Various Flavors of Coffee (11 page)

In the center of the room, laid out on a trestle, were the instruments of the trade, watched over by an old Chinaman: more pipes, some as long as walking sticks, a small brazier of glowing coals, a set of scales. I paid my shilling, and a pipe was plugged with resin, then plunged into the fire to be lit; when it was going, I clambered into the berth that was indicated to me and surrendered to the opium’s effects.After a few puffs I felt a great weariness come over me, and my body relaxed so fully I could barely hold the pipe. Colors seemed to become more colorful, sounds more precise; that silent, dingy warehouse suddenly seemed like the most luxurious palace, full of shimmering, subtle sounds and gorgeous half-heard melodies. Intrigues and ideas flittered around me. I caught exhilarating snatches of conversation. I felt inspired. Brilliant rhymes began to spin through my head, rhymes that were all tangled up with algebra. I remember realizing that mathematics and poetry were one and the same, and both were astounding. Then for some reason I imagined a sea voyage. I could taste quite clearly the salt on my lips, and the fresh turtle I had eaten for lunch,

washed down with a tot of rum. I could even smell a faint waft of spice in the warm African wind on my face.Then I fell into a deep sleep.

I woke up with the old Chinaman roughly shaking me, demanding more money: when I staggered to my feet I discovered that eight hours had passed. Needless to say, I could not remember a single one of those brilliant phantasmagorical rhymes. I stumbled outside and found a cab to take me home. Next day I was still so lethargic and nauseous that Emily grew exasperated and sent me away. I vowed never to repeat the experience, but even so I found myself yearning for those shimmering, inspired visions; like Caliban, having woken, I cried to dream again.

And then
my advance was gone. I had somehow got through thirty pounds in about the same number of days.

The pawnshop on Edgware Road was a foul place. Ike, the old Russian who ran it, would take anything from jewelry to rag-and- bone. As you walked in, you were hit by a sour, fungal smell that dealers call “mother,” an odor not unlike wet, rotting fur.

Behind the counter Ike rubbed his hands. “Good morning, young man,” he said with a quick smile.“What have yer got?”

I showed him—a vellum-bound edition of Coventry Patmore, three silk waistcoats I no longer wore, two beaver-skin top hats, a cane carved out of ivory.

“These are fine,” he said, running his hands lasciviously over the goods.“Very fine.”

“How much?”

He produced a stub of pencil and scratched his head with it, all the while regarding me craftily. I knew his game: the sum he named would depend not so much on the value of what I was selling as on how desperate he considered me. I did my best to look unconcerned.

“Three guineas,” he said at last, writing it down on a filthy scrap of paper, as if that somehow made it more immutable.

“I was hoping for six.”

He smiled and shrugged.“I’ll have to sell them on.”

“Perhaps this is the wrong place. I can easily take them up to the West End.”

“They’re specialist, sir. You won’t find a better price.” He brightened. “Of course, if you was wanting more cash, I could al-ways advance you a sum.”

“I didn’t know you offered such a . . . service.”

“Not in the usual way, sir, oh no. But for someone like yourself, someone with prospects . . . My fees are quite reasonable.”

“You’d charge interest?”

Another shrug.“A small percentage, payable weekly.” “How much could I borrow?”

His smile broadened. “Step into my office, and we can look through some paperwork.”

[
four teen
]

“Toasted almonds”—this superb aroma is reminiscent of candy made from sugared almonds, or chocolate-covered almonds called pralines.

—
lenoir,
Le Nez du Café

*

mily had decided she wanted to be taken out for din-
ner. There was a masked ball at Covent Garden, and she was greatly desirous of seeing, as she put it, my former bohemian haunts, not to mention some of the beautiful actresses of whom she had read in the newspapers. I could not decide where to take her: the private rooms at the Savoy were too large for a
tête-à-tête,
the private rooms at Romano’s, with their Japanese print wallpapers, were very fine and intimate, but the Trocadero had those

lovely corner rooms overlooking Shaftesbury Avenue . . .

“You seem remarkably familiar with the private salons of these establishments,” she commented.“I suppose you use them for your assignations.”

