The Winemaker

by Noah Gordon

  The villagers became accustomed to seeing them together whenever they weren’t working in the vineyards for their fathers. It was easier to maintain perfect propriety during the daylight hours, when all the eyes of the village witnessed them. At night, under the cover of darkness, it was more difficult; the call of the flesh was stronger. They began by holding hands while they walked, a first erotic touching that made them want more. The darkness was a private chamber, allowing him to embrace her, to give her clumsy kisses. They pressed together so each could learn of the other by the tactile imprint of thigh and breast and groin, and they kissed a great deal as time went by, and grew very familiar.

  One night in August when the village was panting under hot, heavy air, they went to the river and, shedding their clothes, sat hip to hip in the gently flowing water and explored one another with thrilled wonder, touching everywhere, hairiness, nakedness, muscle and curve, soft creases of skin, hard horn of toenails, scratches and calluses left by hard labor. She nursed him like a child. He discovered and gently touched the dam, proof of her innocence, as though a spider had entered and woven within her a virginal web of thin warm flesh. The most unworldly of lovers, they enjoyed the forbidden newness but simply did not know very much about what to do. They had seen animals joined, but when he tried to emulate that act, Teresa became adamantly angry and afraid.

  “No! No, I would not be able to look at Santa Eulália!” she said wildly.

  He moved her gripping hand until enough seeds to populate a village burst from him and floated away down the Pedregós River. It was not the grand sensual destination that, they knew instinctively, lay somewhere beyond the horizon. But they recognized that they had passed a milestone, and for the time being they were satisfied to be unsatisfied.

  Their burning quickly dissolved their complacence about the future. He knew the answer to their dilemma was an early marriage, but in order to accomplish that, he would have to find employment. In a rural village of tiny agricultural plots it was not possible, for almost every farmer had heirs, and younger sons who would compete savagely with Josep in the unlikely event that a job opportunity should appear.

  He yearned to escape from this village that kept him a prisoner without hope, dreamed of finding some place where he would be allowed to work eagerly and with all his strength to make a life.

  Meantime, he and Teresa found it difficult to keep their hands from one another.

  Josep grew irritable and red-eyed. Perhaps his father noticed and spoke to Nivaldo.

  “Tigre, I want you to come somewhere with me tomorrow night,” Nivaldo told Josep.

  “Go where?”

  “You’ll see,” Nivaldo said.

  On the following evening they walked together a league from the village, into the country to a deserted lane and a small lopsided structure of plastered stone. “The house of Nuria,” Nivaldo said. “I have been coming to her for years. Now she is retired, and we visit her daughter.”

  Inside, they were greeted amiably by a woman past middle age, who paused in her knitting long enough to accept from Nivaldo a bottle of wine and a bank note. “Here is my friend Nivaldo, therefore it is the fourth Thursday. So…where is Marcel Alvarez?”

  Nivaldo cast a veiled glance at Josep. “He cannot come tonight. This is his son, my friend Josep.”

  The woman looked at Josep and nodded.

  “Child?” she called.

  A younger woman opened the cloth separating the two rooms of the little house. Seeing Nivaldo sitting next to her mother and Josep standing awkward and alone, she crooked a finger. Josep was pushed by Nivaldo’s hand in his back.

  The small room behind the curtain held two sleeping mats. “I am Renata,” the girl said. She had a squat body, long inky hair, a round face with a large nose.

  “I’m Josep.”

  When she smiled he saw that her teeth were square and wide, with several gaps. She was about his age, he thought. For a moment they stood and looked at one another, and then she skinned out of her black dress in one swift motion.

  “Well. Take it off. Everything. More enjoyable, yes?”

  She was an ugly and amiable girl. Her fat breasts had very wide nipples. Conscious that others behind the curtain at the door could hear everything, Josep disrobed. When she lay on the rumpled bed and opened her short legs, he could not look at the dark patch. She smelled faintly of onions and garlic, like Nivaldo’s stew to which had been added lye soap. She guided him inside deftly and everything was over almost at once.

