Read Online Various Flavors of Coffee by Anthony Capella - Free Book Online Page B

have to contain every scent: an essence of oranges, for example, was enough to remind one of the general qualities of all citrus fruit, and so on.A perfumer, Mr. Clee, was found and briefed. From then on Ada dealt with the technical issues of fixing scents in a way which would withstand the heat of the tropics.

    One afternoon I was striding up and down the office, talking volubly—I was, I think, attempting to elucidate the qualities of a particularly astringent Brazilian; despite the presence of the bucket, I still tended to ingest more coffee than I should, and consequently became quite excitable; in addition, I had just that morning purchased a splendid ivory-topped cane, and a splendid new cane is no use for twirling unless you are in motion—when I glanced down and saw a leg under the table.
    I looked up. Emily was sitting at one end, taking notes;Ada was at the other, deep in a science book. I glanced down again.The leg must have realized that it was visible: it shifted surreptitiously, like a snail pulling in its horn.
    “I smell . . .” I sniffed the air ostentatiously.“I smell an intruder. ” Emily looked at me curiously.
    “There is a whiff,” I explained, “of . . . of . . .” I sniffed again. “Of disobedient puppy dogs and wickedness. Fe fi fo fum. ”
    Emily clearly thought I had taken leave of my senses.
    “It is the smell,” I announced,“of little children who are hiding where they should not.”With my cane I solemnly rapped the top of the table.“Who’s there?”
    A small, frightened voice issued from beneath the wood.“Me.” “It’s only the Frog,” Emily said.
    “Go away,” Ada said without looking up from her book. “Begone, troublesome amphibian.”
    A small child hopped out from under the table. She squatted on the floor like a frog and croaked.
    “Why aren’t you in the schoolroom, Frog?” Ada said sternly. “Mrs.Walsh is ill.”
    “Mrs.Walsh is only ill because you make her so,” Emily scolded. “The governess,” she explained to me. “She suffers from neural-gia.”
    “Anyway, I’d much rather be in here with all of you,” the child announced, springing up. She was about eleven years of age: her legs seemed much too long for her body, and her eyes had a slightly pouched quality that did indeed make her look very like a frog. “Can’t I stay? I shan’t be trouble, and I can help guard Emily from Robert’s poetic licenses as well as anyone.”
    “He’s Mr. Wallis to you,” Ada said. She looked a little embarrassed. “And there is no question of guarding Emily from anything.”
    The girl frowned. “But why must I always be left out? I’ll be good.”
    “You’ll have to ask Father.”
    “Then I can stay,” the girl said triumphantly. “Because Father said I could stay if I asked you.”
    “. . . on condition you don’t say a word,” Emily added sternly. The girl squatted down and croaked.
    “Or make that ridiculous croaking sound.” “I’m a frog.”
    “In France,” I said mildly,“frogs are boiled and eaten with green sauce.”
    She turned her big eyes on me.“I’m not really a frog,” she said excitedly. “I’m Philomena. When she was little Ada couldn’t say Philomena, so she called me Frog instead. But actually I quite like being a frog.” She hopped up onto a chair. “Don’t mind me.You had just got to where you were saying it was like lemons.”
    Thereafter, there was often quite a crowd in our little cupping
    room. Ada ignored me whenever possible, but the porter, South, and the child, Frog, both stared at me open-mouthed while I tasted, as if I were a creature from some exotic country—a gallery, I’m ashamed to say, to which I occasionally played, coming up with fanciful descriptions and wordplay that elicited from the Frog gasps of admiration, and from Emily the faintest of sighs.

    “Do you mean to ravish Emily?” the Frog demanded. Emily and I had just returned from one of our lunches; Emily had gone to hang up her