Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series)

by Giuliana Sica

  Zach, ball cap doffed, hands washed, and hair sleeked back, sat with us and uncorked an unlabeled bottle of red wine.

  “Is this your Pinot?” I handed him an empty tumbler.

  He nodded and poured us the thickest wine I’ve seen this side of Chianti. I expected an overbearing power but was irrefutably wrong. The wine had finesse, opening with currants and dried cherries; a well-balanced acidity followed, thanks to dried strawberries and a hint of cassis. The finish was short and clean, yet luscious flavors lingered.

  I looked at Zach. “You haven’t won any awards for this yet?”

  “Never bothered with it,” he shrugged and topped our glasses.

  “Why not?” Hannah asked. “This is excellent.”

  Zach looked at me.

  “I agree,” I told him. I rolled up my sleeves. We had found our secret ace. “How long have you been making wine, Zach?” I asked as I helped myself to some food.

  “My whole life. My father made wine. I followed in his footsteps.”

  “Pinot Noir?”

  “Is this going in the magazine?”

  I nodded. “Probably, but not all of it and not as we’re saying it. I’m just getting a feeling here.”

  “Fair deal,” he said. “Father didn’t care for Pinot. He had Cabernet grapes, but the final product was always average.” He looked at me. “Stuff for just the family to drink. Wine was a hobby, a passion of his, but what brought bread to the table was cattle.” He looked at both Hannah and me. Leaning on the table with an elbow, he pointed outside. “After we eat, I’ll take you two outside and show you around.”

  “May I take photos?”

  He pondered Hannah’s request while chewing on a piece of bread. “Of everything but our guest.”

  “Agreed,” she said without any further questions.

  Zach resumed his story. “In ‘Nam I met a French fellow married to one of the local gals there. He had joined the fight just to protect his own and in between dodging bullets told me about Pinot Noir. I spent long nights in filthy foxholes in the jungle surrounded by darkness. While rain pounded relentlessly on my helmet, I listened to this kid talk to me in broken English, describing summer and fall in his beloved France: hills covered in fragrant grapes, harvest time, and Pinot Noir.” Here Zach paused to take a long sip of wine. Mrs. ToeKnight pushed the fig platter under my nose; I almost wept.

  “I don’t even remember how long we stuck together, but we both survived. After ‘Nam he moved his family back to France, and I went to visit him. Turned out he wasn’t really French but Dutch—born in Holland by French parents who went back and forth between the two countries. Nonetheless, he knew about grapes and hooked me up. My Missus here is his youngest sister.”

  “That’s a great story, Zach. May I write about it?”

  “Nope,” he said, refilling my glass. “Write about the present if you like.”

  I looked at the plump woman sitting in front of me with curiosity.

  Hannah got up to shoot photos.

  I ate a fig, thinking about Zach’s story, then ate a second fig and a third, until I was the only one left at the table with Mrs. ToeKnight cleaning things around me. Zach and Hannah had walked outside, and I was left contemplating the thought of eating the remaining figs and the promise I had made Zach not to disclose his Vietnam tale.

  Hmm . . . tough choice.

  “You like my figs?” Mrs. ToeKnight interrupted my train of thoughts.

  I looked up at her and smiled. “I love figs and yours are delicious.”

  “Thank you,” she said. The hint of French in her words felt so familiar to my ears.

  “The young man you met is my nephew,” she told me, as if explaining something I hadn’t quite grasped.

  “Is that why I can’t write about him? And is that why Hannah can’t take photos of him?” She nodded, pleased, perhaps thinking I had gotten the drift, and asked me if I would like some tea. But why were they hiding him? And what kind of secret lay behind all this? I declined the tea and a chance to ask more questions I knew wouldn’t get answered anyway and resolved to look for Zach and Hannah instead. I found them in front of the knight statue, taking photos.

  “An ancestor?” I asked Zach. Brushing mysteries aside, I had every intention to continue my interview and cast the mysterious “wolf” out of my mind.

