By Saritha Rao
French Guiana, 1727
Francisco de Melo Palheta surveyed the roomful of elegant people who had turned up in his honour. Only the French had the audacity to build a villa of this kind in humid Guiana, and the gall to insist on a dress code for dinner that would otherwise befit the salons of Paris.
“So, Francois,” said the Governor of Caiena, d’Orvilliers, “Now that it’s your last night with us, should we finally call off this silly challenge?”
Francisco tried to quell the urge that overcame him every time the Governor turned a fine name like Francisco into a set of wayward syllables sloshing around the mouth like stale wine.
He accepted the flute proffered by the Governor. One couldn’t put it past a man like d’Orvilliers to sport a beatific smile as he watched an adversary sip poisoned champagne. Then again, the Governor was out to prove a point, and Francisco could assume his drink was safe.
“Governor, we still have a few hours until I leave. Or is there a reason you’re hastening the departure?” asked Francisco, cocking an eyebrow. It looked highly probable that he was about to lose the challenge, but his bravado hadn't forsaken him.
The Governor raised his flute and laughed, “There is no haste. I simply want to help you save face.”
“Ah, leave that to me, Governor,” replied Francisco, mimicking the Governor’s tone of assumed jest, “A lot can happen between now and midnight.”
The Governor chuckled at what he presumed to be the Portuguese lieutenant colonel’s naivete. When Francisco turned to leave, the Governor placed a firm hand on his arm, looked him in the eye and said, “We will see about that.”
Francisco had just burnt his last bridge.
As he wended his way through the room, Francisco was the picture of composure. Privately, however, he was agitated. As expeditions went, this was a marked departure. Only four years ago, in 1723, he had led one through the Amazon, up the ‘river of logs’ to Santa Cruz de la Sierra, to chart a route connecting the mineral-rich villages to the Atlantic Ocean. He even got to christen a river. He called it Rio Madeira
This assignment, however, had been doomed to failure from the start. There were three Guianas – French, Dutch and English. The French and the Dutch were entangled in a series of disputes along a shared border. As the Portuguese were perceived to be an unbiased third-party, the Governor of Pará, in neighbouring Brazil, had deputed Francisco to arbitrate the disputes. That was for the sake of appearances. The real objective was to smuggle Coffee Arabica into Brazil. Francisco understood the importance of coffee — in addition to Brazil’s sugar plantations and the recent discovery of gold mines in the Minas Gerais region, the commercial cultivation of coffee would help fill the coffers of the ruling Portuguese.
The French in Guiana had no objection to the trade of roasted and ground coffee beans. It was the seeds and the plants — which would surely boost the economy of any country — that they didn’t want to part with, lest they lose their monopoly over the commodity. Ironically, a French naval officer had stolen the saplings, guarded so zealously at the Royal Botanical Garden in Paris, and had transported them to Martinique Island. In French Guiana, Francisco was the guest of d’Orvilliers, who evidently hoped his hospitality would gain Francisco’s favour in the arbitration. Although Francisco had put up the front of an arbitrator rather well, convincing the two parties that being a third entity prevented him from actively participating in the numerous discussions between the two, getting to the plants was proving to be a challenge.
At La Gabrielle, the botanical garden where the coffee grew, the French had ramped up security — tall fortress-like walls, men on guard round the clock, and sure death for anyone who tried to steal the sapling or the seeds. One day, while the French and the Dutch were in the midst of a heated argument, Francisco tried to sneak into the plantations. This was in the afternoon, when the French guards would grow faint in the humidity. But the dogs were local, and he was caught.
He was an explorer, not a thief.
When he was produced before the Governor, Francisco had expected a death penalty. But the Governor had, instead, challenged him.
“Francois, I didn’t expect this from you. You take advantage of my hospitality. Let’s see. I propose a… comment dit-on? A secret arrangement.” The Governor paused for effect.
“I challenge you to steal one coffee plant. No, one coffee seed. If you manage to steal, glory to you, but you won’t leave Caiena alive. If you fail, you lose your honour but I promise you safe passage.”
“Maybe you should simply hand over a few cuttings and let me go.”
The Governor laughed, “Do you even know what coffee means to us? It is not about the aroma or the flavour. Coffee is a commodity, akin to gold. There is trading in the name of coffee, and cartels hoarding coffee beans.” Governor d’Orvilliers pushed his sneering face closer to Francisco’s, “And you dark-skinned Portuguese dog, you have the audacity to casually suggest that I hand you some cuttings? That’s what endears me to your race. Your audacity. Here’s hoping you lose the challenge — for your own sake.”
Defeated but alive was any day better than courageous and dead. Francisco accepted the challenge. He tried drugging the dogs, but the guards were doubled. He bribed a slave who worked in the plantation, but the next day, the slave’s headless body was found floating in the river. The Governor only laughed every time one more foiled attempt was described by the guards. At this rate, Francisco was sure to become the laughing stock of Caiena. However, before he could execute his next plan, of slipping poisonous Dendrobate frogs into the pockets of the guards, the dispute between the two Guianas, the ruse for his being there, was resolved. There was no longer a reason to remain in Caiena. And here he was, at this charade of a farewell dinner hosted by Governor d’Orvilliers in his honour as arbitrator.
When it was clear his absence would not be noticed, Francisco sneaked out to the balcony. It was quieter here, and the sound of cicadas was infinitely more soothing than the chatter of the Governor's men. Francisco closed his eyes and took a deep breath of air redolent with the smell of familiar blossoms. He didn’t know what they were called, but he remembered the scent distinctly. There was also folklore around these parts that the flower had magical properties, that the scent evoked pleasant memories. He could vouch for that. He leaned against the wrought iron balustrade and gazed at the indiscernible shapes that the trees made in the moonlight.
