Chandra Shekhar (1985)
“The best place to hide something is in plain sight.” — Edgar Allan Poe
Illuatration: Vallabhi Shegaonkar
“Aren’t they pretty?” said my chemist friend, pointing to an assortment of brick-red, peanut-sized crystals. “I’ve named the mineral chocolite.”
Lustrous, twinkling, and occasionally flashing as if lit by an inner fire, the crystals were indeed lovely—combining the warmth of the ruby with the glitter of the diamond.
“Now smell them.” She held the tray to my face. I inhaled a rich, chocolaty aroma, laced with subtle vanilla and cinnamon undertones.
“Smells wonderful!” I said. “Just like gourmet candy.”
“That’s because it’s just a mineral form of a flavor compound isolated from chocolate.”
“Can I taste one?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“This is why not,” she said, dropping one of the crystals into a hamster’s cage. The furry rodent sniffed it, gave it a cautious lick, then wolfed it down.
“Now watch closely,” she said.
The hamster sat up and began rubbing its ear violently. Horrified, I watched as it scratched itself so hard the skin broke. Within a minute it keeled over, lifeless, blood oozing from its torn ears and foam dripping from its mouth.
“Oh my God! Is it…”
“Yes. Dead,” she said calmly. “Odd, isn’t it? Chemically the substance resembles a component of chocolate. Looks like chocolate, smells like it, probably even tastes like it. In every way it’s just like chocolate.”
“Except that it’s poisonous?”
“Yes. Intensely so. But inside the body it degrades into the same metabolites as chocolate.”
“Leaving no other trace?”
“None.”
I expressed my amazement and took my leave.
On my way home, I eagerly fingered the chocolite crystal I had stolen. The thousand rebuffs of my wealthy but stingy uncle I had borne as best as I could, but when he threatened to disinherit me, I had vowed to take action.
Now I had the means.
I invited him to dinner that evening, knowing he’d never refuse a free meal. For dessert I served chocolate cake.
“I’ve put a special ingredient in your slice,” I said.
“I’m full now,” he replied. “Can I take it home for breakfast?”
“Of course.”
“Do you have some for yourself?”
“I’ve saved a slice,” I said.
That night I dreamt of the palatial house I’d build and the treasures that would adorn it.
In the morning I breakfasted on my slice of cake. Perhaps anticipation heightened my senses—chocolate had never tasted so delicious.
I had just finished when the phone rang.
It was my uncle.
“I called to thank you for the cake,” he said. “I ate it all up last night. A dying man has few pleasures.”
“A dying man?” I croaked.
“I thought you knew. The brandy and cigars have finally caught up to me. The doctor gives me another three months, tops.”
That was just when my ears began to itch.