  “Naw! Just for fun,” he chuckled, dismissing the knight. “Here—let me show you the important matter.” With a brisk step, he motioned for us to follow him into the fermenting area where we found out that he did have labels for his bottles, all portraying the happy knight smashing grapes. He also had a reserve and vintage section and a lot more wine than I expected.

  “People find us,” he told me, answering my silent question. “Special folks like you and Hannah. And now with your article, even more people will find us.”

  “Does it please you or does it bother you, Zach?” I asked him. “You just have to say the word and I won’t mention you at all.”

  “No. It’s fine. I’m kinda pleased, actually. Grape Expectations has an excellent reputation. I’m still in control.” He grinned at us. “If you’d like, we’re harvesting in a couple of weeks. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

  “I’d love to, but I have another commitment,” I said, thinking, I’ll be in Australia in a couple of weeks.

  I bought a case of Pinot Noir and Zach told me he would ship it to my address, while Hannah took a final photo of Mrs. ToeKnight waving at us from the veranda. We shook hands with Zach and asked for the correct address so I could send him a few copies of Grape Expectations featuring the article with his winery.

  “Don’t bother. I have a subscription.” Tilting his ball cap, he bade us farewell.

  We drove away in silence, close to one another physically but light years apart emotionally; our private thoughts, unfolding in distinctive paths, finally converged and met.

  “What are your thoughts?” Hannah asked softly.

  I shrugged, not sure I wanted to share what I was thinking with her. “I’m not sure, Hannah. I’m a bit perplexed.”

  “About what?”

  “How has he managed to remain anonymous for so long? His Pinot Noir is prize quality.”

  Hannah agreed with me. “I don’t know much about wine, but I really liked his.”

  “He seems not to care at all about fame or wealth.”

  “Many people don’t.” She smiled. “I’m not one of them, but I also know I won’t do what I repute as immoral to gain status like paparazzi do, following celebrities, invading their privacy.”

  “I see.”

  “Would you write a fake review if they paid you enough?”

  I shook my head. “No.” I looked at her, turning the question around. “Would you take child pornography photos for a million dollars?”

  She cast me an obscure glance I had a hard time interpreting. “No. But I wonder who would pay what to know about that handsome fellow hiding up there.”

  I looked at her. “Do you think he’s famous? Do you know who he is?”

  “No, I don’t.” She brought the car to a stop to read a road sign indicating McMinnville to the north, Albany to the south and Salem to the east. “How about you? Did you recognize him?”

  “No,” I answered curtly. “Which way now?” I could feel her eyes studying me intently as I pretended to look left and right.

  “How about Salem? I know a small country inn where we could spend the night. It’s not too far from here. I don’t know how tired you are, but if we see something else that interests us on the way we could stop if you’d like.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Salem. Benedetta would be proud. Fancy how no esoteric endeavor had tinged this trip yet. I touched my amber, thought of his eyes . . . and reconsidered.

  CHAPTER 33

 
From a glass of wine in Miami to the hills of Oregon to the winemakers themselves, I journeyed in quest of the source of liquid passion. A successful winemaker holds the secret to the fascinating alchemy necessary to bottle passion. Once a bottle is opened, it’s a magical experience to see this passion pour into the glass, to anticipate the aromas in the colors of a job well done. When they finally explode in the mouth, all the elements swirl into place in a complex dance. From the fiery heat of the sun . . . to soil, wind, and rain . . . earth, air, and water . . . all are spellbound into a perfect liquid potion.

  As I wrote my article in the privacy of my room at the Salem Country Inn, I realized that my words were infused with magic. I lifted my fingertips to touch the amber still hanging around my neck.

  Was magic still dwelling?

  I saved my words, turned off my laptop, and went to bed wearing only the pendant.

