CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
They descended from their carriages next to the large wall surrounding the winery, a wall that had once gleamed with whitewash but was now, thanks to long years of neglect, a mixture of brown and gray-green, and almost black in some parts. Mauro Larrea opened the main gate the same way as he had on the previous occasion, by giving it a hefty shove. The rusty hinges creaked and allowed them to enter into the big central courtyard festooned with acacias. It was raining again; Soledad and the purchasers from Madrid were sheltered beneath large umbrellas, while the rotund Zarco and he had only their hats to ward it off. Mauro was tempted to offer Soledad his arm to keep her from slipping on the greasy cobbles, but refrained from doing so. Better to keep up the façade of a cold business relationship that she had chosen to display. Better for her to stay in control.
It was not long since he had first visited the place escorted by the two old cellarmen, on a sunlit day far less ominous than this one, but to him it seemed like an eternity. Apart from that, everything was the same. The tall vines that had provided shade on distant summer days now looked bare and sad; the bougainvilleas had no flowers; the clay pots were all empty. The cracked roof tiles were like gutters, sending the rainwater gushing down.
If Soledad was affected in any way by this contact with the ruins of her splendid past, she was careful to disguise it. Wrapped in her cloak, her head covered by an astrakhan-trimmed hood, she concentrated on pointing out details and reeling off figures such as the dimensions and area precisely and in a firm tone of voice. She gave only relevant information and avoided any sentimental shadows from the past. “Take a good look, gentlemen, at how splendidly it is designed, and the excellent materials used for its construction. How easy, how simple, it would be to restore it to its former glory.”
She took out a hoop of old keys from beneath her cloak. “Would you please open the doors for us,” she told the land agent. They entered dark offices Mauro had never seen before, but through which she moved as though in her element. The “writing rooms,” she called them, the offices where employees in eyeshades and protective cuffs once carried out all the daily administrative tasks. All that was left were the remains of a few yellowing, trampled-on invoices. The now-decrepit reception room, where a couple of rickety chairs had been pushed against a wall; the offices for higher-ranking employees, where not a single pane of glass remained in the windows; and, finally, the patriarch’s own room, the legendary Don Matías’s private fiefdom, now no more than an evil-smelling den. No sign of the silver inkstand or the glass-fronted bookcases or the magnificent mahogany desk with its leather top. All that was left was desolation and dirt.
“With a few thousand sovereigns, it could be restored to its previous state in less than no time. But the important part comes next.”
She pointed to more buildings at the far end of the property. The washing room, the barrel workshop, the tasting room, she explained, walking on. She led them to the tall building on the far side of the central courtyard, the main facility Mauro had been shown by the aged cellarmen. It was just as lofty and imposing as he remembered, with its imposing cathedral ceiling, but with less light due to the rain. The smell, however, was identical: dampness, wood, wine.
“As I suppose you will have appreciated,” Soledad added from the doorway, pushing back her hood, “the winery is constructed facing the Atlantic, in order to make use of the winds and the benefits of the sea breezes. They are what in good measure enable our wines to be robust and clean—the winds, and the patience and knowledge of those caring for the vines. Come with me, please.”
They all followed her as her voice echoed from the arches and walls.
“As you can see, the design of the building is essentially uncomplicated. An architectural simplicity passed down through the ages. Always higher than the surrounding ground, with a pitched roof to lessen the effects of the sun, and thick walls to retain the coolness.”
Now they were walking slowly through the aisles between the barrels stored in racks three or four high, from where the wine was decanted from top to bottom to give it consistency. “These are our magnificent soleras,” she said. Removing one of the large cork plugs, she sniffed the aroma with her eyes closed, then replaced it.
“In these oak barrels the miracle we call the ‘bloom’ takes place: a natural veil of tiny microorganisms that covers the wine and protects it, nourishes it, and gives it body. It’s thanks to this bloom that the wine acquires the qualities that were known by the Romans as the five F’s: fortitia, formosa, fragrantia, frigida, and frisca. In other words, strength, beauty, fragrance, freshness, and age.”
While the four men paid close attention to the words and movements of the only woman in the group, the water from their capes and umbrellas was creating small puddles on the yellow earthen floor.
“However, I suspect you have had enough of hearing me carry on in this way; I’m sure everyone has tried to sell you their wineries as the best. So now, gentlemen, the moment has come for us to concentrate on what really matters: offers and opportunities. What we are able to offer you, and what you wish to get out of it.”
To the once distinguished young Andalusian girl Soledad Montalvo, brought up dressed in lace, with English nannies and Mass every Sunday morning, as well as to the refined, cosmopolitan Sol Claydon, used to shopping at Fortnum & Mason, going to opening nights at West End theaters and Mayfair salons, was now added yet another personality. That of the consummate businesswoman and tough negotiator, the faithful disciple of her wine merchant husband and her astute grandfather, the inheritor of the soul of the ancient Phoenicians who three thousand years earlier had brought the first vine stocks from the far side of the Mediterranean to these lands that they called Xera, and that over the centuries became known as Jerez.
