Various Flavors of Coffee (17 page)

“Don’t be
fick,
” the ruffian spat.“Why would Ike want ter lend you any more?”

“So that I can pay his interest.”

“I don’t fuckin’
fink
so.” He raised the blackjack. It was no longer than a pair of gloves, and he glanced over me casually, selecting where to use it. He tapped my stomach, and I was seized by an excruciating pain.

“Ike’s calling in the debt,” he said. “All of it.Yer’ve got a week ter pay.”

The following
morning I had an equally painful interview with Pinker. No cudgels were involved, but only because there was no need for them.

To my surprise, when I was shown into his office Emily was there, too. She was standing in front of the desk at which her father was sitting, so after a moment’s hesitation I went to stand beside her. She said nothing, although her eyes widened when she saw the bruise on my forehead.

“Emily and I have spent much of the night talking,” Pinker said. He watched me with hooded eyes.“There are certain things I think you need to be made aware of.” He addressed his daughter. “Emily, are you in love with Mr.Wallis?”

“No, Father.”

The words were like a hammer, smashing all my hopes like glass beads.

“Have you ever suggested to him that you might be in love with him?”

“No, Father.”

“Do you wish to be married to Mr.Wallis?” “Perhaps, Father.”

I looked at her, bewildered.This was making no sense. “Explain, if you will, the circumstances in which you would

consent to take him as your husband.”

She hesitated. “I am not in love with Robert, but we are friends—good friends. I believe he has the makings of a kind, able man. I believe that he wants to do good in the world. I should like to be able to help him.”

There was more—much more, all perfectly phrased: it came out of her beautiful lips like a speech. She had not found anyone else in her life to love and be loved by; she must marry someone: the question was, therefore, what marriage would most advance those causes and interests which were dearest to her heart, as well as to her father’s? She and I liked each other; we were both believers in the Rational Marriage, we were concerned with the greatness of Humanity; we were not looking to retreat from the world into some lover’s bower, “and all the rest, though fair and wise,

commend to cold oblivion”; more than this, she knew that the thought of our eventual union would sustain me and lift me through the long, difficult years ahead, and thus she felt it was her duty to make this contribution to the cause of Civilization—a small contribution, to be sure, but all she had to give.

I listened, stunned, to all this noble nonsense. She appeared to be saying that she wanted to sacrifice her virginity on the altar of my Improvement, as if goodness and virtue were some sexually transmitted bacterium, like syphilis.

“Very well,” Pinker said. “Emily, please leave Robert and me alone now.And if I may say so, your words do you, and this family, great credit.” He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve as she left and blew his nose.

“You have heard Emily,” he said when he could speak again.“I am sure that if you loved her before, you love her even more now that you fully understand the fineness of her feelings. You are a very lucky young man.” He paused. “I am prepared to give my permission for the two of you to be married after all.”

“Thank you,” I said, astonished.

“But first, you will have to be in a position to settle a thousand pounds on her.”

It was like some fairy-tale riddle.“But—how can I possibly do that? I have no money whatsoever.”

“Africa, of course.You must go and make your fortune.”

He laid it all before me, like a general briefing a subaltern whom he is sending on a mission of certain peril. The plan had clearly been formulating in his mind for some time; my wanting to marry his daughter was simply an obstacle which had now been turned to advantage.

His plantations in Ceylon had failed, and would shortly have to be replanted with tea. His plantations in India were becoming too expensive—the sepoys had turned rebellious; there was even talk of independence. No, Africa was the coming place. In the

Protectorate, in Uganda, in countries as yet unnamed, men of vi-sion and energy were establishing vast coffee gardens which one day would rival those of Sumatra and Brazil. It was a rush, of course, to get the best places—part of the Great Scramble, as the newspapers were calling it. But he, Pinker, had stolen a march. Thanks to our Guide, and Burton’s inside knowledge, he had been able to establish that the very best coffee-growing conditions were in that part of Abyssinia known as Kaffa, southwest of Harar. It was land that no one else wanted—for the moment. It was not even owned by anyone: the Italians had failed to hold on to it. So Pinker had bought it from them.