At that moment, he became aware of a shadow lurking just behind him. He continued sipping the now-warm champagne, and held his arm out.
“You’re beginning to be missed, inside.” said Madame d’Orvilliers, as she looped her arm through his, leaning her head on his shoulder.
He turned to her and stroked the finery on the bodice of her dress. As his fingers moved to where the deepest part of her neckline met skin, Madame D’Orvilliers moaned softly. Francisco withdrew his hand. If they were discovered here, like this, it would jeopardize everything.
“Come away with me, caro,” he said.
“You don’t mean that,” she said, with worldly wise eyes, “Besides, why would I trust a gallivanting Portuguese Lieutenant Colonel when I’m married to the Governor of Caiena?”
“Because we will soon have coffee in Brazil.” he smiled.
“There's more to life than coffee.”
“Like what?”
“Like love,” she said, “and death.” Then, her voice cracked as she asked,“Will you survive this?”
Francisco’s thumb grazed her cheek. After what seemed like an eternity, he said, “I will live.”
They kissed for the last time, in the moonlit, blossom-scented balcony as the party inside broke into raucous laughter at one more of the Governor’s observations about the Portuguese.
They returned separately, just in time for Governor d’Orvilliers’ call for attention. As cups of coffee were passed around, the aroma of the brew hung in the room, like the smell of rain when dark clouds gathered over parched earth.
The Governor smiled pointedly at Francisco before turning to the crowd.
“Tonight, we bid farewell to Francois in a different way. We will drink to his well-being, but we will drink something he loves so much - coffee.”
At this, the people in the room cheered. Francisco had to admit, it was an elegant way to end the challenge.
“Francois has become a good friend in the last month,” feigned Governor d’Orvilliers, “He has been an able arbitrator and helped resolve our long-standing disputes with the Dutch across the border. We bid him farewell with a heavy heart and wish him a safe journey back to Brazil. We do hope you will return, Francois, to our humble home in this part of the world.”
At the urging of the crowd, Francisco stepped to the front. “Governor d’Orvilliers has a great future in authorship. He is prone to exaggeration.” A ripple of laughter spread across the room. “Thank you, Governor, for those kind words. I will be returning back to Belém with fond memories.” At this, he noticed Madame d’Orvilliers standing at the back of the room, struggling to hold her composure for just a while longer.
Picking up his cup from a nearby table, he added, “And thank you for the coffee.”
The Governor turned pale. Francisco drew close to him, mustered a look of disappointment, and whispered, “I concede, Governor. I have indeed lost the challenge.” The Governor was unable to suppress a triumphant smile from marching across his face.
Governor d’Orvilliers straightened and said, “As a token of our appreciation, we would like to give you a …what do you call a souvenir in Portuguese, Francois?”
“It’s called a lembrança.” said Madame d’Orvilliers, as she made her way to the front of the room, followed by a servant bearing a box.
“A souvenir on behalf of my husband and I.” she said, presenting him a bouquet and the box. The Governor looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Francisco opened the box. “Thank you, Governor and Madame,” he said, “These are thoughtful gifts indeed. A pouch of roasted coffee beans.” He inhaled the packet and turned ruefully to the box. “A bottle of Caiena peppers in brine.” He showed the bottle to everyone around. “And a bouquet from the lady.” He raised the bouquet containing the same sweet-smelling white flowers. The Governor was seized by the memory of a particular afternoon boat ride on the Seine. Francisco and Madame d’Orvilliers remembered the first time they made love.
With a heavy heart, Francisco slipped his hat on, stealing a glance at Madame d’Orvilliers.
“Au revoir, Francois.” waved the Governor, reluctantly returning from his pleasant memory.
“It is Palheta,” he snapped, “Francisco de Melo Palheta.’
The Governor shrugged unapologetically, already past his moment of triumph, and returned to his guests.
“Adeus, meu amor.” whispered Madame d’Orvilliers, as he brushed past her.
Without a backward glance, Francisco strode out, beckoning along the way, a servant to help load the box into the carriage. When they approached the carriage, a guard stopped them. The servant opened the box for scrutiny. The guard tore apart the pouch of roasted coffee beans, spilling some in the process. He opened the bottle of peppers and swirled a finger through it, then licked off the brine from his finger, keenly watching how Francisco would react to the violation. The guard rifled through the flowers in the bouquet, and momentarily lapsed into a dreamy recollection of white lace against a smooth olive-skinned thigh. Shaking himself out of the reverie, the guard tossed the bouquet into the carriage, and instructed the servant to place the box on the seat inside.
The carriage hurtled through the streets of Caiena, then through the outskirts of the city dotted with huts, and finally, through miles of shrub-lined routes. When Francisco was confident that they were not being followed, he set the box on the floor of the carriage, and ran his fingers over the neatly trimmed fertile coffee shoots nestled among the sweet smelling flowers, lost in the pleasurable prospect of where his next expedition might take him.
NOTE: It is presumed that Madame d’Orvilliers did indeed help Francisco de Melo Palheta smuggle coffee out of French Guiana and into Brazil in 1727. Other aspects of the story have been fictionalised.
Loading coffee at Port Santos, Sao Paulo, Brazil, c. 1880. Photo courtesy of wikipedia
Saritha Rao Rayachoti’s short stories have been published in the anthologies, Urban Shots:Crossroads, The City of Gods and in The Best Asian Short Stories 2017. She also contributes articles for numerous Indian and international publications like Atlas Obscura, Architectural Digest India, Arts Illustrated, The Hindu, National Geographic Traveller India, Mint, and Scroll. Her curiosity serves her well, and she attributes it to a somewhat-nomadic childhood, not belonging to one place, yet in a sense, belonging everywhere. Visit her writing here.