Her voice became even more commanding.
“We are aware that for several weeks now you have been visiting vineyards and wineries in Chiclana, Sanlúcar, and El Puerto de Santa María, and that you’ve been even as far as El Condado. We also know you are seriously considering several offers that, because the prices are lower than ours, could at first sight seem more attractive. But allow me to tell you, gentlemen, how mistaken you are.”
The two possible buyers from Madrid could not hide their astonishment. Zarco started to sweat. And the miner kept his feelings under tight control to avoid showing his amazement at the mixture of courage and impertinence he was witnessing: the unwavering self-belief of someone able to display the pride of a class or caste that combined immensely different yet complementary qualities. Tradition and initiative, elegance and lack of fear, pride in belonging and wings to fly: the spirit of the legendary Jerez wine producers, whose essence Mauro was only now beginning to properly appreciate.
“I have no doubt that, given the interest you appear to have in making an entry into the world of wine, you will have been making inquiries and have learned how complicated the last link in the chain can be. The first: becoming producers, which you can achieve by buying good vines and ensuring that the laborers harvest them properly. The second: becoming wine stockists, which will not be hard, either, if you manage to find an excellent winery, a good foreman, and capable, willing workers. But the third stage, exporting your wines, is without a shadow of a doubt the most uncertain of all for you, for obvious reasons. However, we are in a position to make that difficult leap easy for you: we can offer you instant access to the most prized sales networks outside this country.”
Mauro went on studying her, five steps behind the others with his arms folded and legs apart, observing her hands, fluttering with easy eloquence; her lips as they offered guarantees and concessions with astonishing assurance, the whole time including him in the “we” she used. My goodness, she had them eating out of her hand: you only had to look at them to see that the effect on this Señor Perales and his secretary was devastating. They whispered in each other’s ears, cleared their throats, glanced surrept
itiously at one another, nudged their elbows. The buttons on Zarco’s jacket were threatening to burst at the mere thought of the juicy commission he would pocket if the señora were able to squeeze a little harder.
“We are fully aware that the price of our properties is a high one. I regret to inform you, however, that it is also nonnegotiable: we are not going to drop it by even half of one percent.”
If he had not trusted her blindly, Mauro’s guffaw at this would have resonated from the walls and the high whitewashed arches and bounced off the hundreds of barrels. Has your husband’s lunacy affected you, too, dear Soledad? he could have asked her. He of course would have been more than willing to lower the price, to consider any offer, and to make various concessions in order to lay his hands on a good sum of money and get out of there. But as the stubborn bargainer that he, too, had once been in his glory days, he immediately recognized the sheer audacity of her proposal. And so he stayed silent.
“Contacts, agents, importers, distributors, merchants. I myself represent one of the foremost houses in London: Claydon & Claydon of Regent Street. We study every detail of the demand, and are at each moment aware of the fluctuations in prices, tastes, and quality. And we are prepared to place all this expertise at your disposal. The thriving British market is growing by the day, its expansion seems unstoppable, and Spanish wines now account for forty percent of their market. However, there are extremely powerful rivals who are constantly fighting for their share. As ever, port wines from Portugal, tokays from Hungary, German hocks and Moselle wines—even wines from the New World—are increasingly becoming available in the British Isles. Not forgetting, of course, the legendary and ever-active winegrowers from the many regions of France. The competition, my friends, is ferocious. And even more so for any newcomers to this fascinating, gloriously complex universe.”
None of them dared breathe a word. Soledad soon came to the conclusion of her performance.
“You already know the price we are asking, thanks to our agent here. Think it over and decide, gentlemen. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few other urgent matters to attend to this midday.”
To sleep a few hours after one of the saddest nights in my life, for example. To discover how my poor husband is, enclosed in his convent cell. To find a runaway Mexican woman married to someone who during part of my life occupied an important place in my heart. To anticipate the next move by a perverse stepson determined to strip me of all I have achieved after long years of struggle. Soledad Montalvo could have told them all this as she walked between the rows of barrels toward the exit. Instead she simply left behind a trail of silence and an overwhelming sense of emptiness.
Mauro Larrea extended his hand to the purchasers.
“I have nothing to add, gentlemen; it’s all been said already. If you wish to get in touch, you know where to find us.”
As he headed for the door to catch up with Soledad, Mauro was gripped by a feeling of unease as sharp as the claws of a hungry wildcat. Why do you find it so hard to rejoice, you wretch? You’re a step away from getting everything you wanted so much, of reaching all your goals, and yet you aren’t salivating like a ravenous dog over a piece of fresh meat.
A hissing sound forced him out of these reflections. Unsettled, he turned his head to left and right. Only a few feet away, half hidden among the big, dark barrels, he glimpsed an unexpected presence.
“What the blazes are you doing here, Nico?” he asked in astonishment.
“Killing time until my father decides whether or not he can pay me some attention.”
