by Diana Rosie
‘Father, did you read anything about his time during the war?’
The priest shook his head.
‘Do you still have the diaries?’ asked Alberto.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the father, taking a deep breath. ‘When I mentioned the diaries to my bishop, he showed great interest in them. When he asked me for them to read, how could I refuse? I believed them to be – how would one put it? – on loan. But when I mentioned them again to the bishop, he said he had sent them to the Church archivists. Although I have asked for them to be returned, I’m afraid my requests have been refused.’ Father Samuel shrugged. ‘Such is the Church’s will.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said Alberto quietly.
‘Yes,’ nodded the priest. ‘But, from the little I read, it seems Francisco was a good man and a priest who was loyal to his community. I’m sure you’ll understand, Alberto, that when the war came and his principles were revealed, the institution of the Church did not see him as the compassionate priest he clearly was. It’s very sad.’
Alberto nodded slowly, absorbing the information. Taking a deep breath, he looked up and saw the unmarked grave.
Father Samuel followed Alberto’s gaze and said, ‘I believe it was Father Francisco’s intention to add his friend’s name to the cross. It was perhaps indelicate to do so when the village was still in shock over their priest’s suicide. Many would probably consider the ignobility of an unmarked grave a fitting end for such a sinner. He was probably waiting for tempers to cool. But then the war came and the strength of feeling about the Church was such that any act like that would only fuel emotions.’
Alberto nodded. ‘Poor man,’ he said softly, looking towards the grave. ‘Do you think he’ll ever have his name on his grave?’
‘It is my hope. I have submitted a letter to my bishop, asking both for the man’s date of birth and any necessary details, and for permission to place a headstone on the grave.’
‘Good,’ said Alberto.
‘Unfortunately,’ sighed Father Samuel, his smile slipping again, ‘the wheels of the Church roll rather slowly. The bishop referred my request to a higher level. I have been waiting over a year for a reply.’
Shaking his head, Alberto looked back at the grave. ‘All this time and they still can’t find a way to forgive him.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Father Samuel quietly, ‘they know what drove him to take his life.’
Alberto paused thoughtfully, then shook his head. ‘If he was a friend of Father Francisco, he must have been a good man. It is God’s decision to forgive, not the Church’s.’
Father Samuel nodded. ‘I understand, Alberto. But protocol dictates a process must be followed. I shall write to my bishop again.’
Alberto continued to look at the grave. ‘Do you know the priest’s name?’
‘Father Antonio,’ said Father Samuel softly.
As the two men regarded the grave, Tino trotted up beside them.
‘What are you looking at?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Alberto. He turned to the child. The boy was filthy. He was grey with dust, and his legs were covered in small scratches.
‘Oh dear,’ said Father Samuel cheerily. ‘Looks like someone could do with a wash. Why don’t we let your grandfather have a moment here, and I’ll show you where you can get clean?’
They both looked at Alberto, who nodded at them.
Chattering to the boy, the priest led him back into the church. For a moment, Alberto closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face, and listened to the low buzz of the town on the other side of the wall. Then, opening his eyes, he reached into his trouser pocket and brought out his old penknife.
Alberto and the boy walked into Los Niños and looked around. The restaurant was now half full, mostly with men in their work clothes drinking beer and picking at plates of tapas. Andrés, dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, bustled around the customers, filling glasses and collecting plates.
They walked to the bar and Alberto helped the boy onto one of the high stools. The child kicked his feet side to side as Alberto wearily perched on the edge of his.
‘Señores,’ said Andrés, slipping behind the bar. ‘Welcome back. What can I bring you?’
Alberto asked for a beer for himself and a lemon drink for the boy. When Andrés brought them, Alberto took mouthfuls of the cold beer, reflecting on what he’d heard at the church. The boy crunched his way through a plateful of crisps Andrés had placed in front of him and watched a television that hung from the ceiling at the end of the bar.
Just as Alberto was finishing his beer, the bead curtain rustled and Isabel stepped out of the kitchen.
‘Doña Isabel!’ said the boy brightly.
‘Hello, child,’ smiled Isabel. ‘Hello, Alberto.’
‘Hello,’ replied the old man warmly. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘So,’ said Isabel to Tino as she leant against the side of the bar. ‘What have you learnt? Are you any closer to knowing more about your grandpapá’s history?’
The child suddenly looked at his grandfather. He had been distracted by the tree and had forgotten the reason for visiting the church.
Alberto nodded at the boy. He was pleased that the child had been able to play for a while.
‘I found out the name of the priest who looked after me,’ he said as cheerfully as he could.
‘What was it, Apu?’
‘Father Francisco.’
‘Did you find out what happened to him?’ asked Isabel.
‘He was considered a traitor by the Nationalists,’ said Alberto. ‘It seems he died during the war.’
‘Oh,’ said the boy.
Isabel shook her head sadly.
‘So we have reached the end of our search,’ said Alberto.
‘What?’ said the boy anxiously.
Alberto frowned. He had expected Tino to be disappointed, but the fretful reaction surprised him.
‘Well, there’s no more information to be gained from the orphanage, and Doña Isabel has very kindly helped us with everything she could. Now we know about my time here in this village, before the orphanage. But there’s nothing else. I don’t remember anything before Father Francisco, and we’ve run out of clues.’
‘But can’t we ask someone else?’ The child seemed agitated.
‘Who?’
‘Other old people in the town?’
Alberto and Isabel chuckled.