“Bought it? How much?” “Fifty thousand acres.”

I stared at him. I could not conceive of an area of land so vast.

He waved his hand airily.“Of course, you don’t have to plant it all. I am simply protecting us from competition in the future.”

“It is the size of London,” I said.

“Exactly.” He jumped up, rubbing his hands. “And you are its ruler—its regent, I should say.You will go down in history, Robert: you will be the man who brought civilization to Kaffa.”

For there was more, of course. With Pinker there was always more. I was not being sent to Africa merely to grow coffee beans. I was on a mission:“A Trade Mission, if you like; but the most precious seeds you plant will be those which are invisible.When the natives see what you achieve with your modern methods of cultivation—when they see how you behave; how you govern them properly, as you govern yourself, through the principles of free trade and fair dealing; when they see the wonders which prosperity can bestow—then, Robert, it is my belief that they will turn to God, as surely as a growing plant turns to face the sun. There are those who say that we must change the savage mind before we can change his beliefs. I say there is a step that must come before both, which is to change the pitiful circumstances in which he finds

himself. Give a heathen charity and he remains a heathen, and the charity is soon gone; but only give him a contract of employment and you have pointed him on the road toward eternal life—”

“How do I get there?” I asked, my mind now on roads. “By camel, I believe.There is a trade route from the coast.”

“And what shall I do while I am waiting for the coffee to grow? It takes four or five years to get a crop, I understand.”
Four years,
I thought as I said it.
My God—I am being sent away for four years.

“You will trade as well, as Pinker’s buying agent in that part of Africa. After all, no one knows the Guide better than you. I am arranging for you to operate under the auspices of a local merchant—you may have seen his mark on some of our moccas.” Pinker pulled a piece of paper from the shelves behind him and laid it on the table. At the top was the same Arabic sign I had seen on the sacks of Harar coffee:

w

“His name is Ibrahim Bey,” Pinker continued. “A great man— his family have been merchants for generations. And Hector will accompany you as far as your destination, to assist you in picking out the right spot for the farm, employing a headman and so on, before he goes on to India. If you are a success, as I am sure you will be, then on your return you will have both my daughter’s hand and my blessing.” He frowned. “Needless to say, until that time, nothing is official. It is a private understanding between us— a probation, as it were; a chance to show what you are made of.” Then his mood abruptly lightened again. “All this expertise at your disposal, Robert. And a fortune to be made, a fair lady to be won, history to be written. How I envy you.”

Part II

The Road of Skulls

The character of the nose depends primarily on the degree of roast given the green beans.

—lingle,
The Coffee Cupper’s Handbook

[
twenty-two
]

*

SS Battula

8th June 1897

My darling Emily,

I write this to you from the good ship
Battula
, presently making steady progress along the northern shore of Egypt. Five days ago we put in to Genoa to take on stores—our stay was only a brief one, but what a pleasure it was to see Italy at last, and to stand on dry land after so long at sea! My plan to go overland, see the Venice of which Ruskin has written so beautifully, and then rejoin Hector at Suez has, as you predicted, proved impossible—it seems we are in a race against the coming of the rainy season, and Hector is impatient to get the plantation up and running this year rather than next. (My observation that I have packed my umbrella, and so shouldn’t be bothered by a bit of rain, prompted another of those heavy sighs of his. Apparently I have a lot to learn, or even to
larrun
—his accent, I am sorry to report, becomes no more comprehensible on close acquaintance.)

We dine each night at the Captain’s table, where we are sixteen, including the Captain and First Officer. Hector is very thick with the nautical fraternity, and spends many hours discussing nor’westers,

spinnakers, bilges and other manly concerns with the gravest of faces. Then we have a brace of missionaries, destined for the Sudan; four fellows who are going out to set up an ivory-collecting concern in Mombasa; and no less than six ladies who are off to India, visiting relatives.

