“I’m Nash Novak.”
“Tomas Nunez.”
We shook hands. I didn’t tell him I was the new owner—I’m sure everyone around knew.
“You’re working on Sunday?”
“I’m a foreman; it is not work to me, but pleasure.”
“How long have you worked here?”
He gave me a shy smile. “That is the same as asking me how old I am. I first came into the fields on my mother’s back.”
“Then you can tell me about Carlos Castillo. I never met him.”
He took off his straw hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. “It is unfortunate that you never met Senor Castillo. He was not just the owner of the finca but a patrón, perhaps an old-fashioned word now. Do norteamericanos use this word?”
“Not the same way it’s used here. It refers to the owner?”
“Yes, but in the old days it meant more than an owner. When I was younger, the owners and the workers were all part of a big family and the patrón was the head of the family. He was not just an employer, but the protector of the family. Today, most large farms are run as businesses and the owner is a businessman or even a corporation. Workers are treated as strangers, to be hired and fired at will.”
“But Carlos was not that way?”
“To him, growing coffee was not a business; it was the work of a family. It is hard for me to put into words, but Senor Castillo didn’t treat the land as a stranger, either. The trees themselves were part of the family. He didn’t walk onto a field and see a thousand trees; he knew every tree, just as he knew every worker and every tenant farmer.”
He went on to tell me that Carlos was respected not just on the plantation but throughout the region for his knowledge of coffee growing and his generosity. He let small farmers use the mill to process the beans even when they couldn’t pay.
“When things started getting bad because the price of beans fell, many families would have starved if it was not for him.”
“Are they afraid now because I’ve inherited the place?”
“We hear many stories, sometimes that machines used for sun coffee destroy the canopy and we would no longer be needed; sometimes a rumor starts that nothing will change. We don’t know what to think. Most of us were born on Café de Oro.” He smiled shyly. “And we would like to be able to die on the soil when God takes us.”
He left, with me depressed. Hundreds of people depended on this place and they were all standing on my shoulders. It made my knees feel weak. I couldn’t even handle my own problems, much less worry about a host of others. But the foreman’s description of the people and land as a family—damn, what would happen to these poor people if I sold out to Scar and Company?
I looked over the cupping station, trying to put horror stories out of my mind.
Juana had told me many farmers sent out beans without cupping them first, but that Carlos had the cupping station set up near the mill so he could taste beans and discard batches that didn’t meet his high standard.
I knew a little about cupping. I held cupping “juries” at my store to draw people in and get them interested in coffees instead of just scooping the stuff into a filter and pouring in water. Like holding wine tastings, the cupping sessions got customers more interested in the selection of coffee, rather than just drinking it.
Taking a supply of green beans I found in a can on the cupping table, I put them in the small roaster. Coffee came “green” to my Seattle store and I roasted it to create different flavors. Temperatures for roasting ranged from the high three hundreds to low four hundred degrees. If you didn’t roast the beans enough, they had a green, almost grassy taste, and if you roasted them too long, you got something darker and more bitter than hell.
The roaster wasn’t just an oven but a rotating drum that provided a tumbling action, turning the beans over and over to create even roasting.
A master roaster worked with a clock for timing a roast and a glass window in the roaster that showed the color of the beans as they roasted. When the beans reached the desired color, they were poured out of the roaster and into a pan with airholes that allowed them to cool evenly.
As the beans were heated, they went from pale green, to yellow, to tan, to light brown and eventually “popped” like popcorn. Called the “first crack,” the coffee beans doubled in size.
The analogy to cooking popcorn wasn’t strained—home countertop roasters resembled popcorn makers.
While I roasted the beans, I heated water in a pot.
Once the beans had reached the desired color—I preferred a medium brown—I stopped the roasting process. Roasting creates the characteristic aroma and taste of coffee that appeals to our senses. If the beans continued to cook, they went through a “second crack” and even beyond, to the oily, dark finish known as French roast and the even darker Italian roast. I liked to finish my roast close to, but not beyond, the second crack.
I ground the roasted coffee beans, using a medium setting. Water filters the fastest through coarse coffee, leaving behind much less taste than finely ground coffee. I preferred mine in between.
I smelled the grounds, noting the fragrance. Aroma, or fragrance, was one of the factors used in judging a coffee’s flavor. The other criteria were taste, or flavor, and its acidity—which, in judging coffee, was not a bad thing because it referred to how much zest the coffee had and its feel in the mouth.
I spooned the grounds into a cup and poured hot water over them. The technique created a “float” or crust of coffee at the top of the cup. I smelled the float, judging its aroma. After it cooled enough for me to drink, I used a spoon and scooped up some of the float and noisily slurped it. The idea was to mix the coffee with air, so it sprayed across the palate.
The coffee was mellow but with a tangy zest. The most outstanding feature was its uniqueness. No blending was needed; it had a full-bodied taste that easily stood alone.
“How is it?”
I nearly jumped out of my pants. I had a visitor. Josh Morris. And the Latina Lolita wasn’t with him.
