In the Age of Love and Chocolate

He looked at me steadily. “Where has Anya Balanchine gone? Isn’t she the girl who told me no one ever ends up with anyone they dated in high school?”

“Your parents have proven me wrong. I am humbled yet again.”

“I don’t even know who I’m walking with right now.” He was smiling at me, and there were wrinkles around his eyes. I liked his face when it got squinty that way.

“How can you not feel happy when it is almost springtime and the air smells like flowers and you can walk across the park without getting mugged?”

He put his hand on my forehead. “Spring fever,” he said. “Clearly.” He laughed at me. “I should get you home.”

“No, let’s not go home. Let’s stay out the whole day. We’ll find a park bench and we’ll eat our cake out here, too. You don’t have somewhere you have to be, do you?”

“I do not,” he said. “Going back to what we were talking about before, it’ll be kind of dangerous for you in Russia, no?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Though I don’t think anyone wants me dead at the moment.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” He rolled his eyes. “I rather prefer you alive. Maybe that comes off as too forward for you.”

“Scandalous. That pretty boy must really like me if he doesn’t want me dead! Actually, I’m excited to go to Russia,” I said. “I’m reasonably sure I’ll survive, and what’s more, I’ve never been. People think of me as Russian, but I honestly don’t know a thing about it.” Suddenly, I stopped. “Win, look at that!” We were halfway through Central Park. “There’s water in the lake!”

“What do you know.” Win said.

“Is your dad behind that, do you think?” One of Mr. Delacroix’s stump speeches had been about how people in a city needed more than essentials. The reason he thought that the Dark Room had improved Midtown so much was because it had reminded citizens that life could be more than survival. And so Mr. Delacroix had promised to plant flowers in the medians and reopen museums and, yes, fill the man-made lakes with water. He said that even if the cost seemed exorbitant, it was worth it—a city with hope is a city with less crime, and policy decisions made on cost alone were often shortsighted. It was a very good speech. But politicians—my dear colleague included— had been known to make lofty statements when they were campaigning. I hadn’t known if Mr. Delacroix would get around to filling the lakes when he was elected. But today, miracle of miracles, I was looking at a lake! Five years ago, I remembered running past a dirt hole while Natty had almost gotten herself mugged.

“Could be,” Win said. “Annie, what would you think if I went to Russia with you?”

“You wouldn’t be trying to protect me, would you? Because I’m hardy, you know.”

“Nah, I know that. I’ve always wanted to visit Russia. Maybe you weren’t aware of it, but I’m kind of into Russian girls.”

I thought about kissing him, but I didn’t. I was not afraid. No, not anymore. I knew with absolute confidence that I would kiss him again. I knew I might even be kissing him for the rest of my life, though one would rather not tempt fate with such outlandish proclamations. But at that moment, the promise of that first kiss hung in the air like the promise of springtime on a balmy March day. What I didn’t know when I was sixteen was the exquisite pleasures that can be found in the waiting, the anticipation. How lovely it was to look at fallow ground and know that any day a flower might poke her head out. How lovely it was to be outside, to be young, and to know that, oh yes, there would be a kiss. How lovely to know with authority that this future kiss would be a good one, because I had kissed him before. I knew what that mouth felt like, those lips, that tongue. That future kiss was like a delightful secret that we both already knew. The day had been so filled with happiness. Why not save a portion of joy for tomorrow?

“Do you want to have the cake now?” he asked. We’d been walking for an hour at least, and I was hungry. We sat down on a bench near the lake. It was nearing sunset, and the sky was pregnant with evening. Win took the cake out of the box, and he handed me my piece.

I took a bite. Perhaps the irony of my life was that I had never truly loved the taste of chocolate. Yes, I’d built a business out of it, and I could recognize good quality chocolate like Balanchine Special Dark. I could even enjoy a cacao drink if it was mixed just so or a dish of chicken mole at Granja. But chocolate had never been my favorite flavor—I much preferred citrus or cinnamon. When I tasted chocolate, the bitter tones were what I tended to fixate on, to the exclusion of every other taste, and I never felt like I was experiencing what others seemed to describe when they ate it. But on that almost-springtime night, as the chocolate rapidly dissolved on my tongue and that good, good man sat beside me, I began to see the appeal. Once I surrendered to it, all I tasted was the sweetness.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As a reader, I don’t particularly like acknowledgments. As a writer, I must acknowledge their necessity. Thank you to Ash Nukui for advice about all things Japan, and to Cari Barsher Hernandez, Stephanie Feldman Gutt, and Marie-Ann Gei?ler for their assistance with the German and Spanish translations. Of course, mistakes and liberties should be considered mine.

This is a book about friendship as much as it is about love or chocolate, and for this, I must thank my longtime editor, Janine O’Malley. Ms. O’Malley rescued Scarlet from an uncertain fate and saved Anya multiple times from herself and from the clutches of a disreputable gentleman who shall remain nameless. As readers have noted, the book’s original title was In the Days of Death and Chocolate—the transformation of “death” into “love” may be attributed, in part, to Ms. O’Malley. Such alchemy could not have been accomplished without the additional support of my ardent copy editor, Chandra Wohleber; Doug Stewart, who is as fine an agent as there has ever been; Hans Canosa, who had to endure many speeches from me about feminism and the limitations of the Bechdel test; and, of course, the patience and goodwill of my publisher.

Thanks especially to Jean Feiwel, Simon Boughton, Joy Peskin, Elizabeth Fithian, Jon Yaged, Lauren Burniac, Katie Fee, Alicia Hudnett, Veronique Sweet, Alison Verost, Kate Lied, Lucy del Priore, and Polly Nolan. For a variety of reasons, I am also grateful to Madeleine Clark, Stuart Gelwarg, Rich Green, Carolyn Mackler, Jenn Northington, Shirley Stewart, and Richard and AeRan Zevin.

Finally, I am thankful to the readers who have taken my prickly, pious, ambitious, guarded, old-fashioned heroine into their hearts. Because I am often asked this question, I want to mention that I never saw the series as a dystopia. Aside from a noun or two, Anya’s world is pretty much like our own, and her battle is not against the forces of a terrifying and dehumanizing fictional society, but within herself. How do you get over your past and your mistakes? How do you find light when so much in the world seems dark, and sweetness when so much seems bitter? I ask these questions myself. I don’t have answers, but here is an observation: whether you are fictional or real, the world is as dark as you choose to see it.