Marañón Canyon, Peru, 1953
“Ten cuidado!” Voices rang out from the path above, and Celina pressed herself against a thick, broad-leafed banana tree.
“Stai attento,” she called to Lauro, who hurriedly limped for cover. She frowned with concern. He’d sustained a nasty gash on his leg two days ago when he had slipped on a muddy path.
Birds squawked overhead in the dense stand of trees, while furry guineas scurried through the undergrowth. Guides yelped and clanged wooden sticks against tree trunks. The noise startled the pair of llamas carrying their tents and packs.
A moment later, a powerful mountain puma shot past them. Celina prayed it wouldn’t notice them in its headlong chase after the unfortunate creature.
A screech pierced the thin mountain air.
“Vizcacha,” Ernesto said, giving name to the newly deceased. With a bloodline that stretched to the ancient Incas, their wiry Quechua guide was dressed in brightly colored woven clothing and had an easy smile. His weathered face belied his relative youth. “Está bien,” he said, fanning himself with his hat. “Son abundantes.”
Celina nodded at this reassurance. So abundant, the poor furry creature wouldn’t be missed. Unlike those of the human species.
In this high equatorial climate, perspiration beaded on her forehead, and she panted from exertion. Once the danger had passed, Celina tugged her boots higher around her knees and returned to the muddy path, trudging up the steep incline with renewed resolve. At least it grew relatively cooler at the higher elevation.
She paused on the path to wait for Lauro. “You’re limping more today.”
“It will heal.” With Ernesto’s help, they had cleaned the wound, covered it with medicinal herbs, and tried to close the gash with strips of cloth tied around his calf.
“Are you sure we should keep going?” she asked.
“I didn’t come this far to quit because of an inconvenience.”
Celina saw him wince as he tried to cover up the pain. A few days ago, after one of the frequent rain showers, the path had been muddy and the incline steep. Distracted by the rainbow wings of a scarlet macaw, she’d nearly stepped on a snake. He’d yanked her out of the way, but in the process, he had fallen, lost a boot, and cut his leg on a sharp rock outcropping.
Lauro breathed heavily beside her. “Wild cats, snakes. I wish you’d let me come by myself, then I wouldn’t worry about you.”
Celina scowled at his sharp retort. “You wouldn’t have gotten this far without me.”
“We’ll see if we’re on the right track, won’t we?”
The journey’s physical discomforts in these vast, treacherous Andean mountains had wrought tension between them. In this remote Peruvian outpost, they were surrounded by awe-inspiring mountains whose heavily vegetated slopes were dotted with wild cacao and coffee beans, the livelihoods of local farmers. Beyond the jungle climate rose high, arid rock formations. Majestic snow-capped peaks crowned above all.
At the beginning of their mountain trek, Lauro had hired Ernesto to help them track Nino. They based their plan on the notes and drawings in Nino’s journal, translating the details among three languages and visiting adobe villages where he might have stopped.
Ernesto approached the village men and acted as an interpreter, translating between Spanish and Quechua languages for them. “An Italian man who spoke good Spanish. Very interested in medicine with a great knowledge of cacao. Do you recall seeing him?”
Although it had been years ago, people had long memories here. Replies were mixed, but the consensus was that Nino had been searching for the area he had visited with his father. He had been looking for cacao and other rare plants.
Celina spoke to the women, who were dressed in full pollera skirts hand-loomed of vivid colors paired with bright woven sweaters. “Have you seen him recently?”
The women darted looks at the men, but they offered little response. Celina suspected that they were concealing something. Finding one odd-looking woman alone with her weaving, Celina pleaded with her for information.
The woman reached out to run her weathered fingers over the trailing fringed ends of Celina’s vibrant orange paisley, sheer cotton scarf that she’d rolled and tied around her hair. Indicating the beautifully crafted, striped woven shawl she wore, the woman removed it and held it out to Celina in trade.
Celina quickly removed her scarf and handed it to the woman, who rubbed it against her cheek and smiled in gratitude.
“When you find the gran blanco, you find your man,” the woman said.
Rare white cacao beans. “Where? Aren’t those extinct?” Celina recalled Nino’s journal entry.
