The Winemaker (32 page)

“I have to pee,” Josep said presently. “Do you have to pee?”

Fransesc nodded, and Josep stopped by some pines. He lifted Francesc down, and the two of them stood next to one another at the side of the road, two males watering the gorse. It may have been his imagination, but Josep thought he saw a bit of swagger in Francesc’s limping as they returned to the wagon.

The sun was well-up when they reached Sitges, and the market was already crowded with vendors, so Josep had to settle for an open space at the very rear, next to a stall that gave off the fine smells of broiling squid and prawns and garlicky fish stew.
One of the two burly cooks was waiting on a customer, but the other ventured over to the wagon, a smile on his face.

“Hola,” he said, peering at the newspaper-wrapped bottles. “What is it you are selling today?”

“Wine.”

“Wine! Is it any good?

“Not merely good.
Special
.”

“Ohhh…How much is this special wine?” the man said in mock dread.

When Josep told him, he closed his eyes and turned down his mouth. “That is twice as much as one has to pay for a bottle of wine.”

Josep was aware this was true, but it was the price he would need to receive, while selling every bottle in order to be able to pay his debt to Rosa and Donat.

“No, it is twice as much as one has to pay for the ordinary wine of the region, which is mule piss. This is
wine
.”

“Where is this wonderful wine made?”

“Santa Eulália.”

“Santa Eulália? I’m a casteller of Sitges. We will soon compete with the castellers of Santa Eulália.”

“I know. I’m a casteller of Santa Eulália.”

“Truly.” He grinned. “Ah, we shall mercilessly beat your natjas, senyor.”

Josep grinned back. “Perhaps not, senyor.”

“I am Frederic Fuxá, and that is my brother Efrén, serving the food. He is assistant to the leader of our team, and he and I are in the third tier of our castell.”

Third tier, Josep marveled. This man and his brother were
large
. If they were third tier, what did the men of the first two tiers look like? “I’m in our castell’s fourth tier. I’m Josep Alvarez, and this is Francesc Valls, who is in training to become our enxaneta.”

“The enxaneta? Oh, that is a very important job. No one can win a castell competition without a very good little enxaneta to reach the very top,” Fuxá said to Francesc, who smiled.

“Well, I wish you good fortune today,” Fuxá said.

“I thank you, senyor. Are you interested in buying my wine?”

“It’s too expensive. I’m a hard-working fisherman, Senyor Alvarez, not a wealthy winemaker from Santa Eulália,” Fuxá said good-naturedly and returned to his stall.

Josep filled the bucket with water at the public pump and set it on the wagon bed.

“It will be your job to rinse the cups after somebody samples the wine,” he said.

Francesc nodded. “What do we do now, Josep?”

“Now? We wait,” Josep told him, and the boy nodded again and sat expectantly, holding a cup in each hand.

Time passed slowly.

There was a great deal of bustle in the interior lanes of the marketplace, but fewer people walked into the final row, where most of the spaces still were vacant.

Josep looked over to the food stand, where a heavyset woman was buying a serving of tortilla.

“A bottle of good wine, senyora?” he called, but she shook her head and walked away.

A few minutes later, two men bought squid and ate it while standing there.

“A good bottle of wine?” Josep called, and they sauntered to the wagon.

“How much?” asked one of them, still chewing.

When Josep told them, the man swallowed and shook his head. “Too high,” he said, and he and his companion turned away.

“Have a taste before you go.”

Josep unwrapped a bottle and reached for his corkscrew. He poured the wine carefully into each cup, about one-quarter the amount of a normal small serving of wine.

The men accepted the cups and drank, two slow swallows.

“Good,” one of them said grudgingly.

His friend grunted.

They looked at one another.

“We might each take a bottle, give us a lower price.”

Josep smiled but shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

“Then…” the man shrugged, and his companion shook his head as he handed the cups back.

Frederic Fuxá had been watching from his booth, and he winked grimly at Josep:
See? Did I tell you?

“Now you can do your job,” Josep said to Francesc, and the boy beamed and sloshed the used cups in the pail of water.

At the end of an hour they had given out four more samples but made no sales, and Josep was beginning to wonder if selling the wine in a marketplace was a plan that was going to work.

But the first two men who had sampled the wine wandered back.

“It was good but I can’t be certain,” one of them said. “I need another little swallow.”

“Ah, I’m sorry. I am able to give only one sample to each customer,” Josep said.

“But…afterwards we might buy your wine.”

“No. I’m truly sorry.”

The man looked annoyed, but his companion said, “It’s nothing. I’m going to buy a bottle now.”

The first man sighed. “I will take one also,” he said finally.

Josep handed over two newspaper-wrapped bottles and accepted their money with unsteady hands, feeling the blood rushing to his face. He was accustomed to a lifetime in which his family produced wine that was picked up by Clemente in a fixed, unremarkable routine. But this was the very first time that someone had bought his wine as a matter of choice, paying their money to him because he had made a vintage they desired.

“Thank you, senyores. I hope you enjoy my wine,” he said.

Frederic Fuxá had been listening from his booth and came to the wagon to congratulate Josep. “Your first sale of the day. “But do you mind if I give you some advice?”

“Of course not.”

“My brother and I have been coming here nineteen years. We are fishermen. Everything we cook at the market we have taken from the sea ourselves. Everyone knows us, and we don’t have to prove our seafood is fresh and good. But you are new to the market. People here don’t know you, so what harm in giving someone a second sample of your wine?”

“I can only give away two of these bottles,” Josep said. “I must sell every one of the rest of them or I am in terrible trouble.”

