Chocolate Has a Memory

The rain was falling steadily, as he sheltered on the porch of the Knightsbridge house, nursing his eye, which throbbed nastily. The rain washed over the bouquet of red roses which lay bedraggled on the top steps leading down to the flat below, which has once been the kitchen of the grand house, but now was a basement flat. The tall windows of the houses opposite seemed to stare down at him reproachfully, taking in his torn jacket and tousled, damp hair. A trickle of blood was running from his nose, joining the rivulets of rain. In his other hand was a crumpled box of chocolate, the ribbon ripped, the packaging buckled, the chocolates peeking out at the scene of disarray.

Adam moved his hand from his swelling eye, which was beginning to show some of the delightful colours of a new bruise. He took the chocolate box in both hands and ripped away the ribbon, flinging it into the air, where it was taken up by the wind and blown down the street, to catch on an iron railing further down the street.

He looked into the box, peering a the little card which told him the flavours of the expensive sweets. Clumsily, he grabbed one which was crafted into the shape of a strawberry and stuffed it into his mouth. The taste brought something to his mind, a memory called up, as taste or smell can do so eloquently. He was cast back to a summers day, a little further south west from where he sat now, crumpled, damp and forlorn.

Strawberries

Adam hadn’t been able to get tickets for one of the show courts, so, when the gates opened, he allowed himself to be swept along by the excited crowd towards the huge screen, which was set up above a terrace of steps and a green mound, now known to the tennis fan as Henman Hill. The eponymous hero of the hill himself was on the screen, interviewing the young man who would soon do battle with the reigning champion on this first day of the Wimbledon Championships. Adam settled down onto a patch of grass, took off his shoes, revealing socks in Wimbledon colours, adjusted his hat to shade his eyes and waited for the match to begin.

The sun beat down upon him, and on the colourful scene, bouncing off the umbrellas being used as sun shades and, spread out on checked cloths, the picnics, which families were tucking into. It shone on the ivy of the old club house, and beat down upon the spectators who had been lucky enough to get court tickets and on the combatants now warming up on the pristine grass. Adam, despite the rise and fall of noise around him, dosed and dreamt. He was playing tennis on a court which was much bigger that it should be. The ball he was trying to hit with his state of the art racket, was out of proportion. It occurred to him that he would be better off kicking it and sure enough when he looked to the end of the court, all the ball boys and girls and lines people where gathered there, defending a huge football goal. Adam took a run at the ball and gave it a tremendous kick. The ball sailed over the heads of the defenders and Adam cried out in triumph and then someone screamed.

Adam started awake. Nearby him sat a beautiful girl with a startled expression. She seemed to be holding one of Adam’s shoes and looking down at it in surprise. She then turned towards him questioningly. Adam saw it all at once. In his sleep he had ticked that enormous football, but in reality he had kicked off one of his shoes and the poor girl had been hit. He scrambled to his feet and shuffled over to her, mumbling apologies.

She turned her almond eyes to him, smiling green in the cream skin of her lovely face, framed by dark brown hair. He explained about the dream and saw her face break into a warm smile of amusement. She started to laugh, but Adam couldn’t take his eyes of her gorgeous mouth, “Strawberries” he murmured. “Yes,” she said, indicating the spilt pot of strawberries and cream which lay upside down, spilling out onto the grass, “I hadn’t really even started to eat them, when this shoe,” she waved the offending footwear, ”flew through the air and knocked them right out of my hands! But at least you are wearing good socks!” Both of them laughed then, Adam, repeating his apologies and explanations, and offering to buy replacement strawberries and cream, which he did. In a way, sitting together, enjoying the sunshine, the tennis and strawberries and cream, and each other’s company, was their first date.

Adam was sitting in a puddle now. He couldn’t decide what to do next. Should he pick himself up from where he had so unceremoniously found himself and knock on the door again, confront the man who had thumped and dumped him again, or just shuffle off down the soggy road into Sophia’s past? He popped another chocolate into his mouth whilst he thought about it.

Coffee

Sophia was a busy woman, so there wasn’t much time to see her in the coming weeks, but they did managed to meet for a coffee nearby where she worked in an an office on High Holborn. Publishing of some sort, Adam discovered. She agreed to meet him at the entrance to Petticoat Lane Market and led him through the milling crowds who were sorting through the clothes and bric a brac on the stalls which filled the street. She was on a mission for a Greek coffee. She liked her coffee like she liked her men, she told him, ”Rich, dark, small, thick and sweet.” then threw him a teasing look from her glittering eyes. Adam, tall, thin, poor and of average intelligence, thought he might try and manage sweet, so he took her hand and followed her into the dark interior of a little Greek cafe in a side alley off the main market street.