Touché. The reception he had given his son after so long apart had not been exactly welcoming. But circumstances were threatening to engulf him, as in the past the fetid waters at the bottom of Las Tres Lunas mine had done, when a sudden flood had been on the verge of making an orphan of the boy who was now accusing him of paternal neglect. Or as when Tadeo Carrús had given him a cruel time limit of four months, half of which had already gone by.
“I’m really sorry, truly I am, but things grew complicated in the most unfortunate way. Give me a day—just one day—to sort it all out. Then the two of us can sit down placidly and talk things over at leisure. I have to tell you things that concern you and it would be better to do so calmly.”
“I suppose there is no alternative. And in the meantime,” said Nicolás, apparently recovering his habitual good humor, “I have to admit that I find this new turn in your life fascinating. That old woman, Angustias, told me you were now the owner of a winery, and so I came here out of curiosity, with no idea you were about. Then I saw you all inside and didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You used your brain: it wasn’t the right moment.”
“That’s precisely what I wanted to say to you.”
“What?”
“That you should use your brain.”
Mauro could not help grinning sarcastically. His son advising him not to be an ass: that really was the world turned upside down.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nico.”
They were walking slowly side by side across the courtyard. A light rain was still falling. Anyone seeing them from the back, the side, or the front would have noticed that they were the same height and equally handsome. The father more solid and well built. The son more agile, willowy. Both of them good-looking in their way.
“Don’t lose them.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Neither this winery nor that woman.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
After witnessing Soledad Montalvo’s performance, a change came over Nicolás. As if endowed with a sudden spontaneous common sense, he realized this was not the moment to demand attention for himself. And so, to everyone’s surprise, he suddenly announced he had urgent letters to write. He was lying, of course; he simply wanted to leave the way clear for his father to finish off what he had to do, whatever it was that bothered him and had transformed him into a completely different man from the one who had bid him good-bye in the San Felipe Neri mansion a few months earlier.
For his part, the miner suspected his son was up to something, something he had not yet even hinted at but was the real reason for his coming to Jerez. Something that he knew would bring even more problems. That was why he had chosen not to ask Nico anything, to postpone this encounter with the inevitable and not add to the worries already afflicting him.
They both kept up the pretense, like accomplices. Nico stayed at the mansion on Calle de la Tornería, while Mauro Larrea went first to Calle Francos, where to his dismay he found there was still no trace of the Gorostiza woman, and then flew to the only place in the world that he really wanted to be.
Soledad received him in a state of great irritation because her sister, Inés, had refused to permit her to see her own husband. This is a place for contemplation and prayer, not a spa with sulfur baths, she had protested, without allowing herself to be seen when Soledad went on to the convent from the winery. He is fine and is at peace, with a novice taking care of him at all times. That was all.
Sol had taken refuge once more in her study, that den from which, Mauro now knew, she pulled the strings of the Claydon business in the shadows. Although the hands on the clocks showed that only seventeen hours had elapsed, time seemed to have leapt forward since the first time Mauro Larrea had entered that room—since, standing at the window the previous night, she had announced her decision to leave Jerez and the dark clouds of this noontide when neither of them, weary, frustrated, and confused, could see so much as a chink of light at the end of any of the tunnels opening so gloomily before them.
“I’ve just told the servants to start packing. There’s no point waiting any longer.”
Then, as though driven by the same haste she had instilled in her staff, she herself began to organize the piles on her desk as she talked. He watched from a few feet away as she folded sheets scrawle
d with notes, sorted through letters in various languages, and quickly glanced at other papers before tearing them up. Her activity matched the fury she felt inside. She was getting ready to leave for good. She was slipping away from him.
“God only knows where that wretch of a stepson of mine and my cousin’s wife have gone,” she added without pausing in her task. “All I’m sure of is that, sooner rather than later, he is going to bare his fangs at us again, and that we need to be gone before he does.”
To avoid troubling his soul at the thought of what the world would be like when he could no longer see her every day, Mauro Larrea simply asked: “To Malta, then?”
Her reply was a shake of the head as she continued ruthlessly tearing up sheets of paper full of figures.
“No, to Portugal. Gaia, close to Porto. I think that’s the easiest to reach by sea from Cádiz and to be relatively near to home and the girls.” She paused for a moment, then added in a lower voice. “Nearer to London, I mean.” She went on more animatedly: “Friends from the wine trade will take us in. They’re English, too. There are strong bonds between us; they’d do anything for Edward. It’s a port of call for almost all the British ships, so it won’t take us long to find passages. Only Palmer and one of the maidservants will go with us; we’ll manage. While I finish organizing everything, and just in case Alan should reappear, I’ll stay here quietly and leave Edward in the hands of Inés.”
A whole host of questions were whirling around the miner’s brain, but the most recent events had been so tangled, so demanding of time and attention, that he had not had a moment’s pause to sort them out. Perhaps now, with just the two of them so uncertain of their future, in the gray light of this room where nobody had even bothered to light a lamp while outside the drizzle continued to fall on a square empty of stalls, clerks, and customers—perhaps now was the moment to put his doubts to her.