The Spanish Daughter(27)

“I’ve always wanted to go to France, though,” she said.

“So do I.”

“You haven’t? But it’s right next to Spain.”

I shrugged.

“Why Don Cristóbal, I took you for a worldly man. Who knows? Maybe I’ll go there before you.” She winked.

“You should,” I said. “A woman like yourself shouldn’t be stuck in a small town all her life.”

She stopped her shuffling and looked at me as if I’d spoken in Polish.

*

In the afternoon, I met Martin at the fermentation warehouse. I was nervous to climb on Pacha again, but she was the only horse available and I had to get over my fear. If I was to run this plantation one day, I couldn’t let a finicky mare stop me. It was a minor accomplishment that she didn’t throw me down again, but our battle of wills made my ride much longer than it should’ve been.

Upon seeing me, Martin smiled. It was amazing how much a face changed when someone smiled, how much his eyes brightened. He was almost unrecognizable.

“So, you’re becoming friends after all.” He grabbed Pacha’s reins and brought her to a halt. “I didn’t expect you to ride her again so soon.”

“There are many things you don’t know about me, Don Martin.” My voice sounded graver than I’d intended.

I descended, too roughly for my taste. The grass was so tall it reached my knees. And sodden. I hadn’t even realized it had rained at the hacienda last night.

“Great timing, Don Cristóbal. Come on.”

The warehouse was filled with wooden boxes set up on concrete bleachers with a row of windows flanking them on either side. There were three levels of boxes. We climbed to the top and Martin pointed at the inside of one of the wooden boxes.

“This is where the beans start fermenting. We used to dig a small hole and place the beans inside, but Don Armand was told that this is a superior method. It makes the beans ferment more evenly.”

Large banana leaves covered the beans. He lifted one of the leaves, displaying the beans underneath, still white as coconut meat. A mild scent of alcohol emanated. “The leaves warm up the beans so they ferment. They stay here for two days and then we move them to those other boxes.” He pointed at the second tier.

I dug my hand inside the box—I couldn’t help myself. The beans were warm and slimy.

“Try one,” he said.

I pulled out one, my fingers wet and sticky, and tasted the bean.

“Well?” he said.

“It tastes nothing like chocolate,” I said, shocked. Bitter and syrupy at the same time, the only thing I could compare it to was a very sweet lemon.

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” he said.

I hadn’t noticed before how his eyelashes curled all the way to his eyebrows.

“Por la Virgen de los Reyes, Don Martin. It’s a shame that having access to all these beans, you’ve never eaten chocolate. You must try it one day.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to prepare it,” he said.

Right then and there I made a promise to myself: if this man had nothing to do with Cristóbal’s death, I would prepare him the best chocolate he would ever taste.

The second row of boxes held more beans. At this point, they were turning darker, a deep violet hue. Martin shuffled and scooped some beans to show me.

“What happens if they don’t get fermented?” I asked.

“They turn bitter. Fermentation removes the acidity from the beans, gives cacao its aroma and concentrates the flavor, or so I’ve been told.”

I grabbed a handful of beans and smelled them.

“After two days inside these boxes, we move them there.” He pointed at the bottom row. “For one day.”

“So, they ferment for five days.”

“Correct. Then we move them to the drying shed.”

“Can we go see?” I tried not to sound too eager—after all, I’d reassured the family I had no interest in the plantation—but I wasn’t sure I could hide my excitement. Martin gave me an odd look but led the way to a solid structure a few meters away.

“So, Do?a Carmela, huh?” he said. “I would’ve never imagined you liked such exuberant women.”

I sighed. Just when I was starting to forget the embarrassing incident from the previous night, he had to bring it up again. Oh, no, Cristóbal’s boots were filling up with mud (or was it horse’s dung?). I tried to step on drier patches to avoid dirtying them further, but something stopped me. Martin was watching me as though there were spiders crawling down my face.

Of course. Men didn’t care if their shoes got a little soiled or wet. I needed to step with confidence, no matter how disgusting it felt to bury my feet on this uneven ground.

I did just that. The earth made a slurping sound, as though it wanted to swallow me.

“Don Martin, how long did you work for my f . . . father-in-law?”

“Seven years.”

Plenty of time to learn his signature.

“But I knew him most of my life.” He picked up a stick and split it.

“You’re from here then?” I asked.

“You could say that.”

“And your family? Do you have any?”

Martin entered the drying shed. It was made out of ca?a and so bright inside—it had a skylight ceiling—and the floor was covered with cacao beans, which had now acquired that rich brown color I was so familiar with.