The Winemaker (39 page)

Josep joined the others, a bubble of hysterical mirth rising within him because the situation was exactly as his fearful imaginings had pictured it, with his wife and son and friends and neighbors assembled to witness if disaster and disgrace came to him.

“Here is something,” Tonio said.

He dropped his shovel and reached down to pull, tugging until there emerged from the earth two long joined bones to which shreds of dirt and matter still clung.

“I think it is a leg,” Tonio said, a bit importantly, Josep thought. But quickly he gave a small scream,“Mare de Déu!,”and cast the grisly object back onto the earth. “A cloven hoof! It is the leg of a demon!”

“No, senyor.” Francesc’s young voice rose, excited and shrill. “It is not a demon. It is a pig.”

In the small silence, Josep watched Eduardo begin to tremble. Eduardo’s shoulders shook and his serious face worked.

He groaned, a sound that could have been made by a primed pump, and then for the first time Josep saw and heard Eduardo Montroig really laugh. His laughter was soft and wheezing, like the barking of an asthmatic dog that had run a long way.

Almost at once others joined in—even the Guardia—seduced as much by Eduardo’s helpless joy as by the situation, and Josep found it easy to surrender to the hysteria, and to the laughter that began all over again as Tonio stoically reburied the boar.

Josep didn’t like the way the alcalde looked, and he led Angel to the bench and brought him cool water.

Tonio continued to ignore Josep but turned to Marimar. “I would like to taste your wine,” he said.

She hesitated, seeking a way to avoid serving him, but Angel Casals spoke to Tonio brusquely. “I would like you to take me home now. I have hired Beatriu Corberó to cook us her summer paella with chorizo and vegetables, a village-style dinner for you and your friends, and I must see to things.” So Eduardo helped the alcalde onto his son’s mule, and Tonio led him away.

Light-headed, Josep filled a pitcher from the almost empty barrel of ordinary wine and served it in Quim’s wineglasses to the two policia and Marimar and Eduardo.

The two Guardia officers did not hurry away. They drank slowly, complimented the wine, and allowed Josep to convince them it was fitting that they have another glass, in which he joined them.

Then they shook his hand and wished him a bountiful harvest, and they mounted their horses and rode away.

61

The Monsieur

By early September several people had sought out the bodega to buy wine, and when Josep noticed the rider turning into the vineyard from the lane, he thought it was another customer. But as he approached, he saw that the man was reining in his horse while he examined the sign.

And then Josep recognized the man’s face, which bore the broadest of smiles.

“Monsieur, Monsieur,” he called.

Monsieur Mendes can taste my wine! he thought at once and felt joy and terror.

“Senyor,” Leon Mendes called back to him.

He was very pleased to be able to introduce Maria del Mar and Francesc to Leon Mendes.

He had spoken to Marimar at length about Mendes, and she knew what the Frenchman meant to her husband. As soon as the introductions were finished, she took Francesc by the hand and hurried to the Casals farm to buy a chicken and to the grocery for other ingredients, aware she would be spending the afternoon preparing a dinner.

Josep unsaddled the horse. When Josep had been in Languedoc, Monsieur Mendes had ridden a very good black Arabian mare. This one was a mare as well, but a swaybacked brown animal of dubious lineage, a livery horse Mendes had rented in Barcelona after leaving the train. Josep saw to it that it had water and feed. He set two chairs in the shade and brought his visitor wet cloths with which to bathe his face and hands to remove the dust of the road.

Then he brought a cántir and cups, and the two of them sat and drank water and began to talk.

Josep told Mendes the story of how he had assembled his winery. How his brother and sister-in-law had wanted to sell the Alvarez land and how he had bought it. He recounted how his love-haunted neighbor had thrust upon him the responsibility for the adjoining Torras piece, and how, when he and Marimar had married, they had merged their properties.

Mendes listened attentively and asked an occasional question, his eyes wide with pleasure.

