The Discovery of Chocolate

by James Runcie

  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 w
ith 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.

  He was panting heavily and his eyes had lost their lustre. How could he possibly race again? He needed rest and looked to me for aid.

  But Mr Green was insistent.

  ‘I’ve put five pounds on him,’ he said. ‘You could move into credit if he wins again.’

  ‘I do not think he has the stamina,’ I replied.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Green.

  ‘Look. He’s so weary.’

  ‘How old is your dog?’ asked the American.

  ‘I do not know,’ I replied, truthfully.

  ‘We must have him in the race,’ said Mr Green. ‘He has top billing, and the money’s pouring in.’

  ‘Do I have to?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, if you want to avoid the debtors’ prison.’

  My head was filled with confusion but it seemed that the only chance of redemption lay in placing Pedro in the traps once more.

  His life too was doomed to repeat itself. The traps were lifted, the crowd roared, and the dogs raced away.

  Pedro was hemmed in at the first bend. By the second they had bunched so tightly that it was hard to tell which greyhound was which and Pedro was straining every sinew, head to head with Sammy’s Day. Neck and neck, stride for stride, breath for breath, the pair raced towards the finishing line; it was impossible to tell which dog might win, so desperate were they both to gain the prize. At times Sammy’s Day edged ahead, his head low, mean, and determined, but as they neared the final bend, Pedro leaned to his left, taking the inside as sharply as he could, breathing hard and accelerating away. And, as they approached the finishing line, Pedro, with one last supercanine effort, seemed to take off and leave this earth. His whole body stretched and lurched, as if it had never been so long, leaping over the line as if his body might never land, on towards the disappearing hare.

  The crowd were wild with excitement, cheering Pedro’s achievements, and he stretched his legs as if he could run for ever. I truly believe that no one had ever seen a dog run so fast or stride so bravely, but, as Pedro rounded the track once more, bemused by the disappearance of the false rabbit, and as if engaged in a strange lap of honour, a sharp pain took hold of his being.

  Desperate to continue, but unable to do so, he bravely ran for fifteen or sixteen more strides until finally, as if there were no more breath in his lungs, he lay down on his side, gasping, not only for air, but for life itself.

  I was filled with terror.

  Pushing my way through the heaving crowd, I raced across the track and threw myself against his frail body.

  ‘Pedro,’ I cried.

  The crowd jostled around me.

  ‘Let me alone,’ I cried, looking down at the panting form beneath me. ‘Leave me alone with my dog.’

  The American offered Pedro some chocolate, as if it were some kind of divine restorative.

  Pedro licked it uncertainly, looking up at me for guidance, unsure that he could trust an act of such generosity. He seemed like a seven-year-old child in all his love and faith in me.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ the American was saying. ‘He gave you his all.’

  I spoke as if in a dream.

  ‘He was my only friend. He was all I had in the world.’

  ‘I know.’

  I cradled Pedro in my lap. The American stroked his head.

  ‘It seems that I have known him all my life …’

  ‘I know … I know …’ The man leaned forward and kissed Pedro on the head. ‘But it’s time to let him go.’

  There was nothing I could do but wait for Pedro’s breathing to cease. He looked up at me as if offering an infinite sense of forgiveness. Exhausted by life, perhaps now, at last, he had found comfort in death, and was ready to take his leave.

  This was surely the beginning of the end for us both.

  And then.

  At last.

  It was over.

  I stood up, cradling Pedro in my arms, never having known such emptiness. Looking up at the dusky sky I wanted to howl with grief. I no longer knew where I was or what I was doing, and was possessed with blankness, as if I had lived a thousand years in which not a day had counted or made a difference. A wall of isolation wrapped itself around me. The crowd seemed to part, and I left the stadium, alone, with the only friend who had stayed with me across the centuries, as if he were the child I had never had.

