On February 20, 2009, Chávez was taken by surprise at the house of Nohemí, in the community of El Cayude, about ten minutes beyond the town of Tocuato, on the road that connects the city of Coro with Punto Fijo, in the state of Falcón.
His humble home was small, but Nohemí was overwhelmed by emotion, especially when Chávez came in with his team. The commander asked him if he had coffee and Nohemí ran to prepare it. He returned with the coffee, Chávez put it in his mouth, and immediately knew that something strange was happening. He asked Nohemí if that was really the coffee he had made for him, and she nodded, of course, albeit somewhat nervously.
False. The security team had crept into the kitchen and, before Nohemí could reach Chávez’s cup of coffee, some of the boys proceeded, in a matter of seconds, to replace it with the coffee brought by the entourage, jealously watching over the commander’s safety.
Those present say that Chavez’ scolding was anthological, to the point that Nohemí herself tried to intercede for the boys, which Chavez prevented, lovingly but firmly. With a thunderous voice, he asked his team if it could even be conceivable that Nohemí’s coffee represented a danger to him.
Then, he got rid of the coffee of the retinue, and drank, one, two, several cups of Noemi’s coffee, in a defiant attitude, as if infinitely mocking the protocol that separated him from the men and women of the town.
On September 17, 2013, I met Noemi. When I talked to her for a while, she showed me the cup in which the commander drank his coffee, and told me that she kept it as her most precious treasure. Not even the slightest detail of that incident was ever revealed, as the popular nobility obliges. At one point she whispered in my ear that Chavez promised to come back one day. There was not enough life for him. “He didn’t come, but you came,” she said, and some tears ran down her cheeks.
Of course, I drank Noemi’ s coffee.
Very soon after, on December 15 of the same year, we registered the Socialist Commune Cayude with Aroma de Café, number 448 in the country.
Nohemí died a couple of months ago, José Luis told me.
Speaking of coffee, not a day has passed since I arrived at this place where I now write that I lacked Victor’s coffee.
On one of these days he told me what he had prepared for lunch. He particularly enjoyed it. For the first time this year he ate beef. The same day he bought the meat, he also bought half a kilo of coffee.
There is never a lack of coffee in Victor’s house. And Victor’s coffee is never missing from the desk when I am writing.
It is like a ritual: I arrive at his house, we greet each other, I climb the stairs, I get comfortable, I begin to write, and within minutes Victor comes up with the freshly brewed coffee.
It is a way to conquer loneliness, to stay together: Chávez drinking Nohemí’s coffee, Nohemí sharing her coffee with me, Victor doing the same. All the glory of the world fits in a cup of coffee, no matter how small it may be, Martí could have said, and perhaps that’s where its flavour comes from when it is shared.
“The devil is in the details,” Chavez liked to repeat. The most genuine Chavismo is in those details like those of Chávez, Nohemí and Víctor. That’s why I brought two 200-gram packages of coffee produced by the Comuna Comandante Adrián Moncada, for all of us to try.
I haven’t paid you, José Luis. But don’t worry, I have the money here.
What will become of the life of the people of El Cayude, of their Commune, of the aroma of their coffee?
