Martin brought up the subject of the city’s celebrations coming up.
“You should stay, Don Cristóbal,” Catalina said. “There are a lot of amusing activities during that week.”
“What’s the celebration for?” I asked.
“The foundation of Vinces,” Martin said.
I wasn’t in the mood for celebrations, honestly, but my husband would’ve probably enjoyed this colloquial tradition. Plus, it could buy me some time. “I suppose it could be inspirational for my book,” I said.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Laurent pitched in. “It’s all very archaic if you ask me.”
“Archaic or not,” Martin said, “it would be a good opportunity to mingle with foreign buyers.”
“I agree,” I said, unable to suppress my opinion; this was going to be my business, too.
Martin gazed at me.
“You know what would bring some cachet to the festivities?” Laurent told his wife. “A regatta.”
“A regatta?” Martin said. “How is that going to sell cacao beans?”
“Didn’t you say you wanted to bring in foreign buyers? Regattas are the fad in Europe.”
“Who said we wanted to be like Europeans?”
“Martin, please,” Angélica said, then squeezed Laurent’s hand. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, mon amour.”
“A regatta. I like the sound of that,” my brother said. “Perhaps the Church should have its own team, too. The exercise would do a lot of good to some of its heavier members. Perhaps Father Telmo could be team captain.” He winked at me, patting his flat stomach.
“Alberto!” Catalina said. “That’s not a very Christian thing to say.”
“Relax, hermanita. The Virgin likes jokes, too.”
“Quiere cacao, quiere cacao.”
“Julia!” Angélica said. “More cacao for Ramona, please.”
Julia entered carrying tiny cups of coffee for all. “There’s no more cacao.”
“Nonsense!” Angélica said, standing. “We live on a plantation. Of course there’s cacao.”
My sister darted through the kitchen door.
“Quiere cacao, quiere cacao.”
Alberto launched toward the cockatoo and covered her face with his long napkin.
“There, go to sleep, Ramona.”
The cockatoo moved its feet up and down from the back of the chair, whistling.
As Julia placed a coffee in front of me, I longed for my cocoa. I hadn’t had one since I left my country. “If Angélica manages to find some beans,” I said, “I could prepare hot cocoa for all.”
They all looked at one another. Had I said something wrong? Of course. Men did not prepare anything for others （unless it involved alcohol）。 They could barely cut the food on their own plates. What an idiot I was—I’d given myself away with my innate desire to serve.
“Hot cocoa?” Catalina said. “What is that?”
“Chocolate,” I said. “Mixed with milk, sugar, and cinnamon. Served warm.”
“You would think that with all this cacao around, we would’ve tried those delicacies,” she said, “but we exporters don’t ever get to see the other part of the cacao cycle.”
I couldn’t believe it—they’d never tried chocolate.
“I have,” Laurent said. “My country practically invented chocolate.”
“Actually,” I said, “it was the Spanish who brought chocolate to Europe from the American continent, and we were the first ones to add milk and sugar to it.”
“Don Cristóbal is right,” Martin said. Of course, anything to contradict Laurent.
Ramona let out a loud screech, her body bouncing up and down.
“Ramona! What’s happened to you?” Angélica was back, nestling some seeds in her hand. She removed the cloth from the bird’s head. Ramona puffed, exposing the yellow plumage under her wings, and went on a tirade of indecipherable insults. “You’re not funny, Alberto. Honestly, I don’t know how people confess their sins to you,” Angélica said.
“Well, they do. Happily,” he said. “In fact, you should, too.”
“Thank you.” Angélica took her seat and calmed her bird with the seeds. “But I’m perfectly content with Father Telmo.”
“That’s because he falls asleep while you talk.”
“Alberto!” Catalina said. “Enough blasphemy, please. What is Don Cristóbal going to think? That we mock our faith?”