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The hotel owner motioned his friends into a huddle and they emptied their pockets and the owner counted out five hundred pesos and covered the bet. He held the rest of the money in his hand. Hilario pushed his box to the side of the table. I don’t know if he had more money in there or not. I just knew they were not going to bluff that felloe. If there was no more money, then there was hiscantina and his house, and his land and the land of his friends.
Everything was set again and we chose our peppers — this time the yellow ones — greenish yellow, and hotter than the reds. I got by my first one and was on a yellow fury when I felt the sweat ooze out on the back of my neck, down under my collar. They couldn’t see it. I was hurting, the numbing burn of piperine, which is a crystalline alkaloid that tightens the tissues like wet rawhide. Each minute got longer, and the tortillas didn’t help much.
Next Hilario reached for the green ones — the busters. So did I, and the heat seared down to my belly, and I straightened quickly to stave off a cramp.
I made it through the terrors and the infernos, but Hilario was in visible agony. He was blowing hard the breath, and sweat was rolling from under his chin and down his neck. There was consternation among the Indians and jubilation among the Ladinos. Hilario spread his hands on the table, his fingers wide and blinked at me and the tears flowed.
He managed to smile. “They are hot, sir.”
“They are hot.” I smiled too.
We had gone through the cayennes and I was hoping that the thing was over, and was willing, even anxious, to settle for a draw.
Hilario, though, took a deep gulp of beer and wiped his eyes and nodded to Nena. She hurried across the patio and came back with a little bowl, and in it were two little peppers. The Ladinos began jabbering excitedly and the Indians moved closer. Nena put the peppers on the table and I got a good look at them.
Amomum melegueta! I had never seen a whole one before. The spice trade calls them Guinea peppers. Such little nuggets launched armadas in the old days, sails from Spain and Portugal. [Men died for those peppers as for gold and glory. They are the hottest things that grow and their seeds are praised as the grains of paradise.]
Hilario studied me for my reaction, and then he said, “You have seen such before?”
“No. Only the seeds.”
“They are the grains of paradise. I raise them.”
“They are hot.”
“You say. And I tell you, for I will be fair with you, I never before have eaten a whole one. At one time. Only the nibble.”
“This will end it,” I said.
“This will end it. I will wait two minutes for the sip.”
“And I will wait two minutes for the bread.”
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