The Vineyard

by Maria Duenas

  “In short, disregarding all these family questions and as I was saying, I see no problem in legalizing the change of ownership in the land register without delay so that everything passes into your name,” the notary continued, oblivious to the other diners’ curiosity. “However, and speaking now in a personal capacity, I must say, Señor Larrea, that I have noticed one detail in the document that attracted my attention.”

  Larrea took his time swallowing his food: he was in no hurry, because he could anticipate what was coming next.

  “I see that this transaction was a bestowal rather than a purchase, because nowhere is there any indication of the amount you paid for the properties.”

  “Is there a problem with that?”

  “None at all,” replied Blanco evenly. “Simple curiosity on my part. It caught my eye because it’s not something that is commonly done in these parts. It’s extremely rare that there is no money involved when it comes to a transfer of property.”

  They returned the spoons to their plates; the only sounds were of silverware meeting china and voices from the nearby tables. Larrea knew he had no reason to explain anything, that the transfer was aboveboard and legal. And yet he preferred to justify himself. In his own way, so that word would get about.

  “Well,” he said, carefully aligning his cutlery on his plate. “Don Gustavo Zayas’s in-laws are very closely linked to my family in Mexico. His brother-in-law and I are about to celebrate the wedding of his daughter and my son. That is why between the two of us we reached certain agreements, exchanges of property that, in view of the circumstances . . .”

  It was impossible, faced with this polite Spanish gentleman and in the noble town of Jerez, to talk of the El Louvre Café and the rash challenge his fellow countryman Zayas had made, or that stormy night in the Manglar brothel, or that diabolical first game in front of a crowd of ragged onlookers. Nor could he mention the banker and his bushy mustache, the madame La Chucha and her air of an aged African queen, the extravagant bathroom with its walls painted with obscenities where the wager for the return match was agreed upon. Or the bitter contest that he ended up winning.

  “To cut a long story short,” said Larrea, staring straight at the notary, “let’s just say we entered into a special private agreement.”

  “I understand . . .” muttered Don Senén, his mouth half-full. Even though he was not sure that he did. “Be that as it may, I insist it is none of my business to pry into the wishes of others. I simply register them. But, turning to another matter, and if I’m not being indiscreet, I should like to ask you another question.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Do you by chance have any idea what on earth Luis Montalvo was doing in Cuba? His disappearance was something that surprised everyone here; nobody knows for certain when he left or where he was headed. Simply one fine day nobody saw him anymore, and no one could say where he had gone.”

  “Did he live alone?”

  “Completely alone, and he led, shall we say . . . a somewhat relaxed life.”

  “Relaxed in what way?”

  At that moment the fish arrived, covered in breadcrumbs, its white flesh promising succulent flavor. The waiter again lingered a little longer than necessary to see if he could learn anything about where the stranger was from. But the notary paused discreetly until the disappointed lad turned his back on them and pulled a face at his curious customers.

  “He was a strange fellow. He had a physical problem that prevented him growing little more than four and a half feet tall: he would have come up to your elbow, more or less. That was where the nickname ‘Runt’ came from. But far from letting his size embarrass him, he chose to compensate for this defect with an unbridled passion for the good life. Parties, women, going on sprees, singing and dancing . . . Luisito Montalvo did everything,” he said, with a hint of irony. “Without a father from shortly after his twentieth birthday, and with a sick mother whom I suspect he drove into her grave not long afterward, he began to throw away the fortune he inherited.”

  “So he never concerned himself with the vineyard or the winery?”

  “Never, although he didn’t sell them, either. Simply, to everyone’s astonishment, he refused to have anything to do with them, and let them go to rack and ruin.”

  Larrea decided to mention the visit he had made to the Montalvo family mansion a few hours earlier.

  “As I saw for myself, the family house is also in a deplorable state.”

  “Until the death of Doña Piedad, Luis’s mother, the family residence, at least, was more or less kept up. But when he was left on his own, people came and went there as if they owned the place. Friends, whores, gamblers, rogues. It’s said Luisito sold off cheaply everything of value: paintings, porcelain, rugs, cutlery, even his sainted mother’s jewels . . .”

  “It’s true there’s not much left,” Larrea confirmed. Only a few pieces of furniture that must have been hard to remove, and that some kind hand had covered with dust sheets. From all that he was now learning about the wastrel Luis Montalvo, he doubted whether he would have taken a precaution like that.

  “Word had it that El Cachulo, a Gypsy from Seville with a sharp eye and a ready tongue, would often pull his cart up outside the house, fill it with goods, and then sell them to the highest bidder.”

  This was not the first time Larrea had heard about fortunes squandered by the lack of forethought or the reckless passions of descendants. He knew of more than one case in the mines of Guanajuato and the Mexican capital; he was also sure there were many in the splendid city of Havana. But this was the first that affected him directly, and so he paid close attention.

