The Discovery of Chocolate

by James Runcie

  ‘I regret the years that we have spent apart, the years when I did not know what love was. And I do not know how I have spent so many years without you.’

  The chocolate machinery revolved around us like a lost constellation.

  At last she spoke.

  ‘Querido. Querido mio.’

  ‘Querida.’

  We walked towards each other and kissed.

  The workers burst into applause, and we cried, silently holding each other as if we would never again be apart. I wanted time to stop then, and if it had done so I would have been able to bear eternity, for ever lost in that moment.

  At last Ignacia whispered: ‘I finish work at two o’clock. Wait for me in my house. If you would like …’

  ‘How will I find it?’

  ‘Felipe will show you.’

  ‘Felipe?’

  ‘My dog.’

  ‘How can I wait so long now that I have found you?’

  ‘It will seem short. Trust me.’

  ‘Always,’ I said and looked at the security guards over her shoulder.

  ‘You’re free to go, man,’ said the fiercer of the two.

  ‘Love carries its own reward,’ added his more contemplative companion.

  How did that time pass, in which I knew that I had found my love, but still could not be with her?

  I determined to cook a feast that would welcome us back to each other: a meal filled with our past love, a banquet of memory and desire.

  And so to the marketplace.

  People were preparing for the Day of the Dead and the market had been overrun by skeletons. Children bit into skulls made of sugar, papier-mâché corpses toasted each other with tequila, and skeletal toreadors rested against gilded Madonnas on roadside altars filled with bread, flowers, candles and fruit. A skeleton mother gave birth to a skeleton baby aided by a skeleton doctor. It was a world where plenty met death in the face, filled with noise and colour, heat and dust, flowers and blood.

  I found the familiar sights from four hundred years ago, and as I looked into the faces of the people who stood beside stalls filled with oranges, pineapples, limes and lemons; chickens, partridges, quails and turkeys I could see the ghosts of their forefathers. So little had changed. Stout men and ample women stood by piles of plantains, pumpkins and papayas. An elegant woman sat behind a table of herbs selling not only cinnamon, aniseed and coriander, but also every kind of chilli – ancho, mulato, pasilla, chipolte, guajillo and cascabel. Two ladies poured chocolate caliente, which they whisked by rocking a wooden molinillo quickly between their palms. One man ate a handful of grasshoppers, while another laid coconuts out in the sun to dry.

  Once again I was dazzled by plenitude. Colourful breads – rosca de reyes and pan de muerto – lay waiting in richly stocked panaderías. Groups of men stood smoking and drinking lemonade, red sorrel flower tea, pulque from fermented sap, agua miel, and freshly squeezed orange juice. There were enchiladas and enfrijoladas, steamed lamb tortillas filled with cheese, and tuna with roasted red pepper. I stopped by a stall selling thirty different kinds of mole poblano, and stood in wonder, remembering how far in the past I had first tasted such a delicacy. At the time it had seemed the most private, and the most beautiful moment in my life, and I could not imagine anyone else knowing of, or sharing, such things, but now all these delights were openly available, without need of preparation, for any who chose to select them.

  And I felt that now my own life would have to open out in the same way. There could be no secrets any more, no hesitation. I would have to declare and stay true to my love.

  I was filled with an urgent desire to tell Ignacia everything, to cook and to eat, to share at last our bodies, filled with love rather than lust, talking patiently and tenderly, yielding the secrets of the years in which we had been separated. It would be slow, gracious and generous, as we savoured our food and then our own flesh, together again at last.

  But this was not the moment for reflection. I had little time, and was thrown back to reality by the task ahead.

  I must cook the perfect meal. What could it be?

  Ignacia would be home at two o’clock. Anything lengthy or complicated to create, such as lime-marinated red snapper with coriander, or even Antonio’s wild hare in chocolate sauce would surely be impossible.

  I began to seize the basic ingredients I needed in mounting panic.

  Perhaps I could make it up as I went along?