  Afterwards, Nivaldo took his turn in the little room, joking with Renata and roaring with laughter, while Josep sat and listened and watched the mother. As Nuria knitted, she hummed hymns, some of which he recognized.

  When they were walking home, Josep thanked Nivaldo.

  “For nothing,” Nivaldo said. “You’re a good fellow, Josep. We know it’s hard to be a second son, with a sweet girl to drive you mad, and no employment.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Josep’s body felt easier and released, but his mind was still troubled and confused.

  “Important things are beginning to happen,” Nivaldo said. “There is going to be another civil war, a big one. Since Queen Isabella fled to France, Carlos VII has been assembling an army, a militia that will be formed into regiments wearing red berets. The movement has the support of people throughout Spain and in the Church, as well as many soldiers and officers in the Spanish army.”

  Josep shrugged. He had little interest in politics. Nivaldo knew that and looked at him sharply.

  “This will affect you,” he said. “This will affect all of Catalonia. One-hundred-and-fifty years ago, Philippe V,” he said, and paused to spit, “Philippe V outlawed the Catalan language, revoked the Catalan constitution and did away with the fuero, the charter that established rights and privileges and home rule in Catalonia. Carlos VII has pledged to restore the fueros to Catalonia, Valencia, and Aragon.

  “The Spanish army is preoccupied with the uprising in Cuba. I think Carlos has an excellent chance to prevail. If he does, the militia could be the national army of the future and would offer a good career.

  “Your father and I…” Nivaldo said carefully, “…we have heard that a man is coming to Santa Eulália, a wounded officer who is being sent to the country to recover. While he is here, he will seek out young men who can be made into good Carlist soldiers.”

  Josep’s father had told him his future would have to be with the Church or the army. He had never wished to be a soldier, but on the other hand he had no desire to be a priest. “When is he coming, this man?” he asked cautiously.

  Nivaldo shrugged.

  “…If I were to enter for a soldier, I would leave the village. I would go elsewhere to serve, no?”

  “Well, of course. I have heard the militia regiments are forming in the Basque country.”

  Good, Josep told himself morosely. He hated the village, which offered him nothing.

  “…But not at once. Acceptance must be won. This man…he will work with a group of young men and select only the best of the lot to become soldiers. He seeks young men who can be taught to pass on to other soldiers what they themselves have learned. I am confident you could qualify. It is an opportunity, I think, because if one enters an army early in its existence, and it goes on his record that he was chosen in such a way—on the basis of merit—advancement in rank could come quickly.

  “The Carlists don’t wish to call attention to the recruitment,” Nivaldo said. When the youths train in Santa Eulália, they will come together as if to attend a friendly gathering.”

  “A friendly gathering?”

  Nivaldo nodded. “They are calling it a social organization. A group of hunters,” he said.

  PART TWO

  The Group of Hunters

  Village of Santa Eulália

  Catalonia

  April 3, 1870

  9

  The Man

  For several weeks that seemed a longer time nothing changed,
and finally Josep couldn’t stop himself from speaking to Nivaldo. “This man who is supposed to come here. Has something happened? Is he not coming?”

  Nivaldo was opening a small barrel of bacallá. “I think he will come. One must be patient.” The good eye shot a glance at Josep. “Have you decided then? You wish to go for a soldier?”

  Josep shrugged and then nodded. He had no other prospects.

  “I was a soldier myself for several years. There are a few things to keep in mind about that life, Tigre. Sometimes it is boring work and men turn to drink, which dooms them. And dirty women congregate about soldiers, so one must beware of the pox. ‘Do not bite at the bait of pleasure till you know there is no hook beneath it.’” He grinned. “Some wise man wrote that. Some Alemany, or an Ingles.” He broke off a tiny piece of codfish and nibbled to make certain it was sound.