  I walked onto the Bristol downs and dug Pedro’s grave, making it as deep and as wide and as soft as I could. It was so hard to lift him and to hold him; he had never liked being carried, and now that I had his lifeless body in my arms, I could understand why he had resisted such dependency for so long.

  Climbing down into the grave, I could not bear to place him in it, cover him with earth and leave him there. He felt so cold against my hands.

  I recalled all the times we had shared. I remembered how we had lain side by side at Ignacia’s grave, unable to move. It seemed so distant a memory now; so much had crowded in upon our lives since that terrible discovery. Yet these two deaths now united to form one distinct feeling of loss, an intolerable absence of love.

  I stood over Pedro’s grave and began to weep.

  My life was bereft.

  This, then, was mourning.

  It was unbearable.

  I decided that I could no longer stay in the city, for everywhere reminded me of the former happy times I had shared with Pedro.

  Taking my leave of Mr Fry, and having been relieved of my debts to Mr Green, I boarded a railway train for London. There I thought that I might forsake all adventure and try my hand at the serious and sober profession of banking.

  It was the seventh of May nineteen hundred and six.

  Imagine my amazement, therefore, when I found myself seated on the train opposite the American who had shared my misery on the racetrack.

  ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I am delighted to see you again.’

  ‘The pleasure is mine; although I am sorry to see that the marks of sorrow still lie heavily upon you.’

  ‘They do, but the sight of you enables me to ease my pain, though I doubt it will ever disappear. What brings you to this train?’

  ‘I have business to attend to in London before my return to the United States.’

  I knew that it was considered impolite to ask a man about his business and could think of nothing more to say. We sat in silence as the green of the English countryside passed before our eyes.

  ‘You know,’ the man said, ‘I owe you a great debt.’

  ‘I have no creditors,’ I said.

  ‘I mean, a debt of ideas …’

  ‘I think you must be mistaken.’

  ‘Indeed, sir, I am not.’

  Although the man had a cheerful face he seemed reluctant, almost nervous, to continue our conversation.

  ‘I see you do not wish me to speak,’ he said. ‘I must leave you to your grief.’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly, ‘pray stay. I want for company and have always b
een afraid to be alone.’

  ‘We are all alone,’ he said sombrely. ‘We must have fortitude.’

  I thought of asking him if he was a Quaker, but stopped myself, weary now of moral debate.

  ‘There is something that I must tell you,’ the American continued.

  My attention lurched back into the present.

  ‘Something for which I must seek your permission,’ he was saying.

  ‘And what is it? Ask any favour, and if it lies within my power I will gladly give it, for I will always remember your act of kindness to my dog.’

  ‘It is your dog about which I need to speak with you.’

  He reached into his pocket and placed a small lump of chocolate on the table.

  ‘This is chocolate from the bar I gave to your dog when he was dying. Look at it,’ he continued.

  I was suddenly reminded of the mould of chocolate I had taken from Claudia’s nipple.

  ‘It has a strange shape,’ I said tactfully.

  ‘It marks the last lick of your dog.’

  ‘So it does.’

  ‘I think it should be preserved,’ he said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I will make chocolate in that shape.’

  ‘You make chocolates?’

  ‘Indeed I do, sir, and I know you to be an employee of Mr Fry and a connoisseur of such matters. I confess that I have followed you for the past few days, learned of your plans, and wish to offer you employment in my company.’

  ‘This comes at a rush, sir,’ I replied. ‘Are you serious in your proposition?’

  ‘Never more so. Sooner or later there is likely to be a war in Europe and it is important that you, as a foreigner, leave England. Come and join me in my factory.’

  ‘And you will make chocolates in this shape?’ I asked.

  ‘The memory of Pedro will be preserved for ever. I will make the finest chocolate drops that have ever been made, solid at the base and rising to the narrowest of peaks.’

  ‘Then, sir, I will always be grateful to you. Please, make this chocolate. Your tender-heartedness to my dog will rest long in my memory. The stroke of your hand, that final kiss.’