“Did you leave your friend at a day-care center?” I asked.
Oh God, that sounded like a jealous woman.
He ignored my catty remark. “How’s the coffee?”
I cleared my throat. “Very distinctive, full-bodied with deep-toned flavors. In layman’s terms, it’s damn good. Better than what I sold in my store as premium stand-alones and blends.”
“Drinkable, huh.”
“That, too. Am I keeping you from something?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Yes. I don’t like drug runners.”
“Oh, so that’s it; that’s why you don’t like me. I thought there were a lot of other reasons, but I’m glad it’s just that. Well, you have no reason to dislike me; I don’t run drugs.”
“But Cesar said—”
“I was a smuggler, I know. But I don’t smuggle drugs. Do you have anything against an emerald smuggler?”
“Emerald smuggler?”
“Yeah, you know, those sparkling green gems they dig out of the mountains here. The flawless ones are rare and more valuable than diamonds.” He took a small, green piece out of his pocket. “Here, for you.”
I looked it over. “What’s it worth?”
“It’s flawed, but still it’s worth a few hundred dollars. Keep it as a souvenir of your short stay in Colombia.”
“Smuggling emeralds still makes you a crook.”
“But not a corrupter of children and destroyer of lives. I’m only taking emeralds that have been stolen from rich mine owners by poor, slaving mine workers and smuggling them out of the country. It’s a win-win scenario for me and the miner, as long as we don’t get caught.”
“I see. You imagine yourself as a Robin Hood. What exactly do you give back to the poor?”
He tried to look sincere. “I’m saving up to build a children’s hospital.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Of course. It go
es with the territory.”
“Why were you running from the police yesterday?”
“Not from, I was running to the police. They’d busted one of my couriers carrying gems. I had to get to the cops and buy them back before someone offered more money.”
“What a country. Is there anyone honest in it?”
“About ninety-nine percent of the people. The problem is, the country has being bad down to an art. When someone is bad, they’re really bad.”
“Why don’t you go back to the States and stop adding to the misery of a poor third-world country.”
“Now tell me the truth; you can be brutally honest. You don’t like me, do you?”
“Frankly … I find you repulsive and offensive.”
“But you’d like to have sex with me; I could tell that from the moment I saw you.”
“My God, your delusions are getting worse.” I got up. “You’ll have to excuse me; I have an urgent appointment.”
“If you leave, you’ll never get answers to your questions. I imagine that you must have more questions than answers, right?”
I gave him a once-over. “And you have answers?”
“To some things. Com’on, there’s a fig tree a ways down; I love fresh figs. There’s something sexy about fig leaves, don’t you think? Biblical and all that. And speaking of biblical sex, how were Lily and Cesar last night? Knowing your room was below, Cesar probably banged her harder, or at least louder than necessary, bed banging against the wall as he humped, that sort of thing.”
“You are disgusting, you know that. Worse, you are juvenile. Is that how you get it off? Listening to other people having sex? Look, next time I’m attracted to a man, I’ll give you a call. You can watch. And even join in—not with me, but maybe the guy will want you.”
“Hey, you have claws and teeth.”
“Only to people who deserve it. You’ve been down here living a fairy-tale existence as a macho bandido for too long. You need to go back home and put your nose to the grindstone like the rest of us.”
“Sounds like a prison sentence.”
As we walked, he said, “Did that worker tell you about the dark side of coffee farming, about planting a little coca in the rear fields to feed his starving kids?”
I shot him a look. “How long have you been watching me?”
“I dropped by to roast and grind beans for my own coffee. You looked so devastated after talking to him, I thought I’d let you cool off before I approached.”
“He told me about hopes and dreams for a better life.”
“And you had instant guilt, because you plan to sell and run.”
“I don’t know what I plan—and from the sounds of it, no one is going to throw a lot of money at me.”
“Hasn’t Cesar offered to buy the place?”
“What do you know about that?”
“Nothing. I just assumed he’d want to buy the place, tear it down, put in a parking lot, as the old song goes.”
“I thought you were going to give me information.”
“Okay, here’s some information. You’re no longer in Kansas, Dorothy; this is Colombia, where the wicked witch of the east runs a drug cartel and murders for business and pleasure. Based upon that, you should take the next plane home, no matter what you’re facing.”
I stopped and locked eyes with him. “What exactly do you know about what I’m facing back home?”
“I hear you had a coffee store in Seattle that blew up.”
“What exactly did you hear?”
“What exactly am I supposed to have heard?”
“I see you’re bubbling with information.”
“I need to get to know you better to find out what you need to know.”
“Why don’t we start with the truth.”
“You’re old enough to know that there are many different species of truth. Here’s one of them—people who rig buildings to blow up when you walk in have an even easier time rigging your car to explode when you turn the key. You remember that old saying about jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire? Colombia’s a country on fire.”
“You keep talking in generalities.”
“Maybe I don’t know as much as you think. What was your game plan in Seattle?”