  No.

  That would be the very worst way in which to behave. Had I spent all these years refining my skills only to abandon the notions of preparation, care and patience, the most basic elements that underlie all culinary ability?

  And then it struck me.

  Instead of one magisterial, unfolding banquet, surely it would be preferable to prepare a series of small plates, little delights which could be prepared for Ignacia to try at will, savouring each taste and flavour?

  And so I gathered aniseed and avocado; chillies, cinnamon and chorizo; garlic, ginger, peppers, pumpkins, pulses and papaya; shrimps, scallops, limes, mangoes and maize, returning to Ignacia’s house laden with so many good things that I staggered under the weight of them all.

  ‘Home,’ I said to Felipe the dog. ‘Home.’

  He led me to a small one-storey adobe dwelling with blue shutters at the end of a narrow lane. Filled with trepidation, I opened the door to Ignacia’s house and set down my purchases.

  There were four small rooms laid out before me: a pale-yellow living area with a reed sleeping mat, chairs, rugs, paintings and textiles, together with small pottery shrines and objects commemorating the Day of the Dead: the skeletons of priests, bishops, soldiers, judges, toreadors and angels, all made from painted clay. There was a tree of life, a miniature Ferris wheel, a series of glazed animals, even a box with a couple pledging eternal love: Hasta que la muerte los separe.

  I then moved on to discover a tiled kitchen filled with decorated plates, glazed bowls, atole mugs, utensils, and a wood-fired cooking area, over which was written Mi casa es su casa. There was a small shower area and a bedroom which I searched, jealously and fearfully, for evidence of the presence of any man.

  It was clear that Ignacia, at least at this moment in her history, lived alone and in some comfort, far from the burned-out shell of a hut that I had envisaged in my dreams.

  I would have to work fast to create the spread of delicacies I had in mind and began by preparing two different soups, vermicelli and gazpacho, placing the bread I had bought on a shallow wooden tray. Then I seared some cod with caramelised shallots, grilled calamari, and steamed the scallops with ginger. I marinated quails with rosemary, bay leaves and garlic, and lay guacamole between paprika-toasted potato skins. Stuffed green peppers with a walnut sauce were folded on dark green plates with pumpkin-blossom quesadillas. I filled a small earthenware casserole with a sizzling chorizo stew, spiked with sherry and coriander. Then I laid out bowls of peaches, figs and strawberries, and prepared a mango cream with almonds. The room was filled with the scents of cooking as I let the hot food rest in warm bowls around me.

  I then took off my clothes, fearing briefly that Ignacia might return home and misinterpret my nakedness as peremptory, and plunged myself into a cold shower, washing away the heat of the market and the kitchen, towelling myself dry.

  As I rubbed the towel against my neck, I caught the scent of Ignacia once more, heady musk rose and lily of the valley, and drank in the fragrance of her bathrobe. I could only hope that this would be my home at last, and that my troubled life might find peace.

  Yet what could Ignacia be thinking? She had seemed so calm at the plantation. I could not believe that she did not think the same things as myself, but was incapable of imagining how she had passed the intervening years.

  Sick with expectation, I could hardly contain myself as I dressed again.

  Returning to the cooking, I tested each recipe, knowing that nothing must falter as the flavours rose around me. Then it struck me
.

  Flowers!

  I hastily made an arrangement of blue poppies for Ignacia’s table, and began to scatter poppy petals on her bed.

  As I was doing so I heard Felipe’s bark and the front door open.

  ‘Diego!’

  Ignacia’s voice calling my name.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked as I emerged from her bedroom.

  My hands were filled with petals.

  ‘Welcome,’ I said, stepping towards her.

  Ignacia seemed reluctant to speak.

  I knelt down and patted the dog. ‘He looks so like Pedro.’

  ‘He should do.’

  ‘Pedro was his …?’

  ‘Yes. While we were in the glade.

  ‘Is Pedro …?’ She let the question fall away

  ‘He is. He died in my arms.’

