Aaron Elkins: Twenty blue devils

Brian sat bolt-upright in the unzipped sleeping bag, not sure what had brought him awake with his heart pounding. A sound, a light, a movement in the bushes?

"Anybody there?” he called into the darkness, still muddled with sleep.

There was no answer, of course, and after a few seconds, as consciousness flooded back, his pulses stopped their hammering and he quieted down. What animal was there on Raiatea that would harm a man? And there was probably no other human being within ten miles. Silly to react like that, but he had had such a strong, sudden sense of…of presence. It had been a dream, naturally-what else?-although it seemed to him that he had been dreaming about Therese. He had surprised her with some silly gift she'd wanted and she had laughed…

He lay back and resettled himself in the bag. Around him the night was silent and soft, the southern constellations as brilliant as diamonds. An exquisite little breeze, heavy with the fragrance of orange blossom and gardenia, flowed over his face. Hibiscus trees, silhouetted against the star-flecked sky, drowsed at the edge of the clearing. From far away, near the lagoon, came the weird, repetitive cry of some seabird, a hollow, echoing wuh…wuh…wuh…

His eyelids drifted slowly down. Relaxed, tranquil, he slid again into his dreams.

It was a long time before the bushes moved again, and when they did Brian only stirred, but did not waken.

Shhl-l-l-l-p.

The coffee was sucked from the silverplated tablespoon, rolled over, under, and around the tongue, then held at the back of Rudy Druett's mouth for a few seconds. He chewed, he gargled, he tipped his head back. His eyes closed, his eyes opened. Finally he leaned to one side and delicately dipped his chin.

Blupp.

Into the waist-high funnel of the spittoon it went. “Well now,” he said, his long, doleful face pensive. “It's…in my opinion it's…let me see…"

He moved his tongue over the inside of his mouth, chewed his cheek, hunched his narrow shoulders, muttered nasally to himself. While he thus marshaled his evaluative powers the others took their own spoons from bowls of water and dipped them one at a time into the sample of coffee under consideration. Four shl-l-l-l-ps, four blupps.

The tasting session had been under way for an hour. There were four of them in the room besides Rudy. Three were officers of the Paradise Coffee plantation: Nick Druett, easygoing, comfortably in charge, and carrying his sixty-nine years lightly; his nephew and comptroller Nelson Lau-John's older brother-looking like a Hong Kong businessman, pompous and serious in a conservative, pin-striped business suit; and Nick's older daughter, Maggie, casually and colorfully dressed in a bright Tahitian flowered skirt, but as blunt and outspoken as ever.

Although Maggie generally attended the tasting sessions, Nick had never managed to instill in her much interest in the business of growing and selling coffee. What Maggie was interested in was improving the lot of the world's laboring masses, particularly the Tahitian laboring masses, and, on a more general level, in saving the earth from the depredations of its human inhabitants. True to her convictions, she belonged to a number of native-culture groups and had herself founded the Island Culture Club, chiefly dedicated to the reintroduction of the native Tahitian musical tradition; in particular the pahu, a drum made from a hollowed-out tree trunk, and the viva, a bamboo flute played with the nostrils. The society met monthly, had grown to eleven like-minded individuals over the years, and had high hopes of someday acquiring a native member.

Taking advantage of her natural inclinations and abilities, Nick had made her the plantation's personnel manager, responsible for the productivity, morale, and welfare of the workforce, which varied from twenty to seventy, depending on the season. He had never been sorry, either, even if she got under his skin once in a while and sometimes made him wonder whose side she was on when it came to labor-management relations.

The fourth member of the group was John Lau, who had twice thus far tried to raise the subject of the accidents and had twice been brushed aside like a fly buzzing around a sacred altar.

The altar in this case was the rotating, octagonal table around which they stood. In the center of it was an old laboratory beam-balance scale set at 7.5 grams-the precise amount required for a perfect portion of coffee, according to Rudy, who was fussy about such things (about most things, if the truth be told). Sixteen such portions, two of each of the eight coffees to be tasted, had been tumbled in the Probat sample roaster, ground fine, and placed in sixteen squat, thick glasses lined up in pairs around the table's rim.

The glasses had then been filled with water from an electric kettle set at exactly 190 degrees Fahrenheit (191 degrees would scorch the oils and turn it bitter, Rudy insisted with apparent seriousness; 189 degrees wouldn't extract the flavors properly). Without being stirred, the resulting brew was then allowed to cool and form a crust. Rudy would break one of the crusts with a tap from the back of his spoon, as if cracking an egg, then quickly dip his nose almost into the liquid to catch the initial burst of aroma, and then slurp up a spoonful. The others would follow suit. There would be murmurs and gurgles. They would scrutinize, smell, bite, and pinch the sample of beans that lay in a small tray beside each pair of glasses, and they would render their opinions, with Rudy usually leading off, befitting his position as roastmaster.

Thus far, they'd accepted beans from Ethiopia, Kenya, and Sumatra as worthy of purchase and rejected samples from Venezuela, Costa Rica, and New Guinea. Under consideration at the moment was a Colombian Excelso.

Rudy was ready with his judgment at last. “In my opinion, this is…” He paused, brows knit in concentration, mouth still puckered to extract the last remnants of taste. Abruptly his face cleared. “… coffee! Yes, I'm sure of it Don't you agree?"

John burst out laughing. Rudy often went through one version or another of this routine when he was in a playful mood, always managing to make it funny and surprising, at least to John. But then John hadn't sat in on as many tastings with him as the others had.

"Very amusing,” said Nelson, on whom playfulness, Rudy's or anyone else's, tended to be lost. “No, if you don't mind, can we get back to business?"

"Certainly not,” Rudy said indignantly. “Are you seriously suggesting that I permit my dedication to amusement to be diverted by work?"

Nelson sighed, or rather hissed, exhaling a stream of air between clamped teeth, and turned to the others, pointedly ignoring Rudy. “I would say,” he said through jaws that were even now only barely separated, “that this coffee has decent body, with medium-high acid.” He stroked his thin, perfectly symmetrical mustache with the pinky of his left hand. “Also, it's reasonably piquant."

John grimaced. Nelson was his brother and he loved him dearly-well, he loved him-but, Jesus Christ, piquant?

"But," Nelson continued darkly, raising his spoon for emphasis, “I detect overtones of earth. There's a definite groundy undertaste here."

"I agree,” Maggie said, something of a rarity for her where Nelson was concerned. “It's groundy. Earthy."

"Dear Cousin Maggie and Cousin Nelson-” began Rudy with a sigh of sweet condescension.

"I'm not your cousin,” Nelson said. “Thank God."

"-I yield to no one in my admiration for your many virtues, but I feel compelled to say that neither of you would recognize a good cup of coffee if you fell into it from a fourth-story window. No offense."