“Oh, one just gets to know about them,” I said vaguely.“I have an invalid aunt who prefers to dine
à deux.
”

“Well, I
don’t
want to dine in private. I want actresses.”

“Your father would never forgive me if I took you somewhere unsuitable.”

“I think I can stand an actress or two, Robert. Unless the urge to go on the stage has somehow become contagious, I shall be quite safe.”

She was in a lighter mood with me these days—we were becoming easy with each other, although she still pretended to scold. “Very well,” I said. “If it is actresses you want, then it is to

Kettner’s we must go. It will be handy for the ball, too.”

The following day I went to arrange the
menu
with Henri, the dapper Frenchman who, as
maître d’hôtel,
administered the warren of dining rooms off Church Street.Together we pondered the op-tions.
Hors d’oeuvres,
of course, amongst them oysters and a dish of caviar, and then for the soup a silky
velouté
of artichokes.We deliberated whether sole or trout was better suited to the delicate appetite of a lady: the trout being, I was assured, particularly fine just then, trout won the day.
Côtelettes de mouton Sefton
was Henri’s next suggestion, to which I immediately acquiesced, but I rejected his roast pheasant, which sounded greedy for two people, in favor of
perdreau en casserole. Épinards pommes Anna, haricots verts à l’Anglaise
and a
dauphinoise
to accompany. Then salad, of course. Asparagus with a
sauce mousseline.
A board of cheeses, vanilla ice
en corbeille,
and
petits fours
wound up our bill of fare. As for the wines, we settled on an Amontillado, the ’82 Liebfraumilch, a pint of iced Deutz and Gelderman champagne, claret, and curaçao to close. I selected the table—positioned in a curtained alcove, it gave the option of privacy should the necessity arise, but had a view along the largest of the upstairs dining rooms when the curtains were open.Then, our preliminaries concluded, I bade farewell to the
maître d’
until the following day.

That still left the question of what to wear. Evening dress was an option—a dull one. We had opted to take our domino to the

restaurant and change for the ball after the meal, but even so evening dress would look as if one were hardly making an effort.

Barely had I left Kettner’s when my eye fell on a window in Great Marlborough Street. In it was displayed a fine jacket of dark blue otterskin. It was a magnificent thing—and it would look more magnificent still when paired with a cravat of French lace, such as the one I had spied a few days before in Jermyn Street.The exchange with Henri had left me feeling munificent, and I walked into the shop and inquired the jacket’s price. Three guineas—a considerable sum, but as the tailor pointed out, reasonable for so unique a garment, when one could pay almost as much for a coat indistinguishable from that worn by every dullard in the room.

“Ah, Master Wallis,”
Ike greeted me.“And only a day late, too.” “Late?”

“With your interest.Two pounds, although next time there will have to be a small additional charge to cover the delay.” He shrugged.“You are a man of business yourself now.You know how it is.”

“A man of business? In what way?”

“You have become, like me, a trader, I hear. In the world of coffee?”

“Oh—yes.Yes, I suppose I have.”

“But I am sure your enterprise fares rather better than my own little operation.”

“It does fare tolerably well—but I have need of a little more cash.”

“More?” Ike raised his eyebrows.

“Shall we say—another fifteen pounds?” I prompted. “Certainly. Although,” he said thoughtfully, “if it were twenty,

the rate of interest would be rather less. A discount for the larger sum, you see.”

“Oh.Very generous.Twenty it is then.”

We concluded the paperwork, and I handed him two pounds back.“Your interest.”

He bowed.“A pleasure doing business with you, Mr.Wallis.”

I arrived
at Kettner’s early, and chose Emily’s buttonhole from the flower stall at the door. I had promised actresses, and the clien-tele did not disappoint; there were more pretty thespians on hand than in the green-room of many a Drury Lane theater. I spotted the pert lead of the latest brilliant comedy, dining in a booth with a member of the House of Lords. A notable agent was giving supper to a theatrical journalist; a colonel was entertaining his catamite, or possibly his subaltern; and a dainty young actress called Florence Farr was pretending not to recognize me as she smiled dutifully at her beau for the evening—who would, I knew, be pay-ing five pounds for the privilege of being seen out with her: the tumble later would be thrown in for free.

