets that from me, of course. But even more than I, she needs a sense of purpose—to know that what she is about is creating some good in the world. She would never be happy, for example, running some minor aristocrat’s household. Supervising servants and dances and dinner menus and so on.”

I thought I began to see where this might be going, now. “Of course,” I agreed. “She is a modern woman. She must not on any account be thrown back into the past.”

“Exactly!” Pinker gripped my arm. “Thrown back into the past—that is exactly what she fears.You put it well—you have the gift of words.”

“I do my best,” I said modestly.“But if I am able to express the sentiment, it is because I feel it myself—I too wish to look forward.”

“Yes.” He released my arm.“You must come to dinner, Robert.

We have much to talk about.”

“I would like that very much.”

“Good. Saturday at six. Jenks will give you the address.”

He was thinking
that I might marry his daughter.

I could scarcely believe my luck. He was a wealthy man, and

clearly he was rapidly becoming even wealthier. With a fortune such as his, he could have bought his daughter into the upper classes, or cemented an alliance with another wealthy tradesman. I was an artist, and I was penniless. True, I was educated, and—I liked to think—not without talent or charm, but in the normal way of things it was unlikely a man like that would have considered me a suitable match.To have won him over was a great coup. I would never have to take employment again. I could travel: I had always wanted to do the Grand Tour, like so many poets and artists before me. I could afford a place in town, and somewhere quiet in the country. I would be able to write, freed from domestic

worries.

That evening I celebrated this fortuitous turn of events by purchasing a syringe and a cocaine solution and taking them along to Wellington Street. It was not a great success.While the drug made me eager, it seemed to have an anaesthetic effect on my performance, slowing me down to the point where I eventually just longed to get the whole thing over with. However, on this occasion the girl did not mind, as she took for herself what I did not use. Apparently it is rapidly becoming the stimulant of choice among the better sort of whore: it does not put the customers off, as the smell of gin does, and makes the girl appear more enthusiastic, unlike morphine, which makes them drowsy. One can now get cocaine in lozenge form from any Covent Garden chemist. As Pinker would say:
And so we Improve.

[
twenty
]

“Pungent”—a prickling, stinging or piercing sensation, not necessarily unpleasant,
e.g.
pepper or snuff.

—
sivetz,
Coffee Technology

*

considered carefully what to wear for dinner at
Pinker’s. On the one hand it was almost one’s duty, as an aesthete, to make a striking show at table. On the other, I wanted Pinker to think of me as a possible future son-in-law. I should wear something impressive, I decided: something that declared that I was, if not quite his equal, then somebody of distinction within my own sphere. After some consideration I found the very thing: an ornate jacket of green Jacquard silk, inlaid with gems, which seemed to shimmer with the opulent iridescence of a mallard’s neck. It was on display in Liberty, along with a magnificent turban in blue, at the fastening of which was a sumptuous brooch of red garnet.The only problem was that the ensemble cost six pounds, a

sum I could no longer afford.

I went to Ike and explained that I was in need of a little more cash.

Ike raised an eyebrow. “More? But if you do not mind me pointing it out, Mr. Wallis, you are a little behind with the loans you already have.”

“This is for an—investment.” “Ah?”

Ike seemed to be waiting for more information.

“I am hoping to make a proposal of marriage,” I explained. “
Ahh.
And is this a union which we might expect to have good

prospects—financially, that is?”

I was tempted to tell him that it was none of his business; but of course, it was his business now.“Indeed.The lady in question—her father—has funds. Ample funds. But in the meantime, I shall inevitably have some further expenses.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“Shall we say—another forty pounds?” I suggested.

Once again I signed some papers, and once again, when he handed me the money, I handed him two pounds back.“Your interest.”

He bowed.“And may I be the first to wish you, and your enterprise, every success. Though I should perhaps point out that the loan will be repayable in either case.” He laughed. “Not that I am suggesting you will be unsuccessful in your suit, Mr. Wallis. I am sure you and the lady will be very happy.”

Pinker lived
a short distance from his warehouse, in a fine square of black-stoned Georgian houses.The door was opened by a liveried footman, with a maid standing at his side to take my coat and cane. I was impressed. If this was how Pinker lived, then this was how his son-in-law could expect to live, too.To have a footman as

well as a maid would be most satisfactory.And the maid, I noticed, was quite pretty.

“They are in the drawing room, sir,” the footman murmured, handing me a glass of Madeira.