“Es muy peligroso.” She waved a hand toward the mountain, indicating dangerous forces there.
Indeed, Ernesto refused to take them into the highlands or up the mountain until they’d been blessed by a shaman in a native ritual.
By following the entries in Nino’s journal and the local’s guidance, Celina and Lauro traveled far into Marañón Canyon, which was northeast of the modern, multilayered city of Lima with its new buildings and Baroque churches, east of Chiclayo, and deep in the Andean highlands.
Yet once they pushed farther onward, local villagers had no new information for them. Most only shook their heads. Celina and Lauro had argued about which path to take, and in the end, Lauro had relented to her argument.
Now that the mountain cat was gone and the path deemed safe, their little group set out again with the llamas picking their way behind them.
Celina prayed they were on the right track. But where were the cacao trees the woman had described?
She strode ahead to talk to Ernesto. “I want to check any cacao trees we find at these higher elevations.”
Ernesto stopped and eyed her with curiosity. “They are all the same.”
He had already hacked open cacao pods from the lower elevation, revealing the expected purple seeds, or beans, nestled in milky white pulp.
Behind them, the wiry men Ernesto had met at the base of the mountain and hired to help also shook their heads with reticence.
Catching up with her, Lauro paused to catch his breath. “Do you really need to keep asking them to do that?”
“I’m looking for the gran blanco. You heard what that woman said.”
“I’m not sure she was of sound mind.
“Well, I am, and I want to see those cacao pods,” Celina said, putting her hands on her hips. “I’ll hack them open myself if I have to.”
“Papa said the white beans are extinct now.”
“From Witches’ Broom, I know.” But maybe some had survived. Perhaps the strange little woman was telling the truth.
Or maybe she was deluding herself with hope, just as she had when she’d arrived in Italy. Still, Celina had seen a grain of truth in the woman’s glassy eyes.
Lauro shrugged his assent, and they continued up the muddy path in silence.
Breathing heavily, her legs burning from the incline, Celina focused on one of the lean men ahead of her who traversed the narrow path as nimbly as a goat. She tried not to think about the enormity of what was riding on this trip, or what might be ahead.
As soon as the Pan American aeroplane had touched down on the Lima runway, she’d put on mental blinders to focus on her task ahead. Marco was safe with Sara, and through an international operator she had managed to get a call through to him from Lima before they’d set out. She’d studied Nino’s journal on the flight and traced his path on a map. She was fairly sure this was the route he and Carmine had taken before the war.
She imagined Nino and his father had trekked this path with the same resolve they had. Probably not much had changed since then. Celina was exhausted and could scarcely manage the physical exertion, yet if Lauro could forge on despite his injury, she would, too. She refused to be left behind.
Celina studied the thick vegetation around her that was so foreign to her eyes. She brushed tiny, irritating flies from her face and ducked to dodge a flying insect the size of a tangerine. As she did, she caught sight of the strange-looking tree they were looking for shrouded under an arched canopy of banana trees heavy with fruit.
“Hold up,” she cried out. Stepping across discarded, rotting pod shells toward the cacao trees, she wondered if these were the prized white cacao beans that produced the legendary chocolate that Aztec kings had consumed. Did these trees yield the smoothest, most flavorful, aromatic cocoa that had been the ultimate lingua franca between chocolate aficionados, chefs, and growers around the world?
She suspected that nothing less than this fabled cacao would have satisfied Nino’s scientific ardor.
Was this the elusive strain? Ernesto told them that his family had harvested cacao in this vast area for generations. He had agreed with Lauro about the white nacional cacao beans. Extinct.
But were they? Celina inspected the tree, which looked much older than the ones they’d seen at the lower elevations. Pods jutted from the tree trunk and higher branches. She reached out with reverence and ran her hand over a thick, football-sized pod, its ribbed, mottled green-and-yellow skin encasing the source of her artistry.
The back of her neck bristled.
A surge of excitement and anticipation coursed through her, tingling in her fingertips. “I want to see these beans.”
Lauro and Ernesto had followed her to the trees.
“They’re the same as what you’ve seen, Señorita.” Ernesto shook his head. “We have to pitch camp before dark, so we shouldn’t stop.”
