Blood Test

The greenhouses protected seedlings of the most fragile plants in the collection, those Maimon had obtained from young adventurers who explored the remote tropical regions of the world for new species of flora. By manipulating light, heat, and moisture he’d constructed microclimates that assured high success in propagation. He became animated as he described his work, tossing out esoterica followed by patient explanations.

Half of the last greenhouse was given over to stacks of carefully labeled boxes. On the table were a postage meter, scissors, tape, and padded envelopes.

“Seeds,” he said. “The mainstay of my business. I ship all over the world.”

He held open the door and took me to a cluster of small trees.

“Family annonaceae.” He poked among the leaves of the first tree and uncovered a large yellow-green fruit covered with fleshy spines. “Annona muricata, the soursop. And this red one is Annona reticulata, the custard apple, Lindstroms variety. There are no fruit on this one here, won’t be until August — Annona squamosa, sweet-sop or custard apple, seedless Brazilian variety. And these,” he indicated half a dozen trees with drooping, elliptical leaves, “are the cherimoyas. Right now I’ve got several varieties — Booth, Bonita, Pierce, White, Deliciosa.”

I reached out and touched a leaf. The underside was fuzzy. An orangelike scent issued forth.

“Lovely fragrance, isn’t it?” More probing among the branches. “This is the fruit.”

It didn’t look like the stuff of which dreams were made — a large, globose, heart-shaped mound, pale green and dotted with protrusions, resembling a leathery green pine cone. I touched it gingerly. Firm and gently abrasive.

“Come inside. I’ll open a ripe one.”

His kitchen was big and old and spotless. The refrigerator, oven, and sink were white enamel, the floor, linoleum waxed to a gleam. A table and chairs fashioned from rock maple occupied the center. I pulled up a chair and sat down. The big Lab had moved indoors and lay snoring at the base of the stove.

Maimon opened the refrigerator, pulled out a cherimoya, and brought it, two bowls, two spoons, and a knife, to the table. The ripe fruit was mottled with brown and soft to the touch. He sliced it in two, put each half in a bowl, skin down. The pulp was a creamy off-white, the color and consistency of fresh custard.

“Dessert,” said Maimon and spooned out a shimmering mouthful. He held it aloft then ate.

I put my spoon to the fruit. It slid in and sank. I pulled it out filled with custard and put it to my lips.

The taste was incredible, bringing to mind the flavors of many other fruits yet different from each; sweet, then tart, then sweet again, shifting elusively on the tongue, as subtle and satisfying as the finest confection. The seeds were plentiful, beanlike and hard as wood. An annoyance, but tolerable.

We ate in silence. I savored the cherimoya, knowing it had brought heartbreak to the Swopes, but not permitting that to adulterate my pleasure until all that was left was an empty green shell.

Maimon ate slowly and finished a few minutes later.

“Delicious,” I said when he put down his spoon. “Where can you get them?”

“Generally two places. At Hispanic markets they’re comparatively cheap but the fruit is small and irregular. If you go to a gourmet grocer you’ll pay fifteen dollars for two good-sized ones wrapped in fancy tissue paper.”

“So they’re being grown commercially?”

“In Latin America and Spain. On a more limited basis here in the U.S., mostly up near Carpenteria. The climate there’s too cool for true tropicals but it’s even more temperate than what we get down here.”

“No frosts?”

“Not yet.”

“Fifteen dollars,” I thought out loud.

“Yes. It never caught on as a popular fruit — too many seeds, too gelatinous, people don’t like to carry spoons with them. No one’s found a way to machine-pollinate so it’s highly labor-intensive. Nevertheless, it’s a delicacy with a loyal following and demand exceeds supply. But for the Fates, Garland would have been wealthy.”

My hands were sticky from handling fruit. I washed them in the kitchen sink. When I returned to the table the dog was curled at Maimon’s feet, eyes closed, crooning low-pitched canine satisfaction as the grower stroked its fur.

A peaceful scene but it made me restless. I’d lingered too long in Maimon’s Eden when there were things that needed to be done.

“I want to take a look at the Swopes’ place. Is it one of those farms we passed on the way up?”

“No. They live — lived further up the road. Those weren’t really farms, just old home tracts too small to be commercially viable. Some of the people who work in town like to live up here. They get a little more space and the chance to earn spare change growing seasonal cash crops — pumpkins for Halloween, winter melons for the Asian trade.”

I remembered Houten’s sudden anger when he talked of farming and asked if the sheriff had ever worked the land.