  “One other warning. You shouldn’t reveal that you’re able to read and write, because surely then they will name you a clerk, and low rank clings to a clerk like stink to a swine. Let the army teach you to be a fighting soldier, for that is the way to advance, and tell them you can read and write only when that is an advantage. I think one day you could become an officer. Why not? After that, anything would be possible for you in life.”

  Sometimes Josep daydreamed, seeing himself in a formation of many men, wearing a sword, urging troopers to charge. He tried not to think of less pleasant possibilities—such things as having to fight other human beings, hurting them, killing, perhaps receiving painful wounds or losing his own life.

  He couldn’t understand why Nivaldo called him Tigre. He was very much afraid of so many things.

  There was work to be done in the vineyard. All of the large vats had to be scrubbed, as well as assorted barrels, and a small section of stonework in the casa needed to be repaired. As usual, when a job involved either hard or unpleasant labor, Donat turned up missing.

  That evening he and his father sat with Nivaldo in the grocery.

  “He is here,” Nivaldo said. “The man.”

  Josep felt his eyes widen. “Where is he?”

  “He will be staying with the Calderons. Sleeping in that old shed of theirs.”

  “Since Nivaldo has had experience in the army,” Josep’s father said, “I asked him to speak to the man for us.”

  “We have already talked,” Nivaldo told Josep. “He is willing to allow you to try. He’ll meet with some local youths tomorrow morning, in a clearing in the forest behind the Calderon vineyard. At the time of the early Mass.”

  It was still dark the next morning when Josep reached the Calderon vineyard. He made his slow way through the rows to the end of the vines. He had not the slightest idea where to go from there, so he stood where the vines ended and the fringe of the forest began, and he waited.

  A voice came from the dark. “What is your name?”

  “Josep Alvarez.”

  The man appeared next to him. “Follow me.”

  He led Josep down a narrow path in the woods to a clearing.

  “You are the first to arrive. Now, go back to where I found you. You will guide the others in.”

  They began arriving at once:

  Enric Vinyes and Esteve Montroig, almost simultaneously.

  Manel Calderon stumbling from his house, rubbing his eyes.

  Xavier Miró, whose morning chorus of farting Josep heard before he saw him.

  Jordi Arnau, too sullen in his half-sleep even to offer a greeting.

  Clumsy Pere Mas, who tripped on a root as they entered the clearing.

  Guillem Parera, smart and quiet and watchful.

  Miquel Figueres, grinning nervously.

  The boys had known each other all their lives. They squatted in the clearing in the gray rising light and watched the man who sat calm and unsmiling on the ground, his back held straight. He was of medium height and dark-complexioned, perhaps a man of southern Spain, with a thin face, high cheekbones, and a hooked nose as challenging as a hawk’s. His black hair was cut short, and his spare body looked hard and strong. The youths were aware of cool, appraising eyes.

  After Lluis Julivert arrived—the ninth boy to join the group—the man rose. He had obviously known how many to expect. He walked to the center of the clearing, and Josep now saw what he hadn’t observed while following him in the dark: he walked with a slight limp.

  “I am Sergeant Peña,” he said and turned as another youth entered the clearing. He was tall and skinny, with a bush of wiry black hair, and he carried a long musket.

  “What do you want?” the man named Peña asked quietly.

  His eyes stayed on the firearm.

  “Is this the group of hunters?” the thin youth asked, and some of the boys began to laugh, for they saw it was dim-witted Jaumet Ferrer.

  “How did you know to come here?”

  “I was setting out on my hunt when I met Lluis and asked where he was bound. He said he was going to a meeting of a group of hunters, so I decided to follow him, for I am the best hunter in Santa Eulália.”

  They laughed at him again, though what he said was true. Handicapped from birth, unable to comprehend many skills, Jaumet Ferrer had taken to hunting eagerly and well at an early age, and people were accustomed to the sight of his scarecrow figure returning from a hunt with a brace of birds, half a dozen pigeons, or a fat hare. Meat was expensive, and the village wives were always happy to take his game in exchange for a small coin.