  Again there was silence. This was not how I had imagined things.

  ‘I’ve been cooking,’ I said, abstractedly gesturing to the bowls that surrounded us.

  ‘I can see. Antojitos.’

  I smiled at her and put the poppy petals I was holding on the table.

  ‘Ignacia,’ I said softly, walking towards her.

  Her face furrowed, and she looked fiercely into my eyes, stopping all movement. ‘Why did you leave me alone for so long?’

  ‘I came back. I looked for you – in Mexico and in Chiapas. I thought that you were dead.’

  ‘How could I be? Did you think that I would have given you the drink without taking it myself?’

  ‘But your grave?’

  ‘I left it there in order to escape. It was all that I could do. They had to believe me to be dead. Did you not understand that?’

  ‘It took me a long time to think what might have happened.’

  ‘Did you not think of the things that I had told you? “If you are alive then I am alive. Never cease in your search of me.”’

  ‘Of course, but the grave … You could have come to Spain …’

  ‘I did. I met a horrible woman, a cook …’

  ‘Sylvana.’

  ‘Yes. She told me the story …’

  ‘And you saw Isabella …’

  ‘She had no grace, no love in her heart.’

  ‘Then how did you not find me?’

  ‘You had left for Mexico, and by the time I returned you had gone to Chiapas, and then, by the time I had travelled there, you had vanished …’

  ‘I have never not loved you,’ I said softly.

  ‘Nor I you.’

  ‘Did you marry?’

  ‘No.’ She was shocked. ‘I am not a mala mujer. Did you?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘There were others?’

  ‘None that stopped me thinking of you …’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I thought you were dead.’

  Our love had survived centuries of war, accident and misunderstanding, but Ignacia was angry.

  ‘Did it never occur to you that dissembling my death was the only way in which we could survive? I told you to trust me. “Love me. Never forget me. Never doubt me.” You remember?’

  ‘I remember everything; but there was so much devastation. It was war. I did not know that you could be so strong.’

  ‘I thought the elixir could help us live a different life, free of history, released from everything that might enslave us. I hoped that you would understand, that you would know.’

  ‘How old are we?’ I asked.

  ‘I cannot be certain.’

  ‘And will we die?’

  ‘Oh, we are sure to die. Only we will have lived so much longer.’

  ‘How much longer do we have?’

  ‘I do not know. Perhaps ten years …’

  ‘A hundred then …’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps that is so.’

  She seemed sad.

  ‘Will you stay with me?’ I asked.

  ‘Let us eat,’ she said, ‘and talk. We do not need to say everything at once.’

  I do not think that we were hungry, and we ate in silence, looking at each other nervously, as if we were frightened by happiness, unable to believe that we were together once more. We were too confused to appreciate the tortillas and the quails, the stuffed peppers, the chorizo, and the scallops. We were too excited even to speak.

  I then asked if we could make chocolate together once more.

  ‘You still have my molinillo?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I did not think that you would ever come,’ she said softly. ‘Are you much changed?’

  ‘I hope that I am wiser,’ I replied. ‘I was afraid to return sooner. I did not know life well enough. I did not understand what had happened.’

  ‘It has taken you all this time?’

  ‘I am very slow.’

  I reached into my bag and handed Ignacia the molinillo. ‘Whatever we do, from now on, we will make our chocolate together. Here, in the place where we were last together.’

  ‘Show me,’ she replied, ‘please.’

  I did not think that I had ever felt so weary or so complete. It was as if all the cares of my past could be discarded as the incredible possibility of happiness stretched out before me.

  We walked over to the fire, infusing the milk with vanilla, ready for the chocolate, the chillies and the cinnamon. I stood behind Ignacia, my arms around her, and we whisked the hot chocolate together.

  ‘We have so much to say to each other,’ I said.

  ‘I used to think that we had all the time in the world,’ Ignacia replied.

  ‘No more.’

  ‘No, no more.’