As the only one amongst us with any experience of the regions for which we are destined, Hector is in great demand as an authority, and settles many an argument with a brief but definitive utterance on subjects as diverse as the correct headgear for a visit to a mosque, or whether the white man need carry a pistol in the jungle. Dearest Emily, I have not forgotten the promise you extracted from me before I left, but sometimes one is sorely tempted to mock him just a little. I think you would like the missionaries, though—they are completely in agreement with your father’s idea that we must, as it were, convert the savages to Commerce and Christianity at one and the same time. One of them asked me if I intended to build a church on my plantation! I must admit, it was not a question that had occurred to me before, but I suppose I probably shall, in good time. And perhaps a theater, too, for culture.

In good time... as I write those words I realize how very long I shall be away. Being apart from you for almost five years is going to be so very hard. Of course, I do not complain—you are completely right that it is our duty to remain cheerful—and it will all be worth it to marry you at the end. It is wonderful to be able to think of you as my partner in this great project of saving Africa, and as you say, being physically together in the same place is not as important in the long term as this togetherness of mind and purpose.

Anyway, I had better go now as it is time to dress for dinner. I have not had much occasion to wear my alpaca suit—we are not really in the tropics yet, although the days are quite warm—and the Captain is a bit of a stickler for protocol. I came down on the first evening in my green waistcoat and was taken aside for a “word of advice” about “the need to keep up appearances in foreign climates.” I tried to explain that a white—

tie dinner suit is considered a little old-fashioned now in polite circles, but no dice.

With much love from your future husband, Robert

Dear Frog,

*

SS Battula

The North Pole 12th June 1897

Well, here I am at the North Pole. Admittedly, it is a funny sort of Pole, being surrounded by warm blue sea on three sides, with the coast of Egypt just visible to the south, and the occasional palm tree poking up on the skyline, but Hector has got me practicing with my sextant and theodolite, learning how to plot our position; and since the North Pole is where the sextant informs me we are, at the North Pole we must be. I have surprised my travel companions by attempting to converse with them in Polish—Northern Polish, that is—so far without much success.

Why, you may ask, is it necessary to know precisely where one is? A good question, you perspicacious Frog, and one which I put to Hector myself. It seems that we are soon going to be living in the Bush, and that this Bush, moreover, is not a nice English laburnum, or a well-pruned magnolia, or even a prickly bramble, but an altogether larger and more fearsome species of Bush, in which it is possible to get oneself quite lost. And when we come to plant our Coffee, Hector informs me, it is extremely important to plant it in absolutely straight Lines, so that everyone can see how neat and well-regulated a White Man’s Plantation is, and for this too we will need to know how to Survey. I had thought myself quite able to Survey already—I am surveying a large whisky-and-soda at this very moment—but apparently I am a Flippant Egypt, or possibly a Flipping Eejit, I forget which.

Dearest Frog, will you do a favor for me? Look up “Hectoring” in

your dictionary, and tell your sister what it says. Don’t tell her I put you up to it, though.

Regards, Robert

My dear Hunt,

*

Hotel Pension Collos

Alexandria 20th June 1897

Landed at last! The voyage was tedious beyond belief, made worse of course by the fact that it was entirely without female company—or rather, without female company of the necessary kind, for there was in fact a large consignment of twittering women on board, who were clearly being sent to India for the sole purpose of finding a husband. One of them even tried to flirt with Hector, which shows you how desperate she must have been. He told me brusquely later that he’d once considered marriage, but had decided it was “incompatible with a life of adventure and travel.” I forbore from pointing out that if it wasn’t for marriage, I would be tucked up in the Café Royal as we speak.

Mindful that my prospects in that line may soon be somewhat limited, once we were ashore I gave Hector the slip and made for the city’s cat-houses. It was an interesting experience—the thing here is dancing: the prettiest girl in the place comes and performs in front of you while you sit back and smoke a
narghile
, which is a pipe of tobacco filtered through a kind of bubbling apple-scented liquid.The girl who danced for me was wearing a snood of gold piastres—a helmet made of metal discs fastened together with chain, which glittered and clinked as she writhed. She was clothed when she started, but soon rolled her girdle down to her hips, where she knotted it very low.The “dance” simply consisted of raising the edge of each hand alternately to her forehead, while the pelvis quivered and shook in imitation of the sexual act. It was strangely effective, and by the time she was done I had a cockstand