  Sergeant Peña reached out a hand and took the musket, a very old smooth-bore rifle. In some places the barrel had been worn down to blue metal but he saw that the weapon was cleaned and very well cared for. He observed the dullness in the boy’s eyes and heard the innocent confusion in his voice.

  “No, young man, this is the not the hunting group. Are you extremely good at mathematics?”

  “Mathematics?” Jaumet looked at him in bewilderment. “No, I do not comprehend mathematics, senyor.”

  “Ah. Then you would not like this, for this is the mathematics class.” He held out the musket to the boy. “So you must return to your hunt, eh?”

  “Yes, I must do that, senyor,” Jaumet said seriously, and taking the musket, he walked out of the clearing to the sound of more laughter.

  “Be silent. Frivolity will not be tolerated.”

  The sergeant didn’t raise his voice, but he knew how to address men.

  “Only intelligent young men can do our work, for it takes a working mind to receive an order and to carry it out. I am here because our army requires good young men. You are here because you need an occupation, for I am aware there is not a first son in this group. I understand your situation very well. I myself am the third son of my family.

  “You are being given an opportunity to earn selection to serve your fatherland, perhaps even to do great things. You will be treated as men. The army does not want boys.”

  To Josep’s ear, the sergeant’s Catalan was diluted by an accent from elsewhere; perhaps Castile, he thought.

  Sergeant Peña asked them to state their names and listened as each did so, gazing at them intently.

  “We will meet here three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, while it is still dark. The training will take many hours, and the work will be difficult. I shall temper your bodies for the rigors of military life and prepare your minds to allow you to think and act like soldiers.”

  Esteve Montroig spoke up eagerly. “Will you be teaching us to fire guns and the like, then?”

  “Whenever you speak to me…You are Montroig? Esteve Montroig. You will address me properly as ‘Sergeant.’”

  There was a silence. Esteve gazed at him, confused, and then realized what he was waiting for.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “I shall not entertain idle or stupid questions. This is a time when you must learn to obey. To obey! Without question. Without hesitation or the slightest delay. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” they answered hesitantly, in an unev
en chorus.

  “Listen carefully. A word that you must wipe from your mind for all time as a soldier is why? Every soldier of every rank has someone above him to whom he owes instant obedience without question. Let the person giving you the orders worry about the why.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Sergeant!”

  “There is much to learn. Get on your feet now.”

  They followed behind him in a casual column down the path through the woods to a wider trail that led into the country. That was where he ordered them to run, and they began light-heartedly, since they were young and high-spirited. They were all farm boys; their bodies were already conditioned by physical work, and most were in good health, so some of them smiled as they ran with long, bouncing strides.

  Guillem made comic faces at Sergeant Peña’s back and Manel hid his laughter, letting a single snort escape.

  But in their daily life they seldom had reason to run more than a few meters, and soon their breathing became ragged.

  Pere Mas, who was built like Donat with a fleshy body, fell to the end of the line almost at once and presently was left behind. Their thudding feet rose and fell without cease and clumsily, so that they got into each other’s way. Now and again they jostled one another as they ran, and Josep began to feel a stitch in his side.

  Their smiles disappeared as their breathing became labored.

  Eventually, the sergeant ran them into a field and allowed them to flop down on the ground for a very brief time, while they gasped in silence in their sweaty work clothes.

  Then he stood them in a rank facing him and taught them how to dress their line so it was straight from beginning to end.

  How to snap to attention at once when ordered.

  How to address him in strong unison when asked a group question that required a “YES, SERGEANT!” or “NO, SERGEANT!”

  Then he ran them again—hawking and spitting and gasping—back to the forest clearing behind the Calderon vineyard.

  Pere Mas came in walking, long after the others. His head was pounding and his round face was flushed. He attended the hunting group only on the very first day.