Various Flavors of Coffee by Anthony Capella Page A

lined the inside of that storeroom like giant pigeonholes, reaching up into the gloom as high as the eye could make out, men lay wrapped in their coats like Egyptian mummies, or sat propped up on one arm, puffing at the curved clay pipes with unseeing eyes.
    In the center of the room, laid out on a trestle, were the instruments of the trade, watched over by an old Chinaman: more pipes, some as long as walking sticks, a small brazier of glowing coals, a set of scales. I paid my shilling, and a pipe was plugged with resin, then plunged into the fire to be lit; when it was going, I clambered into the berth that was indicated to me and surrendered to the opium’s effects.After a few puffs I felt a great weariness come over me, and my body relaxed so fully I could barely hold the pipe. Colors seemed to become more colorful, sounds more precise; that silent, dingy warehouse suddenly seemed like the most luxurious palace, full of shimmering, subtle sounds and gorgeous half-heard melodies. Intrigues and ideas flittered around me. I caught exhilarating snatches of conversation. I felt inspired. Brilliant rhymes began to spin through my head, rhymes that were all tangled up with algebra. I remember realizing that mathematics and poetry were one and the same, and both were astounding. Then for some reason I imagined a sea voyage. I could taste quite clearly the salt on my lips, and the fresh turtle I had eaten for lunch,
    washed down with a tot of rum. I could even smell a faint waft of spice in the warm African wind on my face.Then I fell into a deep sleep.
    I woke up with the old Chinaman roughly shaking me, demanding more money: when I staggered to my feet I discovered that eight hours had passed. Needless to say, I could not remember a single one of those brilliant phantasmagorical rhymes. I stumbled outside and found a cab to take me home. Next day I was still so lethargic and nauseous that Emily grew exasperated and sent me away. I vowed never to repeat the experience, but even so I found myself yearning for those shimmering, inspired visions; like Caliban, having woken, I cried to dream again.

    And then my advance was gone. I had somehow got through thirty pounds in about the same number of days.
    The pawnshop on Edgware Road was a foul place. Ike, the old Russian who ran it, would take anything from jewelry to rag-and- bone. As you walked in, you were hit by a sour, fungal smell that dealers call “mother,” an odor not unlike wet, rotting fur.
    Behind the counter Ike rubbed his hands. “Good morning, young man,” he said with a quick smile.“What have yer got?”
    I showed him—a vellum-bound edition of Coventry Patmore, three silk waistcoats I no longer wore, two beaver-skin top hats, a cane carved out of ivory.
    “These are fine,” he said, running his hands lasciviously over the goods.“Very fine.”
    “How much?”
    He produced a stub of pencil and scratched his head with it, all the while regarding me craftily. I knew his game: the sum he named would depend not so much on the value of what I was selling as on how desperate he considered me. I did my best to look unconcerned.
    “Three guineas,” he said at last, writing it down on a filthy scrap of paper, as if that somehow made it more immutable.
    “I was hoping for six.”
    He smiled and shrugged.“I’ll have to sell them on.”
    “Perhaps this is the wrong place. I can easily take them up to the West End.”
    “They’re specialist, sir. You won’t find a better price.” He brightened. “Of course, if you was wanting more cash, I could al-ways advance you a sum.”
    “I didn’t know you offered such a . . . service.”
    “Not in the usual way, sir, oh no. But for someone like yourself, someone with prospects . . . My fees are quite reasonable.”
    “You’d charge interest?”
    Another shrug.“A small percentage, payable weekly.” “How much could I borrow?”
    His smile broadened. “Step into my office, and we can look through some