I stepped through the door he indicated. The drawing room was lit by electric lamps, casting a flattering glow across the faces of the three Pinker daughters, who were all dressed up for the occasion. Even Ada did not look quite so plain as usual, while the Frog—uncomfortable in a schoolgirl’s frock—was scowling, but at least looked for once like a girl. Pinker, seated in a high-backed chair, was talking to a thickset man in a sober black coat. Emily, next to them, looked ravishing in a gown of green velvet.

“Ah,” Pinker said. “Robert, there you are. May I introduce Hector Crannach?”

“Wheel,” the thickset man said in a heavy Scottish accent, looking me up and down as he crushed my hand, “they’d warned me that ye were a pote,Wallish, but they’d no’ warned me that ye might forget your clothes.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said, frowning.

“Ye’ve turned up to dinner in your dreshing gown, man.” Pinker chuckled. “Hector, you must curb your famous plain—

speaking tonight. And Robert, you will have to forgive Crannach if he is not quite
au fait
with the latest Regent Street fashions. He has just recently returned from Brazil.”

“Hector is father’s general manager,” Emily added, offering me her hand. “Hello, Robert. Are you in fact a Mughal or a Mikado tonight?”

“Tonight,” I said, kissing her fingers, “I am a triumph of style over style. Although if you are referring to my jacket, I think you will find the design is Persian.”

“Ay’ve traveled extensively in Pusha,” Crannach announced. “And ay’ve never sheen a jacket lake
tha’.
”

I was by now forming a strong dislike for this Scot.

“Though I did once shee a carrrpet quite like it, in Morocca,” he added, turning to Ada and Frog. I laughed politely along with them.

“Father has been explaining your Guide, Robert,” Emily interjected quickly. I saw now that one of the mahogany sample boxes had been placed upon the table.The sides were open, revealing the tiers of bottles.“Hector’s most impressed.”

“Oh, aye,” Hector said dismissively.“I dinnae deny—” I snorted.

He stopped.“Shorry?” “Nothing.”

“I dinnae deny—”

I caught Emily’s eye and tittered. She pulled a furious face at me, but I could tell that she was trying hard not to laugh as well.

“Wha’?” Hector snapped, looking from one to the other of us. “Nothing,” I repeated, although in fact the wonderful clash of mangled vowels as Crannach managed to make the words “do not” and “deny” sound almost identical had been deeply amusing.

“Please continue.What do you not deny?”

“Tha’ such a shkeem may be of shome yuice,” he mumbled furiously.

“But?”That was Pinker.“You have a reservation, Hector?” “Out there in the feelt,” Hector said portentously,“and in particular the truppics, I fear yon guide’ll nae last six month.” “And why not?” I asked.

“Terramites,” he said brusquely. “Truppical terramites as big as ma fist. They’ll do fae the box. And the heat, man—the terrabull heat—that’ll boil those fine pearfumes of yoursh away to nothin’.” “Well,” I said, “I am not as intimate as you evidently are with termites. But the principles should remain sound whatever the conditions.And the written word—the pamphlet—should be able

to withstand even the terrabull heet o’ the truppics, I imagine.”

I felt a sharp pain in my ankle. I looked down. Emily’s sharp-pointed shoe was just withdrawing back under her gown.

“In any case,” I continued smoothly, “you are wrong to call it my Guide. It is as much the work of the elder Miss Pinker, who has been my willing assistant and indefatigable secretary these past few weeks.” I took her hand and kissed it again. Hector glowered. It occurred to me that he was not terribly pleased to return from Brazil and find me nestled firmly in the bosom, as it were, of the Pinker daughters.

“Ha’ ye ever been tae the truppics, Robber’?” he asked sourly. It was then that I made the first of many mistakes that evening. “Not yet. I fully intend to, though, to get some writing done,”

I replied casually.“It seems to be the last place where one can avoid being bothered by one’s friends.”

So I was, you see, undone by an epigram. Oh, the irony.

The evening
proceeded well enough. Hector bored us all with an account of his travels around Malaya, Ceylon and the Caribbean; or, as he put it, “M’lair, Shillon and the Carrybeena.” I really can-not be bothered to record his conversation phonetically from now on: you will just have to use your imagination.

You will have to use your imagination, too, to picture Emily’s succulent beauty at the dinner table that night. In the soft glow cast by Pinker’s electric lights, the globes of her milky bosom, ac-centuated by the cut of her gown, were quite mesmerizing. I noticed Hector glancing surreptitiously at them as he spooned soup into his mouth: I was immediately determined not to do anything so vulgar.