by Art Montague (bio at end of story)
Desire would choke Benjamin; his heart would leap to envelop Anne-Marie whenever they embraced. Tossing her long, lustrous, black hair over her shoulder in a teasing manner, she would then respond in kind, holding him hard, for their love was true and total. That was the way it had been–the way it was before their separation.
Now, today, Anne-Marie’s father, Taxas, the man who stood between them, was coming to the mountain. A powerful coffee broker, he wanted the coffee–the very best arabica ever grown in Central America and the first ever grown in the Maya Mountains. He knew Benjamin would not come to Punta Gorda to strike a deal for its sale. He recalled too well Benjamin’s bitterness at their last meeting six years ago, as did Benjamin.
~~~
“Your father was no friend of yours,” Taxas had laughed derisively. “His legacy was given back to Witz, God of the Living Mountain, and the Mopan years ago. The coffee he grew had no market. He ended up living in squalor like the poorest of Mopan in their villages and on their tiny farm plots swidden from the high forests.”
“His coffee had no market because you refused to meet his price,” Benjamin had replied. “You could easily meet that price now. Shade grown mountain arabica is in high demand.”
“I have no interest,” Taxas had thundered, his thick brows deepening. He paused, letting the message sink in. Then he got to the point. “As you should have no interest in my daughter. To ask Anne-Marie’s hand, as you do, is to insult me and all I have done for you.
“I have taught you coffee. Where to buy, how to buy, what to pay, where to sell. Out of respect for your father, who was a friend but a fool. You are as my right arm. In Guatemala, in Mexico, in Costa Rica–Taxas, the broker, is known everywhere.
“You helped me, granted,” Taxas went on. “Your knowledge of coffee came from your childhood in the mountains pursuing your father’s empty dream. But the knowledge to turn it to wealth, even while living in this country where it is not grown, that knowledge is mine. You will never be a rich man, Benjamin.”
“Perhaps you know that Anne-Marie shares my feelings,” was Benjamin’s retort. “She cares not about my station in life as compared with your own.”
“Benjamin, I will give you the facts. Anne-Marie flew from Punta Gordo this morning. By now she’s in Miami boarding a flight for London where she will attend school for at least three years. You will not see her again until after she marries a high official in Belmopan.”
“Who?” was all the disheartened Benjamin could mutter.
“I haven’t decided,” was Taxas’s smug response. “Nor is it your concern. Go back to work. You are a worker, no more than that. Your mother was Mopan, your father a Garifuno with dreams beyond his reach. Reach only for what you can grasp, Benjamin, nothing more.”
“First I shall reach for the mountains. Then Anne-Marie.”
“Get out!” Taxas had shouted, rising from his chair. “Get out! You are filth of filth! So low the harbor sharks would reject you.”
~~~
Six years. Benjamin knew Anne-Marie had returned to Belize. She was in Belmopan, the capital, working in a high government position. He had heard that she rejected her father’s efforts to arrange her marriage. He had heard, too, that suitors pursued her. Taxas was a rich man. He also had powerful political connections, a necessity if one is to be rich in Belize. Yet Anne-Marie defied him, she remained unmarried. As had Benjamin. Now Taxas was coming to the mountain. He wanted the coffee.
In six years Taxas had become corpulent, even dissipated. He had lost a season when Benjamin left his employ and was compelled to rebuild the confidence of his buyers. He accomplished this with lavish entertainments to which he himself became accustomed.
Shade grown arabic, highland and certified organic, was becoming more than a fad. Prices for robusta had flattened. Sheer volume from chemically saturated sun grown fields ensured low prices. Rumors of Belize coffee had been circulating the market for a year, eclipsing even the Starbucks initiatives in Chiapas. Taxas needed the coffee, not the profits, for he was a rich man already; he needed more the power and prestige that would accrue to whosoever controlled the beans. To not have it would weaken his position overall.
“We have heard much of your work in the mountains since you left our brokerage, Benjamin,” Taxas said with a smile, trying to be genial. The trip had taken two days through the swampy flood plain, the rain forests, and finally, the jagged limestone slopes. Benjamin had not set the meeting for the broker’s convenience.