“Señora,” she corrected him. “And I have a feeling about this one.”
Ruefully complying with her wishes, Ernesto sliced the pod from the trunk with the flash of his machete. He hacked it open, letting the discarded outer shell fall to the ground as fertilization.
Celina peered closer, and as the fleshy part of the pod fell away, she caught her breath. The milky white pulp interior was ringed with clumps of beans—not the usual purplish hue like the ones they’d seen at lower elevations or being harvested in long, low shacks near the villages. They’d watched workers scooping out the purple seeds onto wooden trays for the process of natural fermentation before packing the beans in burlap sacks to ship around the world.
Barely containing her excitement, she sniffed the beans, which yielded a distinct floral aroma. “It’s gran blanco.”
Awestruck, Lauro ran his hand over the beans. “I thought these were extinct.”
“Sí,” Ernesto insisted. “Mostly they are.” He shot a look at his helpers.
“Well, not here.” Not extinct at all, but Celina didn’t want to argue the point. She glanced around. Could Nino be nearby?
“What a miracle.” Lauro gripped Celina’s hand.
She met Lauro’s eyes and knew what he was thinking. Find the white bean, find your man.
He whipped around. “How many of these trees are there?” he demanded of Ernesto.
They’d talked about the importance of such a discovery late one night when they lay in their tent. Besides a possible trail to Nino, this meant a lot to scientists—and would be worth a lot of money to chocolate makers and chocolatiers.
Celina glanced around. Who else might know of this trove? Clearly, Ernesto and his men were reluctant to have this discovery made known.
“Ven aqui conmigo.” Ernesto pulled Lauro away from their small group.
Celina started after them to translate, but Lauro put out his hand for her to halt. Some conversations are better between men here he’d told her one night in the tent, and she’d stormed out, only to encounter a swarm of insects that drove her back inside. The closer they were to the long Marañón River that formed the headwaters of the Amazon, the more insects.
“I’m not saying that’s correct,” Lauro had argued. “It’s just the way it is in some places.”
Like Italy, like Peru. She had turned over and gone to sleep in a huff.
Yet, she tried to understand, so she had developed a keen eye to know when to join a conversation, and when to stay out. Was this one of the red flags that Marge and Lizzie often discussed? Or was it the stress, the equatorial humidity, the cultural difference?
Watching them now, she saw Lauro pull money from his pocket and press it into Ernesto’s hand.
Ernesto motioned to the two helpers he’d brought with him. After speaking in the Quechuan language, Runasimi, the people’s language on the Andean Highlands, the two men shook their heads. Ernesto returned to Lauro and shoved the money back into his hands.
This cacao wasn’t for sale. Not at any price. This was their private reserve, Celina realized. Safe from the ravages of the outside world.
Lauro limped back to her. “We’re not to discuss the white cacao beans with anyone.”
“So I gathered.” Celina crossed her arms.
Gazing into her eyes, he traced her jawline with a finger. “You were right. I’m sorry I didn’t trust your judgment.”
She slid her arms around him and gave him a soft kiss. “Nino might be near.” Echoing the odd woman’s words, she added, “Cuando encuentres el gran blanco, encontrarás a tu hombre.”
Lauro looked up the vast mountainside. “Where, I wonder?” He stretched his leg. “I don’t know how much longer we can survive up here.”
She prayed the white cacao held the answer.
While the men set up camp for the night, Celina organized their belongings and set out lanterns to provide light against the encroaching twilight.
While the men slept under the stars, she and Lauro would sleep together in one tent for safety, although the tents were made of thin fabric and sound carried far. Lauro didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable with intimacy here, so they practiced restraint. Instead of making love, at night they lay entwined in the other’s arms, a comforting reminder of their magical cove. Feeling Lauro’s arms around her and the steady sound of his breath as he slept made Celina feel closer to him than ever.
Carrying a lantern in one hand, she perched on a boulder, gazing out at the mountains that folded around them.
Lauro slid beside her. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?”
“And so remote…” As the rosy hues of dusk surrounded them, dense green hillsides appeared purple against a brilliant pink and orange sky. She ached at the vast beauty that seemed to stretch into infinity.