  “Poor Little Runt,” murmured the notary, with a mixture of wry amusement and compassion. “It can’t have been easy for him to match his physique with the role of the promising heir of such a good-looking family as the Montalvos. His grandparents were an imposing couple. Both of them were handsome and elegant; I can still remember them coming out of High Mass. The same is true of all the descendants I have come across: just look at the cousin who’s married to the Englishman and is back here at the moment. I scarcely recall Gustavo, though.”

  “Tall, blue-eyed, fair-haired . . .” Larrea said unenthusiastically. “Good-looking, as you say.”

  And a strange fish, he would have liked to add, not in his appearance or manners so much as in his behavior and ideas. Prudently, though, he kept this to himself.

  “Anyway, Señor Larrea, we are straying from the point. I believe you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’m sorry, but what question was that, Don Senén?”

  “A very simple one that half of Jerez is going to ask me as soon as I leave this table. What on earth was Luisito Montalvo doing in Cuba?”

  Larrea had no need to lie when he responded: “To be frank, dear sir, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Further scenes of desolation: that was what he found when after lunch the notary took him to the winery on Calle del Muro. In spite of this, and the fact that there was no time to go in, Larrea was satisfied with what he saw: a sizable area surrounded by damp walls that had once been white but were now flaking and covered in mold. Nor did he have a chance to visit the vineyard, but from the details Don Senén gave him it did not seem at all negligible in size or potential, so there would be more money in his pocket once he sold them, and fewer obstacles for his return.

  “If you are sure, Señor Larrea, that you want to put all this on the market at once, the first thing you will need to do is to determine the current value of the properties,” the notary told him as they were saying good-bye. “I think that the most sensible thing would be to leave all that to a land agent.”

  “Whoever you recommend.”

  “I’ll find you one I trust completely.”

  “How long will it take you to have all the deeds drawn up
?”

  “Let’s say by the day after tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be back here in two days’ time, then.”

  They had reached Plaza del Arenal, where Larrea’s hired carriage was waiting. They shook hands.

  “Thursday at eleven, then, with the deeds and the agent. Give my regards to my old friend’s son. God rest his father’s soul. I’m sure Don Antonio Fatou and his wife are treating you like a lord in their house.”

  Larrea was already settled inside the carriage and the horses’ hooves had begun to ring on the cobbles as the wheels began to turn, when he heard the notary shout: “Although it might be more convenient for you to leave Cádiz and install yourself here while everything is sorted out. In Jerez.”

  Larrea continued on his way without replying, and yet Don Senén’s suggestion remained with him the length of the journey to Puerto de Santa María as night was falling. He considered it again on board the steamer taking him across the dark waters of the tranquil bay. He even thought of asking the opinion of Antonio Fatou, Don Julian Calafat’s agent in Cádiz, in whose splendid house on Calle de la Verónica he was staying. This latest link in a chain of prosperous merchants connected with the Americas for more than a century had turned out to be a warm man in his thirties. Over the years, his predecessors had received the clients and friends of the Calafat family as if they were their own, and this arrangement was admirably reciprocated in Havana. “Don’t even think of looking for anywhere else to stay,” Fatou had told Larrea as soon as he read his letter of introduction. “It will be an honor to have you as our guest for however long your affairs require. I insist.”

  “How did your trip to Jerez go, Don Mauro?” his host asked the next morning when the two of them were finally alone.

  They had just breakfasted on hot chocolate and warm churros under the gaze of three generations of traders with the Indies that peered down at them from portraits on the dining room walls. Although there was nothing ostentatious, the room gave the impression of taste and money well spent: the Pickman china, the marquetry table, and the silver spoons engraved with the family’s intertwined initials.

  Fatou’s young wife, Paulita, had excused herself to attend to some domestic chores, but probably withdrew discreetly simply to leave them to talk. She was scarcely more than twenty, and still had the plump cheeks of an adolescent, but was obviously anxious to fulfill her new role as mistress of the house with regard to this guest of such striking appearance and manners who was presently sleeping under her roof. Another little churro, Don Mauro? Shall I ask them to heat some more chocolate? Another spoon of sugar? Is everything as you like it? Can I get you anything more? She was completely different from Mariana, who was always so determined and sure of herself, and yet in some way she reminded Larrea of his daughter. A new wife, a new house, a new universe for a young woman.

  A pair of curious, indiscreet maids peeped out of the kitchen to get a glimpse of the new guest for themselves. Benancia is right, he’s handsome, one of them said, drying her hands on her apron. Handsome and well-dressed, they agreed behind the curtain. From Havana? They say he came from Cuba, but Frasca heard the masters talking last night and caught something about Mexico as well. Heaven only knows, sweetheart, where these people get their good looks. That’s what I say, dear child. Heaven only knows.

  Oblivious to the servants’ whispering, the two men went on talking at the table.