Then Emily arrived, and my heart stood still. I had never before seen her out of her office clothes—her Rational garments.Tonight she was wearing a dress of black velvet embroidered with tiny steel sequins, cut low about the bust, and a cloak of red cloth trimmed with gray fur.As she greeted me she shyly allowed the cloak to slip off her shoulders, which were bare: as I took it I caught a tantaliz-ing whiff of Guerlain’s Jicky, and inhaled the perfect mixture of warm fragrance and warm female skin.

A woman’s dress is a struggle between modesty and majesty: by the treasures it reveals it must hint at the pleasures it conceals. On this occasion the dressmaker had persuaded her client into a garment that was sensual, succulent, opulent; but which by those very qualities only emphasized the wearer’s girlish innocence.

“You may say something, Robert,” she said with a hint of—

entirely fetching—awkwardness as she sat down in the chair the waiter was holding for her.

I recovered myself.“You look absolutely beautiful.”

“Though as usual I feel woefully underdressed beside you,” she commented, taking up her napkin.“Thank goodness. Now, where are my actresses?”

I pointed out the various sights and personalities of the scene. Emily exclaimed over every morsel of gossip. “You should do tours,” she said when I had finished. “But tell me, Robert, is this place not rather tame compared to the Café Royal?”

“Oh! No one goes to the Café Royal anymore,” I assured her. “It is far too crowded.”

“Ah. I suppose I must expect epigrams tonight. Since we have come, as it were, to their spiritual home.”

“I shall certainly be talking a great deal of nonsense. It is the only subject on which I can converse with authority.”

She looked around the room and frowned. “Can you smell something?”

I sniffed.“I don’t think so.What sort—”Then I realized she was pulling my leg.

“Dear Robert,” she said fondly. “Who would ever have thought, six weeks ago, that you and I would be sitting here like this?”

Our
hors d’oeuvres
arrived, and I enjoyed watching the gusto with which she tipped the oyster shells up to her mouth: the tight-ening of her neck, and the delicate convulsions of her throat as she swallowed. One day, I thought automatically, you shall have something in that pretty mouth even saltier than oysters . . . and then I thought, But would she? How does one go about explaining such a lewd act to an innocent young woman? Or would lust itself act as a teacher, prompting her to initiate those explorations for herself ? I had a brief but almost ridiculously vivid fantasy of the two

of us on a bed together, the black velvet dress thrown to the floor, and she my willing pupil . . .

“Robert?” Emily was looking at me with concern.“Are you all right?”

“Oh.” I pushed the thought away.“Absolutely.” “You seem unusually quiet.”

“I was struck dumb by how beautiful you look.”

“Now you’re just being silly. I don’t believe you have ever been struck dumb in your life.”

Our soup was excellent, our fish magnificent.Trying to maintain my position as a man of critical tastes, I said I thought the par-tridge a little dry, but my companion pointed out that I was a pampered sybarite, and we agreed to find it pretty much perfect. Henri came by, like a general marshaling his troops at the mid-point of the engagement, and Emily told him that she had decided to become an actress immediately, if this was how they got treated. “Oh!” that stalwart replied,“but you are far lovelier than any of the actresses here tonight.” He glanced at me, and I thought I detected the merest quiver of his left eyelid—a quiver which might in another man have been taken for a wink.

The conversation flowed this way and that. I can barely remember what we spoke about; I was concentrating on being amusing, but I had learned that the way to amuse Emily Pinker best was to be serious occasionally, so I expect we talked a little of important things as well. Eventually our meal staggered to a close. I signed the bill—five pounds four shillings and sixpence—while Emily went to change into her costume. From the activity around the dining room, it was clear that many of the other patrons were also going on to the ball.

Emily returned in the domino of a harlequin, with a Pierrot cap and a half-mask of white silk. For my part, I had a simple eye-mask of black feathers that went rather well with my new jacket.

As we left the restaurant she stumbled and grabbed my arm. “I

am a little tipsy,” she murmured in my ear. “You shall have to promise not to take advantage.”

“We should arrange a time and place to meet. That way, if we are separated, we can find each other again.”