During the six long years Benjamin had traversed the villages where elders remembered his father– and often were related to his mother, she who could trace her lineage back to the great Copán empire and 18-Rabbit, the greatest of Mayan kings. Always, he spoke to the villagers in the language he had learned from his mother. His message was simple: “Continue to grow what you have always grown but add coffee to your crops. It will not disturb your sustenance crops; it will not disturb the tapir, the jaguar, nor even a bird or butterfly; and, in time, it will provide you great benefit. Together, as the Mopan have always been.”
Benjamin showed Taxas the beans, drying in the sun on the mountain terraces, brought in from villages and farms from many miles around. “You are in the presence of Witz, the monster of the living mountain,” he said. “Many hundreds of farmers have helped Witz to realize his potential. You may embrace him, as we do, or go back to your dickering in faraway places.”
“Is this meeting about business or old myths?” asked Taxas, impatiently.
“The old myth would tell us to carve out your heart, Taxas, and feed it to the Jaguar God. The coffee business is more savage. Inspectors have been in the mountains for four months. All you see,” and Benjamin waved his arm proudly over the horizon of terraces, “has been certified organic. You may bid to buy. Two prices–one for delivery as you see the coffee, another for it bagged at a port of your choice.”
Later in the day, near midnight, Benjamin summoned Taxas from the mountain hut he had provided as accommodation.
“We have other bidders, Taxas, including some from Boston and California. These are processors to whom you normally sell and from which price you take your profit. To a man, their offers are higher than yours, but less than they would pay if you took your profit. In other words, Taxas, they offer the Mayan farmers more than you.”
“Curse you, Benjamin. I will match their price. I have to live in this country and they don’t.”
“And to lose the deal this year–and in the years thereafter–would eventually destroy your political strength, yes?”
“You know it as I do.”
“You will match the highest of their prices?”
“Yes, curse you.”
“You will advance funds for next year’s crop based on this year’s productions, with a stipulation that a drop in world price will not affect your final purchase price for next year?”
“How will I know the price next year?”
“You are a rich man, Taxas, but having to gamble everything reduces you to the mean of the poorest Mopan farmer. He risks one time, you risk many thousand times over. This is only fair.”
“What else?” asked Taxas, because he knew Benjamin was not finished.
“For nearly two years, Anne-Marie and I have corresponded. Our letters have grown so passionate they melt the pages. You will bless our union.”
“This is the other shoe, the one I knew you would drop,” replied Taxas. “Has no other buyer’s daughter, no other piece of flesh caught your fancy? Can you not reach into your own heritage for some other breeder of your offspring? Someone Mayan? Someone Garifuno? Why Anne-Marie?”
“She lights my life as she does yours,” said Benjamin, “and she has agreed without reservation. Remember, Taxas, as it now stands, you can offer no better a coffee deal than the Yanqui.”
Taxas was pensive. He had spent enough years in Belize to know the ways of the Mayans. More than mere history; more than coffee; and now, in a setting where grand temples had been raised 3000 years earlier, he suddenly realized that a new Mayan culture was percolating in these reaches of their ancient civilization. There were, perhaps, profits in being part of that.
“You shall have Anne-Marie,” Taxas sighed, with an air of resignation. That said, he brightened. “Let us settle the price, Benjamin.
© Art Montague. All Rights Reserved.
Finalist - Love in the Shade by Art Montague
Short stories and coffee are a natural combination for Canadian writer Art Montague. A long-time coffee drinker with a background in community development and a special interest in agri-foods and land economics, he writes for technical print mags such as The Growing Edge and is a contributor to I Need Coffee.com.
On the creative side, Art’s short stories encompass crime, mystery and romance, and have appeared in the electronic sites of HandHeldCrime, Nefarious, Plots With Guns, Mysterical-E and Lovewords. Links to his published articles and fiction are at his web site, Art’s Place for Stories.
Editor’s Note: “Love in the Shade” was chosen for the first round for the following reasons: Solid title, thrilling opening lead, interesting setting and flavor. This story holds the obvious details to short-story writing, with intro, conflict and resolution, all very well laid out. There is an interesting twist to the story, with a believable premise. Great ending, excellent writing, correct punctuation, no spelling errors. Interesting dialogue. “Love” made the cut with the obvious research involved for the background of the story.