  I slept soundly and woke up with a vague memory of dreaming about wolves. I rubbed my eyes and stretched slowly. I looked out the window and couldn’t believe my eyes. The sun! Shining! A few clouds lingered around, but I could tell it was going to be a gorgeous day.

  After a light breakfast, we hit Interstate 5 north and branched right outside of Portland to go east. Thinking about the Oregon Wine Tasting Room and the Sangiovese from the Columbia River Gorge, I had told Hannah that we should head up there next.

  We left the highway, followed the directions I had gotten off the billboard, and climbed up until we reached a plateau at an elevation of about 800 feet. The sun ruled strong up there and it felt great to step out of the car. The pure air welcomed us to River Gorge Vineyards. The difference between a winery and a vineyard is that the vineyard grows grapes to sell to the wineries where the wine is actually made. What intrigued me about this particular vineyard was the fact that it supplied local producers with the Sangiovese I had seen at the tasting room and, amazingly, Barbera grapes as well.

  My article was going to be a lot more interesting than expected. I had so many questions. We ended up spending most of the day right there with Mike Olson, the owner of River Gorge, and some of his helpers. Hannah came and went, snapping photos left and right. We tasted a few finished wines that Mike had gotten back as presents from some of the wineries that had bought his grapes. One particular bottle from a small winery across the river caught my attention: Wind Bluff Sangiovese and I asked Mike if he would be willing to sell me a couple of bottles.

  “I won’t sell it,” he said seriously, “but I’ll give it to you.”

  After thanking him for everything, we finally headed on our way. I held on to the Wind Bluff bottles while Hannah tucked away half a dozen rolls of film. We’d skipped lunch, and the day was almost over. We decided to turn around and drive back to Portland, and Hannah graciously invited me to stay at her place for the night.

  *

  The following morning, with heavy clouds hanging daringly low, my plane took off in a turbulent effort and was soon soaring above the clouds. The sun shone bright all the way home as I fidgeted with my laptop. Hannah had wanted me to choose the photos I’d like to have printed along with my words and to assemble the piece. I thought the magazine editors would do that as usual. But Hannah firmly believed otherwise.

  “I’m sure in the end they’ll have the last word, Porzia, but we did this together. We shared the experience and the energy. I’d like my photos to echo your words and our feelings about the whole trip,” she told me on the way to the airport.

  We had agreed she would send me everything she thought might be worth considering and then we’d decide what we would send along with my article to the magazine.

  I worked all the way back to Florida. I declined airplane food and drank only apple juice and water. By the time I landed in Pensacola I was famished.

  Benedetta waved at me as I emerged from the jetway. “You look horrible,” she commented, hugging me.

  “Nice to see you, too!” I groused. My empty stomach was making me grumpy.

  “Bumpy flight?”

  “No, just starving,” I grumbled.

  “Well, we can fix that. I forgot your cat at home, so we can swing by Central Market and eat.” Benedetta reached for the wine box.

  “Oh, that sounds great! Thanks!” I said, feeling a little guilty about postponing seeing my kitty. Food over pet; my stomach made up my mind.

  We drove downtown on a beautiful September afternoon, the summer mugginess just a memory swept away by the salty breezes.

  Central Market used to be just that, the market where all the local restaurants bought their produce, seafood, and meats. Now the market is a thing of the past, but the name still stands on a small restaurant serving the best salads and sandwiches around.

  We parked and climbed the few steps up to the dining area. I wasn’t dressed for warm weather and kept peeling layers off as we seated ourselves on the front porch overlooking a small marina down below.

  Benedetta ordered her usual seafood salad, and I asked for the crab cakes. We always order the same dishes and then share. They know us by now and bring extra plates automatically, along with a chilled carafe of the house white. I have no idea what it is. Joe, the owner, won’t tell me, but both Benedetta and I love it.

  “So, now that you’re stuffing your face—,” Benedetta asked me, while I tried folding half a crab cake into my mouth, “how was your trip?”