  “Everything is progressing, thank goodness,” Larrea continued. “Don Senén Blanco, the notary you recommended, was extremely friendly and efficient. I’m going back tomorrow to complete the formalities and to meet the land agent he selects to take care of the sales.”

  He added a few more details and made some inconsequential remarks. For the moment that was all he wished to say.

  “So am I to conclude that the idea of taking on the business yourself has not even crossed your mind?” asked Fatou.

  For God’s sake, what do you think a miner like me could do with a vineyard and wines? Larrea almost blurted out, but checked himself.

  “I’m afraid I have urgent matters to attend to in Mexico. That’s why I’m hoping to dispose of all the properties as quickly as I can.”

  He mentioned a couple of supposed pressing affairs, some obligations and dates. It was all pure invention in order not to reveal that the only real concerns waiting for him in Mexico were to meet the first of the wretched Carrús’s deadlines and to drag his own son to the altar, if necessary by the scruff of his neck.

  “I can see that, of course,” Fatou agreed. “Even so, it’s a shame, because at the moment the wine trade is enjoying great success. You wouldn’t be the first to bring capital from overseas to invest in the business. Even my father, may he rest in peace, was tempted to buy a few acres, until he fell ill . . .”

  “I can offer you mine at a good price,” Larrea said lightheartedly.

  “I’d be more than happy to buy them, but as I’m just taking over the reins of the family business I’m afraid it would be too risky. One day, perhaps.”

  The only thing that Mauro Larrea knew about wines was that he had enjoyed them with his meals when his economic situation had allowed it. However, he had nothing to do that morning but wait, and Fatou did not appear to be in any hurry, either. So he encouraged him to continue.

  “Well, anyway, Don Antonio, would it be rude of me if I serve myself a little more of your excellent chocolate while you tell me how the wine business operates hereabouts?”

  “On the contrary, it will be my pleasure, my dear friend. Allow me, please.”

  He refilled their cups, and the spoons clinked on the La Cartuja porcelain.

  “Let me confess from the outset that even though we ourselves are not wine producers, the trade in Jerez wines is practically our lifesaver. The wines and the cargos of salt we ship are what keep us going. Things became complicated for us after our American colonies won their independence. With all due respect, my friend, your Mexican compatriots and their counterparts in South America dealt us a heavy blow with their desire for freedom.”

  Fatou’s words were spoken in a tone of cheerful irony rather than with any bitterness. Larrea simply shrugged as if to say there was nothing to be done about it.

  “Fortunately, however,” the agent went on, “almost in parallel with the reduction in trade with our colonies, the wine business entered a splendid period. And exports to Europe, and in particular to England, are what are preventing the decline not only of our company but I would say of the province of Cádiz as a whole.”

  “And what is so splendid about the wine trade, if I may ask?”

  “It’s a long story. Let’s see if I can summarize it for you. Until the end of the last century, what the Jerez vintners produced were simply young wines and must that were sent in their undeveloped state to the British ports. Wines that were not yet finished, if you follow me. Once they arrived, they were aged and blended by the local merchants to suit their clients’ tastes. Some sweeter, others less so, some with more or less body, more or less strong. As you must know.”

  No, Larrea didn’t have the faintest idea. But he hid the fact.

  “But for several decades now,” Fatou went on, “the wine business here has become far more dynamic and prosperous. Now the entire process is carried out here, at its point of origin: of course, this is where the vines grow, but now we also look after the vintages and prepare them according to the demands of our English clients. Nowadays the term ‘wine producer’ has a much broader meaning than before: it usually includes all the stages of the business, the ones previously carried out separately by the growers, the people who stored the wines, and the exporters. And we, from the port or from houses like this one, make sure that the barrels of wine reach their destination, to the representatives and agents of the Jerez firms in Perfidious Albion. Or wherever is necessary.”

  “So in that way most of the profit s
tays here.”

  “Exactly; it stays in this land, thank God.”

  Stupid Runt, thought Larrea as he took a sip of the already half-cold chocolate. Why were you such a fool as to allow a business like that to go under? As he was silently telling himself this, another equally silent voice piped up. Andrade: Who are you to reproach that man for anything, when you risked your entire business on a single card with a gringo who crossed your path one day? Larrea: Who are you to scold me like that, Andrade? Andrade: I’ve only come to remind you of what you should never forget. Larrea: Well, just you forget me and let me find out what this wine business is all about. Andrade: Why, if you’re not even going to get a sniff of it? I know, brother, I know. But if only you and I were young enough and had our former strength . . . If only we could start all over again . . .

  The phantom of his agent in Mexico vanished among the intricate moldings of the ceiling the moment Larrea replaced his cup on its saucer.

  “So tell me, my friend, what commercial value are we talking about for this wine trade?”

  “It represents more or less twenty percent of Spain’s total exports. It spearheads our national economy.”