Sophia spoke to the waiter in Greek and miraculously, as Adam saw it, two coffees appeared with two little slivers of baklava. “No spoon?” Adam asked, confused. “No you don’t want to disturb the sediment of coffee from the bottom of the cup” Sophia explained, “Sip carefully too, so as not to get a mouthful of sludge”. Sophia told him of her family there, how her parents had brought her over when she was a tiny girl, from the dazzling colours of Rhodes to the greys and browns of north London. How her father had worked for one of the Hatton Garden goldsmiths and his Greek inspired design had been so popular that he had risen up through the firm to become a partner. She said part of his heart was still on the Greek island, with the Old Town of Rhodes rising up golden from the turquoise sea, colours reflected in the jewellery designs. She would take Adam there someday, she promised, and his heart soared. Sophia told him, between sips of sweet coffee and nibbles of sweet pastry, how her parents had fallen in love whilst sharing coffee and Adam reflected that history sometimes did repeat itself.

Adam brushed his wet face on the sleeve of his jacket. Some of the moisture was the rain. His shoes too, seemed to be full of liquid, so he took one off and lifted it to shoulder height pouring another stream of rain onto the pavement. Suddenly he was filled with rage. He pictured in his mind how he had opened the door and there they were, his Sophia and a tall stranger, locked in a loving embrace. Adam threw his shoe across the street in frustration. Then he fumbled in his pocket and brought out the small box. Opening the box, he saw the engagement ring nestled in ivory silk. He lifted his arm to throw it across the street, but even he wasn’t that stupid or angry, he thought ruefully. What he really was, was shattered. His lovely dream, of his lovely girl, was broken. The perfect plan, to propose on St Valentine’s Day with a ring, roses and chocolates, now seemed like the ridiculous folly of a young man, in love sure, but with not much else to offer than a full heart. Adam put the ring back in his pocket, stuck his hand in the chocolate box and crammed another chocolate into his mouth.

Orange

“Flaming June! Flaming hell!” thought Adam as he stepped into the heat of a Rhodian summer. The little house seemed to nestle back into the cool shade on the mountainside, content with itself and content with its glorious position above the Lindos beach. Lindos was bustling to breaking with its summer clothes on, bars and cafes welcoming tourist hoards into the narrow streets of white houses, whilst donkeys struggled up the pathways to the acropolis, carrying plump red visitors to view the ruined temples and stately houses on the hill above. The sea, turquoise near the beach and then a darker sapphire further out, caressed the prows of the trip boats and a blessed sea breeze carried a hint of bouzouki music across to where Adam had placed himself in the coolest, shadiest corner of the terrace. Sophie came out, looking like a Greek goddess in a diaphanous gown. She laughed gently at Adam’s red face, a trophy from time spent out on her families little fishing boat the day before. “You’re so English” she said, smiling and placing a strawberry kiss on the end of his nose, which made Adam wince a little in pain. “Here, I’ve squeezed some fresh orange juice. The vitamin C will help with the healing. She placed a glass jug filled with red/orange juice, slices of fruit and ice, and two tumblers onto the little patio table and proceeded to pour. Adam sipped his juice and gazed at his girl. Despite his sore skin, he concluded that he had never been so happy in his entire life as he was at this moment.

As Adam struggled to his feet, he put his foot, and the Wimbledon sock into a puddle and gazed longingly and regretfully at his shoe, now lying in the gutter out of his reach. He would have to go and retrieve it and pad home. He would leave the flowers where they were, but might take the chocolates with him. He was starting to feel a bit nauseous, but wasn’t sure it if it was upset or too many chocolates or the pain from his eye that was the cause. As he stepped off the porch into the spiteful downpour, the door behind him opened. Adam turned slowly, bracing himself for another attack. He even lifted his fists in what he thought might be a manly way, having watched too many old movies in his time, but it was Sophia’s face that peered out at him. Her face was a little swollen and streaked with tears and her eyes a little red and watery. It was still the most beautiful face he had ever seen, he thought. “Are you okay?” she asked in a small, trembling voice, not like her usually confident tones, but sweeter to his ears for the concern in her words. “Well, there’s this” he said pointing to his bruised face, “And this” he motioned the blood still trickling from his nose, “And that” he pointed to the discarded bunch of roses, “And that” indicating his shoe, “And this” he pointed down and the soggy sock “So, not very”. “Oh no, your darling Wimbledon sock!” she exclaimed with true concern. “I will make my brother buy you some more! “Your...brother?” Adam asked, in a hesitant voice, “Yes, my brother Niccos. He wanted to come over from Athens to check you out, as I said I intended to marry you. And you’re not Greek are you? But he liked your jealous rage and thinks you will fit in beautifully. I prefer my sweet, clumsy Englishman, though, just so you know”.

Vanilla

Inside, showered, dressed in an old bathrobe, sipping mint tea and clasping an ice pack to his eye, Adam felt comforted. The horrible nauseous feeling had left, so he thought he might have the last chocolate. He reached out a hand but Sophia smacked it away. Fearing a return of hostilities, he looked quizzically up into her green eyes. “Not the vanilla chocolate darling” she explained, “The filling is the exact colour I want for my wedding dress”.