  I chewed the heavenly, oversized morsel and took a sip of wine before replying. “It was a lot of fun; a lot of incredible scenery, a lot of wines, and a handful of great winemakers deserving a lot more recognition.”

  “That’s what you were there for.”

  “Give them recognition, you mean?”

  “Grape Expectations is the gospel of wine aficionados, Porzia. Of all people, you should know that.”

  “I do. And I’m actually happy about putting some of these folks in the spotlight, but I’m not sure about one of them.” I told her of Zechariah ToeKnight.

  “You mean there are people out there who would rather keep away from becoming famous?”

  “I mean there are folks out there that had been faring quite well on their own. People who make wine because it’s a passion.” What had the mysterious “wolf” said? I tried to remember his exact words: “The wine business is not great unless you have a passion for it. Like everything else in life,” I quoted.

  “And whose words are those? Are you saying that there are still people out there not obsessed with making money? That they’re happy to just live for their passions and leave aside profit?”

  I nodded but didn’t feel like sharing with her my mysterious encounter, so I steered the conversation toward safer shores. “Why are you so surprised?” I stuffed the other half of the crab cake into my mouth and waved my fork at her. “You’re one of them.”

  Benedetta smiled. “Because I only teach music?”

  “Si,” I said. “You could be out there doing concerts and recording your own music. You’re choosing to spread the word instead, as you say, touching one life at a time in your classroom. Making a lot less money than if you’d sell yourself.”

  She looked at me. “You’re right. It’s just hard to believe there are others out there like me.”

  “How’s your salad?” I asked her, pointing at her untouched half.

  “Not as good as your crab cakes, I guess, judging by the speed you’re inhaling them at.”

  “I didn’t eat anything all day.”

  “Then you should probably not drink so much wine.” She moved the carafe away, out of my reach.

  “It’s OK. If I drink with food, I’m fine.” I tilted my head and committed to finding the last drop at the bottom of my glass. “I wish Joe would tell me what this is.”

  Benedetta chuckled. “Maybe it’s Italian-style house wine. That’s why he doesn’t tell.”

  I smiled as well, remembering
how I once fibbed to Benedetta about some trattorie way of pouring leftover wine from the evening bottles into carafes and selling it as the house white or red the following night.

  “Good call, but it’s been way too consistent in taste,” I said. I felt a little lightheaded. Actually, I had a pretty good buzz going. I tossed Benedetta one of the crab cakes, leaned back in my chair, and took in the view below me. A few people had docked their boats and were climbing the narrow staircase up to the restaurant. I squinted to read the name of a sleek yacht moored at the end of the main dock and couldn’t focus.

  Hic! I hiccuped, looked at Benedetta, and saw two of her. I heard thunder in the distance, but the sky looked pretty clear to me.

  “I think I’m tipsy.” I hiccuped again.

  “You are?”

  “I hear thunder.”

  She looked up. “It’s the Blue Angels flying above us.”

  “Oh! I’m not that drunk then.” I smiled at her and took a bite of seafood salad. It was delicious. I gave Bene the rest of the crab cakes and finished the salad. My head cleared up a bit, but I still felt tipsy.

  We paid the bill and got back in the car. We drove to my place where she helped me unlock the door and take my shoes off as I climbed into bed. She pulled the sheets up to my chin and told me she would be back shortly with my cat.

  I fell asleep right away.

  I didn’t hear her come back with Peridot, but I felt his purring against my neck as he settled on the bed and fell asleep with me.

  *

  Waking up with that incredibly satisfying feeling of knowing I didn’t have anything to do, I stretched and looked out the window, wishing it was raining. That would have been a perfect morning: rain outside and nowhere to go. I reached over to grab Peridot, still asleep against my back, and flipped him over to scratch his chin.

  “Buongiorno, micio,” I greeted him. He slit open a swampy-looking pupil and immediately re-closed it to better focus on the feeling of my nails on his cheeks.