Josep had tried not to pounce on the French winemaker before they had shared a decent period of welcoming, but he found he was unable to contain himself any longer.

“Perhaps a glass of wine?” he asked.

Mendes smiled. “A glass of wine would be very welcome.”

He got two glasses and hurried to the cellar for a bottle. Mendes looked at the label and raised his eyebrows as he handed the bottle back to be uncorked.

“See what you think of this, Monsieur,” Josep said as he poured. They made no move to drink to one another’s health. Both were aware this was a tasting.

Mendes held up the glass to note the wine’s color, then moved it in gentle circles and studied the thin, translucent tracks left on the glass as the dark liquid swirled. He held it to his nose and closed his eyes. He took a sip and held the wine in his mouth, breathing in through parted lips, pulling air over it and into his throat.

Then he swallowed and sat with his eyes closed, his face stony and serious. Josep could tell very little from his expression.

He opened his eyes and swallowed another sip. Only then did he look at Josep.

“Oh, yes,” he said softly.

“It’s very fine, as I’m sure you know. It’s rich and fruity, isn’t it, yet dry enough…Tempranillo grapes?”

Josep was exultant but he answered casually. “Yes, our Ull de Llebre. Plus Garnacha. And a smaller amount of Cariñena.”

“It’s full-bodied but elegant, and its spirit stays with you long after you swallow.

If I had made this wine, I should be exceedingly proud,” Leon Mendes said.

“In a way, you
did
make this wine, Monsieur,” Josep said. “I tried to remember the way you went about it, every step.”

“In that case, I
am
proud. Is any of it for sale?”

“Déu, of course.”

“I mean to me, in bulk.”

“Yes, yes, Monsieur.”

“Show me your vineyard,” Mendes said.

They walked together along the rows, now and then picking a grape to test the growing ripeness and discussing optimal harvest times. When they came to the door in the ridge, Josep opened it and brought his guest inside.

In the lantern light, Leon Mendes studied every detail of the cellar. “You dug this alone?”

“Yes.” Josep told him about discovering the rock formation.

Mendes looked at the fourteen 100-liter casks, plus the three 225-liter barrels. “This is all the wine you have made?”

Josep nodded. “I had to sell the rest of my grapes for vinegar, in order to finance this.”

“Did you make a second label?”

“Just one barrel.” He kept a cup on the barrelhead for dipping, and now, to give Mendes a sample drink, he had to tilt the cask. “This is the dregs,” he warned, but Mendes tasted the wine judiciously and pronounced it a perfectly good vin ordinaire.

“Well, let us return to our chairs in the shade,” he said. “There is much we need to discuss.”

“Have you sold any of your good wine?”

“Relatively few bottles to date, in the Sitges marketplace, from the back of my wagon.”

When Josep told Mendes the amount he had charged, the older man sighed. “You have badly underpriced an excellent wine. Well.” He drummed his fingertips on his thigh as he thought.

“I would like to buy eleven of your 100-liter casks. I will pay you twice the price you set when you sold the wine from your wagon.” He smiled at the expression on Josep’s face. “It is not generosity, it is the market price. In the years since you left Languedoc, phylloxera has raged. That little bastard of a flea has destroyed three-quarters of the vineyards of France. People are clamoring for drinkable wine, and prices
are very high and ever rising. After paying for shipping and bottling, I shall sell your wine at an excellent profit.

“Selfishly, I wish I could take every drop you have made, but I’m leaving you enough to fill about 900 bottles, and you should use them to begin to develop a clientele in your own territory.

“To sell your fine wine, you must buy new bottles and bring your label to a printer. Obtain a small stall in one of the large roofed marketplaces in Barcelona, and price the wine at two and one-half times what you asked for it in Sitges. People of modest means shop in Barcelona as well as in the fishermen’s village, but in Barcelona there are also prosperous businessmen and a wealthy aristocracy who buy the best and always have their eyes open for a new thing. You will sell your wine quickly.