He was trying to change the subject. So far, he’d told me nothing except rumor and innuendo.
I said, “Do with coffee and muffins what Mrs. Fields does with cookies. Most coffee sellers don’t have good bread items to go with their coffee. They don’t bake their own muffins, cookies, or cakes themselves but buy mostly generic stuff. I concentrated just on coffee and homemade muffins, nothing else, to keep it simple and the quality high.”
“There any money in coffee and muffins?”
“If you go national, there is. I was on my way, but my dream got cut short by someone sabotaging my business and then blowing it up, almost with me inside. It’s caused a mess back home that I need a lot of money to fix. We both know who’s behind it; I just need confirmation. Now, what are your answers?”
“Take the money and run.”
We stopped and faced each other again. I put my hands on my hips. He was the most frustrating man I’d ever met. He said just enough to keep me from stamping away in a huff but told me exactly nothing.
“Why don’t you stop playing games and tell me what’s going on?”
“Okay. Let’s see, you’ve walked into a dangerous game, someone tried to kill you in Seattle, someone wants your share of the plantation—”
“My share is the plantation. Yesterday, I wasn’t offered enough money for it. Today, the plantation isn’t for sale.”
“You don’t understand what you’ve got yourself into.”
“You keep saying that, but all your answers are just hot air. I don’t have to be told that I’ve lost my business to a criminal act, that I nearly got blown to pieces, that I’ve fled my country one step ahead of the police. Everyone in Colombia seems to know it, too. Someone’s set out to trash my life and I’m pretty sure I know who’s doing it. Could I get a little help on this? Maybe we could play charades or twenty questions.”
He stopped smiling. “Listen to me carefully; your life depends on it. You are a brave and resourceful woman, amazingly resourceful, but you have too much confidence in a situation you know nothing about and are completely unable to handle. No matter what’s happened around you, to you, what you’ve seen and heard about Colombia, you still think in civilized terms because that’s how you’ve done it all your life.
“You grew up in a country where it’s safe to get in your car and drive three thousand miles across the country without having to worry about guerrilla armies, kidnap gangs, drug wars, or crooked police. But you’re not home now, so stop thinking like an American. Colombia deserves its reputation as the most dangerous place in the world. Here, if someone wants to get rid of you, they’ll hire someone to walk up to you on the street and shoot you between the eyes—in broad daylight.”
“Cesar wants the plantation bad enough to murder me?”
He scoffed. “Cesar has his own problems.”
That stopped me in my tracks. I stared at Josh, puzzled. “Are you telling me Cesar isn’t behind blowing up my business?”
“I’m not telling you anything; I don’t know who tried to blow up your store. But don’t assume that just because Cesar would like to have the plantation, he’d murder for it. Don’t even assume he’s the only one in the world interested in the plantation.”
“I don’t get it; who else would want the plantation?”
We heard the sound of vehicles.
“You have visitors.”
A line of oversized black SUVs were on the dirt road that crisscrossed the mountain. They were heading for the main house of the plantation.
“Who are they?”
“You’re about to meet Pablo Escobar. The most wanted criminal on the planet. Also the richest and most dangerous. I suggest you don’t remind him of the lives he’s destroyed
with drugs or the people he’s had murdered.”
MURDER AS A WAY OF LIFE
Relying on paid assassins, locally known as sicarios, Colombia’s drug lords not only fought among themselves but also launched a systematic campaign of murder and intimidation against Colombia’s government … In the process, they effectively paralyzed the country’s system of justice …
They also contributed significantly to the “devaluation” of life throughout Colombia and converted murder and brutality into a regular source of income for some sectors of society …
—Colombia: A Country Study
Federal Research Division, Library of Congress
Edited by Dennis M. Hanratty and Sandra W. Meditz
COLOMBIA HAD A SHOCKING HISTORY OF VIOLENCE “B.C.” (BEFORE COCAINE)
“La Violencia” was an eighteen-year period (1948–1966) of political violence during which over 200,000 Colombians were murdered.
In a bizarre twist, women were murdered to keep them from having children that could grow up and fight:
“The massacres perpetrated by bandoleros against entire peasant families involved women, although not simply as just other victims, but rather in representation of the enemy’s whole collectivity. Their violent death and, frequently, their rape, torture, and mutilation when pregnant exacerbated this symbolism, as summarized in a single expression coined during the period: ‘leave not even the seed.’
“Rape was frequent and expressed not only the male desire to dominate the opposite gender, but also, as in many other wars, the supreme humiliation of and scorn for enemies …
“The sons and daughters of La Violencia made violence an inevitable evil, a way of life.”
—Bandits, Peasants, and Politics, by Gonzalo Sanchez and Donny Meertens (Trans. by Alan Hynds)
23
Meeting the most dangerous man in the most dangerous country in the world was not high on my list of wants. I asked Josh as we walked slowly back toward the house, “Why’s he come? What’s he want?”
“I think that’s something you’re going to find out.”
“How do you know it’s Pablo Escobar?”
The Devil to Pay Page 14