Leaning into the crook of his arm, she asked, “Why didn’t your father bring you here on that trip with Nino?”
Lauro lifted her hair and pressed his hands along her shoulders, kneading her muscles as he had that day in the test kitchen.
“I was younger, and Nino was the one who was supposed to take over the chocolate factory. Papa wanted me to work in lemons. One of my cousins is running that company now.”
“Someday, you’ll take your father’s place, won’t you?” She rotated her neck, welcoming his massage.
“From one generation to another. Stewards of the business and the fruits of the land.”
“That’s quite a responsibility. Do you miss not having the chance to decide your future?”
“I did decide, amore mio,” Lauro said, kissing her shoulders. “My work means a great deal to me. I’m privileged to carry on the tradition.”
“Nino didn’t think so.”
He brought her arms around her. “We’re all different, aren’t we?” With that, he brushed his lips over hers.
She couldn’t help but respond. Hidden by dense growth as they were and secluded from sight, she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him closer. She had missed the time they had spent together in Italy. Here, at this moment, the searing pain of leaving him at the train station in Naples was a dim memory.
Their future depended on this journey and what they found. If they returned without Nino—or conclusive proof of his demise—she dreaded Carmine’s rejection. At that point, she had no doubt it would be final. She couldn’t bear to take Lauro from his family because she knew how much he would suffer, as well as his parents. Was loving Lauro worth the potential of such great loss?
Yet she could not resist him. Their time together now might have to sustain her forever.
Deepening her kiss, Celina let the world around them fade with the day. Only this moment existed. As they melded together, the heat of his feverish skin was fiery against hers.
Nuzzling her neck, Lauro slid her onto his lap. “Remember our hideaway cove?”
“How could I ever forget?” She dipped her forehead to his and caressed his face.
“Señor, Señora,” Ernesto called. “Muy importante.”
Lauro kissed her before reluctantly releasing her. She touched her lips, savoring his heat and the slight saltiness of his kiss.
Hoisting a lantern against the dwindling twilight, Ernesto was motioning for them to follow. His two helpers crowded at the small, partially hidden mouth of a cave waiting for them.
Lauro picked up another lantern and limped in after them, brushing cobwebs aside as they pressed on into the cave. An earthy, musty aroma assaulted their noses. Inside, the sounds of birds and wildlife were muted in the shadowy lair.
With her lantern held aloft, Celina stopped, awestruck at the interior. Rock walls soared above them and were splashed with painted drawings. Rudimentary scenes of fishing, fighting, and hunting covered the stone surfaces. More expert renderings of snakes and jaguars and llamas filled another wall. Symbols she didn’t understand accompanied some of the drawings.
“Dio mio,” Lauro whispered, leaning in to inspect the markings. “From the Incas?”
“Maybe,” Ernesto said. “This area has a long history of inhabitants.”
Celina’s lantern flickered against the walls, illuminating Lauro’s profile. His expression was one of wonderment and reverence, mirroring what she felt welling up inside of her, too. Despite the hardships of this journey, miracles abounded. These drawings were from an older, possibly ancient civilization. Even today, on this mountainside, little had changed.
She leaned closer, inspecting the artwork. “This one looks like a dance. And in this one, women are harvesting food.”
Holding hands, Celina and Lauro continued to explore. In front of one amazing scene, she stepped back to take in the fullness of the artwork. As she did, her boot scraped against something on the stone floor. A clattering sound echoed in the shadows.
“What’s this?” Celina reached down for the object. “A fountain pen. How strange.”
“People have been here before us.”
“Maybe sketching these scenes.” She used the hem of her shirt to wipe off the part of the pen. Bringing the lantern closer, she inspected it. “It’s marked Montegrappa.”
Lauro’s lips parted in surprise. “Those are made in Italy. Let me see that.” Taking the writing instrument from her, he brushed off the dust and dirt that had accumulated on it, revealing fine workmanship.
Sucking in a breath, he raised his eyes to her. “This pen is Nino’s pen.”
“Are you sure?”
He brushed off more dirt, revealing Nino’s initials. A.C.S. “It was a birthday gift from our father.”