“How much of a new pressing are you planning?”

Josep frowned. “A bit more than last year, but I’ll sell most of my fermented juice for vinegar again. I need cash.”

“You’ll make much more from wine than from juice for vinegar.”

“…I don’t have enough cash to get through the year, Monsieur.”

“I’ll advance the working money you need, in return for the exclusive right to two-thirds of your wine in barrels.”

He looked at Josep. “I must tell you, Josep, that if you don’t accept my offer, you will soon have many others. I’ve bumped into half a dozen French vintners looking to buy wine here. From now on they will be a common sight in Catalonia and elsewhere in Spain.”

Josep’s head was awhirl. “There are important decisions that must be made. Do you mind if I leave you for a short time and give it thought?”

“Of course not,” Mendes said. “In the meantime, I’ll stroll through the rest of your vineyard and enjoy myself.” He smiled, and Josep thought Monsieur Mendes knew exactly how the interval would be spent.

The house smelled richly of garlic and herbs and simmering chicken.

Josep found Marimar in the kitchen, shelling beans, a smudge of flour on her nose. “The only chicken Angel was willing to sell was a tough old hen that had stopped laying eggs,” she said. “But it will be fine. I’m braising it very slowly with prunes in a little wine and oil, and we’ll have a spinach omelet with a sauce of tomatoes and peppers and garlic.”

She sat with him and listened quietly to his description of Monsieur Mendes’ offer, asking few questions but absorbing everything Josep told her.

“It’s a chance to establish ourselves as makers of wine. We should take advantage of the situation. The phylloxera, the French wine shortage…” He broke off and looked at her.

He was apprehensive, because he knew she was fearful of change and found security in familiar patterns, even harmful ones.

“You want to do it, don’t you?” she said finally.

“Oh, yes. I really want to do it.”

“Then we must do it,” Maria del Mar said, and she went back to shelling beans.

It was a very nice dinner. When their visitor complimented Marimar and spoke with special warmth of the small pastries she had served with their coffee, she laughed and told him drily that they came from the local grocery, whose proprietor was an accomplished baker.

When Francesc had said a drowsy goodnight and gone off to his pallet, their talk quickly returned to wine.

“Is your own vineyard in danger?” Josep asked.

Mendes nodded. “Phylloxera perhaps will reach us next year or the year after that.”

“Is there nothing you can do?” Maria del Mar asked.

“There is. The plague came to Europe in grapevines imported from America, but there is an American grapevine whose roots the aphids don’t eat. Perhaps the roots contain an element poisonous to the aphids, or maybe they simply taste very bad. When cuttings of our doomed vines are grafted onto these American roots, the aphids don’t bother them.

“I’ve replaced 25 percent of my vines annually with grafted stock, for the past three years. It takes four years before one can get a crop. Perhaps,” Mendes said, “you may be interested in converting your own vineyard.”

“But Monsieur, why would we?” Maria del Mar said slowly. “The phylloxera is a French problem, no?”

“Ah, madame, soon it will be half Spanish!”

“Surely the aphid will not be able to cross the Pyranees,” Josep said.

“Most experts believe it is inevitable,” Mendes said. “Aphids are not eagles, but on their own tiny wings they advance about 13 miles a year. If there are strong winds the insects can be blown far and wide. And they have help from man in their travels. Each year many people cross the border. Aphids can hide anywhere, beneath the collar of a coat, or in the mane of a horse. Perhaps—who knows—they may may already be somewhere in Spain.”

“Then it appears that we have no choice,” Josep said, troubled.

Mendes nodded in sympathy. “At any rate, it is something to be given careful thought,” he said.

That night they put clean sheets on the bed in the Vall house, and Mendes slept there. The next morning he was up soon after Josep and Marimar, and he announced he would leave early for Barcelona and his train to France. While Maria del Mar prepared a breakfast tortilla, he and Josep walked through the vineyard together in the fresh morning air.