Fuxá pursed his lips. As a businessman he understood the situation without another word.

“I would like to taste your wine myself, senyor.”

Josep poured into both cups. “Take one to your brother.”

Frederic bought two bottles and Efrén Fuxá, one.

Half an hour later, two men and a woman came to the food stand.

“Hola to the Bocabellas. How is it where you are today? Are you selling much?” Efrén asked.

“Not bad,” the woman said. “How about you?”

Efrén pursed his lips and nodded.

“We hear someone is giving tastes of wine,” one of the men said.

Frederic pointed at Josep’s wagon. “Truly fine. We just bought it for our Easter wine.”

They came over and claimed their samples. The woman smacked her lips. “Very nice. But our Oncle makes wine.”

“Aaargh. Oncle doesn’t makes wine you would drink when he’s not with you,” one of the men said, and the three of them laughed. They each bought a bottle.

Frederic watched them walk away. “That was a fortunate sale. They are cousins, vegetable farmers, an important family in Sitges, and born talkers. They take turns every market day to visit other vendors and exchange gossip. They’ll mention your wine to a number of people.”

In the next hour half a dozen people tasted the wine without buying. Then two venders came at the same time, and another arrived while the first two were tasting the wine. Josep had noticed that shoppers at the market tended to stop where there were already people, perhaps out of a human need to investigate something that others found desirable. That worked now, for a short line of shoppers gathered behind the vendors, and the line didn’t disappear for several hours.

By midafternoon, when he and Francesc managed to eat their lunch of bread and chorizo, Josep had changed the rinsewater twice and finally had emptied the bucket. Despite his edict barring second helpings, he had used up the two bottles of sample wine while nine bottles remained unsold. But by that time word of mouth about the presence of a wine vendor at the market had done its work, and he sold his last bottle by late afternoon, several hours before the market’s closing. He bought Francesc a victory plate of squid, and while the boy ate, Josep visited a vender of second-hand objects and found four empty wine bottles.

On the way home Francesc sat in his lap, and Josep showed him how to hold the reins. Francesc fell asleep while driving. For half an hour Josep drove with the skinny little form plastered against his chest, then Francesc woke long enough to be transferred,
and for the rest of the trip home he slept on the blankets in the back of the wagon, next to the empty bottles.

That Sunday the attorney drove his gray horse into the vineyard again, and this time Donat was with him.

The attorney sat in the trap and did not look at Josep, who noted a leather case on the seat. Doubtless, he thought, it contained papers they would have served him while taking possession of the land for nonpayment.

His brother greeted him nervously. “Do you have the money, Josep?”

“I do,” he said quietly.

He had the sum all counted out and waiting for them, and he brought from the house papers of his own, individual receipts for each of the two payments he had missed, and a third receipt for the payment due that day. He handed his papers to Donat, who read them quickly and handed them to the man in the trap. “Carles?”

The attorney read them. Undoubtedly he was disappointed, but his face was carefully without expression.

Donat’s face, however, unmistakenly contained relief as he accepted and counted the money. Josep brought pen and ink, and Donat signed the three receipts.

“I’m sorry about all the fuss, Josep,” he said, but Josep didn’t reply.

Donat turned away and moved toward the trap, but then he stopped and came back.

“She is not a mean woman. I know it looks as though she is. It is only that at times she is overcome by our situation.” Josep saw that Rosa’s cousin did not like apologies; his disapproving face was no longer blank.

“Goodbye, Donat,” Josep said, and his brother nodded and climbed into the seat next to Carles Sert.

Josep stood by his house and watched them go away. It was odd, he thought, how it was possible to feel good and bad at the same time.

50

A Decision

Eduardo Montroig took castelling competitions very seriously, and the atmosphere at the practice sessions of the Santa Eulália castellers grew very businesslike, with less bantering and more work to perfect balance, rhythm, and the precision of their tasks.

Eduardo had a good deal of information about the Sitges castellers, who were very experienced and accomplished, and he had become convinced that Santa Eulália could win the competition only if it could add something special to its castell. He designed a new element for their structure, which required more frequent and more vigorous practices for the village team, and he cautioned his castellers that it must be kept secret so it would be a surprise when it was unveiled in Sitges.

Maria del Mar brought her son to several of the practices, and then Josep suggested that he could bring Francesc, since he was going anyway, and she agreed gladly.

For Josep the high point of each practice was the moment when Francesc clambered over three tiers of men and ended up on his back long enough to whisper his name into his ear. Francesc dreamed of the day when he would be able to climb over many tiers of men and youths and reach the top of the assembled castell to raise his arm in triumph. Josep worried about him, because a small frail boy would be particularly vulnerable in the event that a castell should collapse. But Eduardo was bringing Francesc along slowly, and Josep knew that Eduardo was steady and sensible, a man who did not take unnecessary risks.

One day, without comment or fuss, Eduardo reached the end of his mourning period and removed the black bands from the sleeves of his clothing. He retained his calm dignity, but the people of the village noticed a change, if not a lightness than at least an easing of his personality, and they told each other wryly that soon Eduardo would be looking about for a new wife.

Several evenings later, Josep was pruning vines when he saw Eduardo walking down the road. He paused in his work with pleasure, for he enjoyed the prospect of a visit. But to his surprise, Eduardo merely lifted a hand in greeting and continued to walk past.

There was nothing on the lane beyond Josep’s land except Maria del Mar’s house and vineyard.

Josep busied himself with his vines, keeping an eye on the road.

He waited a long time. It was dusk when he saw Eduardo making his way back.

Francesc was keeping him company as he walked down the lane, Josep observed.