  Ignacia looked back over her shoulder and smiled when she saw how adept I had become. But it was perhaps only when we finally poured out the mixture that our anxieties began to disappear and we knew that all might now be well, that we need no longer be alone or afraid in the world.

  We took the chocolate into the bedroom, and drank slowly from the dark-red cups, savouring the taste.

  At last Ignacia leaned over, and we kissed, simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Slowly, we began to take off our clothes, undressing one another.

  ‘I am no longer young,’ Ignacia said softly, frightened, more tentative even than when we had first been together. ‘I am shy.’

  The beaded blind rocked gently back against the window.

  ‘Hush now,’ I said, putting my finger to her lips.

  Her soft breasts fell forward and I was amazed once more by their beauty. At last we lay down and began to touch one another carefully and tenderly, old worlds made new, pasts forgiven.

  I knew now that the greatest kind of love comes when it does not matter who you are or what you have done. It does not matter if you fear the future or regret the past.

  Everything is possible.

  As we lay closely together a far-flung thunder rolled over the hills like a marimba. A street band struck up in readiness for the fiesta, firecrackers exploded in the sky, and the church bells began to ring. People were shouting in the distance and whistling, firing their pistols into the air, roaring as loudly as they could, as if to defy the inevitable silencing of their lives.

  The Day of the Dead had arrived.

  Quite soon it would be time for us to leave the world. We would learn together how to love, and then, perhaps at last, how to die.

  But not yet.

  No.

  Not yet.

  Acknowledgements

  Although this is a work of fiction, I am greatly indebted to several works of fact, most notably: The True History of Chocolate by Sophie D. Coe and Michael D. Coe; The Conquest of New Spain by Bernal Díaz (in which the Royal Notary, Diego de Godoy, is named); Cortés: The Life of the Conqueror by His Secretary by Francisco López de Gomara, translated and edited by Lesley Byrd Simpson; Letters from Mexico by Hernán Cortés, translated and edited by Anthony Pagden; and Thomas Gage’s account of his visit to Chiapas in The English-American: His Travel by Land and Sea.

  F
ine recipes and wise observation on the nature of chocolate can be found in: The Chocolate Bible by Christian Teubner; Chocolate: The Definitive Guide by Sarah-Jayne Stanes; The Chocolate Book by Helge Rubinstein; and The Complete Mexican Cookbook by Lourdes Nichols.

  For biographical information I am indebted to the excellent biography The Marquis de Sade – A Life by Neil Schaeffer; Escape from the Bastille: The Life and Legend of Latude by Claude Quétel; and Simon Schama’s magisterial Citizens. I have also benefited from Freud, Biologist of the Mind by Frank J. Sulloway, and Sigmund Freud’s own The Interpretation of Dreams; while for the life of Gertrude Stein I have read not only her own work but also Diana Souhami’s wonderful Gertrude and Alice. Back in America, I have been greatly helped by Ellis Island Interviews by Peter Morgan Coan and The Emperors of Chocolate by Joël Glenn Brenner.

  As if this isn’t enough, I must also thank the following for their kindness, tact, advice and patience: Juliette Mead, Georgina Brown, Jo Willett, Sue Stuart-Smith, Mark Brickman, Rachel Foster, and my daughters Rosie and Charlotte.

  I am grateful for the attentions of my editors: Nick Sayers in London, and Sally Kim in New York, both of whom struck a constructive and encouraging balance between generosity and criticism.

  But three people in particular helped me beyond all reason: the writer Nigel Williams, my agent David Godwin, and my wife Marilyn Imrie.

  I cannot thank them enough.

  About the Author

  The Discovery of Chocolate

  James Runcie is a writer and film-maker. His films include Miss Pym’s Day Out, Saturday/ Sunday, My Father and The Great Fire. This is his first novel.

  Copyright

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  Hammersmith, London w6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by

  HarperCollinsPublishers 2001

  Copyright ©James Runcie 2001

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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