‘What will we ask them?’ said Alberto gently. ‘“Excuse me. Do you remember a boy who was in this village for a short time in the 1930s?”’
The boy shook his head in alarm. ‘But, Apu, it can’t be over already.’
‘I know – it’s sad we didn’t get more answers. But we tried, didn’t we?’
‘But we didn’t find your birthday, Apu!’ the little boy whined, almost in tears.
Alberto glanced up at Isabel. She looked at him quizzically.
‘That’s what we are looking for – my birthday.’
‘Ah,’ said Isabel, looking at Tino. ‘I understand. Birthdays are so important to a child.’
‘For some reason, it has become important to me too,’ said Alberto quietly.
Isabel nodded kindly.
Suddenly, the little boy burst into tears.
Chapter Ten
DANTE
24 May 1934
It’s a mistake to come into the kitchen, but the smell is too tempting to resist – a wonderful mixture of frying onions and roasting meat. But one look at my wife directing the dozen or so women and girls, and the military-style manoeuvres involved in the preparation of so many dishes, and I know this is no place for a man.
The large oak table is the centre of activity, with herbs being chopped, fruit being peeled and sausages being sliced. At the far end, away from the oven, Néstor sits in a chair propped up by cushions. With chubby fingers he reaches into a bowl of shelled peas and does his best to put them in his mouth. Beside him stands Mimi, peering ove
r the edge of the table watching Chita gutting fish. The poor girl looks too terrified to move as women work around her, brushing her with their skirts.
‘Don Dante!’ calls Chita with a smile. ‘Have you come to help us?’
My wife turns to me, her face flushed and her usually perfect hair tousled. She tries to smile at me, but I can see she doesn’t have the time for unexpected visitors.
‘Chita, my wife obviously has everything under control.’ I smile at the working women and add, ‘The cooking smells magnificent, ladies.’ Then, turning to my wife, I say, ‘Perhaps I should liberate these two?’ and point to the children. With relief she smiles at me and nods.
As I pick Néstor up out of his chair and take Mimi’s little hand, my wife steps over to me, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Thank you, dear husband,’ she says. She gives me a kiss on the cheek.
‘Don’t overtire yourself,’ I say quietly to her. ‘It’s a party. I want you to enjoy it too.’
‘I’ll enjoy it when all the work is done,’ she says. She picks up a couple of slices of chorizo from the table beside her. Popping them in my mouth, she smiles and turns back to the stove to stir a bubbling pot.
Chewing the rich, spicy sausage, I lead Mimi out of the kitchen and into the courtyard. There, some of the men are setting up tables and bringing chairs out of the house.
Raúl is kneeling on the floor, attaching lanterns to a wire for hanging. Alberto is sitting beside him watching. As we approach, I look at Mimi and see her face light up at the sight of her friend. Néstor seems unaffected and sucks on his fingers.
‘Can we help?’ I ask.
‘Dante! Excellent timing. I’m ready to hang these lanterns. Could you take the other end?’
I set Néstor down on the floor beside Alberto, and Mimi flops down alongside them both. They watch as Raúl and I fetch chairs and climb them to carefully attach the wire onto hooks so the lanterns swing over the long tables.
When we’ve finished, we step back and take a look.
‘It’s going to be a great party, Dante,’ says Raúl. He smiles sadly at me.
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s a celebration,’ I say softly.
He nods.
I know he must feel strange about today. After many years of hard work on both our parts, Quintero’s Winery has produced its first brandy. But the brandy is a memorial to the wife that he has lost.
When Angelita died all those years ago, I wanted to do something that would express the grief we each felt. I had been thinking about expanding my vintage into brandy, and it had seemed a fitting memorial. A beautiful woman of such charm and spirit deserved to be remembered forever, and the first bottle of our new brandy would do so.
The financial outlay to start producing a brandy has cost me a great deal, but now that my wine is the preferred choice of some of the most influential families in the region, the investment seems a good one.
Over the years, Raúl and I have visited other brandy- and sherry-makers around the country. In learning the process, we’ve inspected the barrels where the wine is aged and followed the ancient instructions for blending.
As a scientist, Raúl has enjoyed the study of the production process. And importantly, I think the project has served him well in overcoming his grief at the death of his wife. For me, it’s the history. The process that has been used in Spain for centuries has a slow, methodical procedure that will continue into the future. It appeals to my sense of heritage.
Since I commissioned the building of a series of ageing barrels four years ago, we’ve been following the process of tapping the oldest barrel and refilling it with wine from the next oldest. As we repeat and repeat, the blending of wines over the years gives the brandy its character.
I am proud I have begun something that Néstor will carry on, and as long as the wine is good and the barrels are cared for, the brandy will only improve over the years. Even the label has been designed in the classical style with a flourish of script and the vineyard’s crest.
Although our first bottle is still very young, we decided this was the perfect excuse for a celebration. It has been a difficult few years. The economic problems of the country have affected us, as they have many others, but we have done what we could for our workers and they seem content, despite the unrest around us. They also know the government is swift in arresting anyone who speaks out against land and business owners.
As my father always said, support your workers and in difficult times they will support you. So, like my father, I treat the workers as extended family. When times are difficult, I gather them and explain how we will be affected. I know many of them supported the Second Republic, with its promise of land to the workers. When nothing happened, the workers were disappointed, but they know that I am modern in my approach to their rights and their pay.
I hope the party tonight will bring us together. It’s an opportunity for us to say thank you to the workers for their loyalty. They’ll bring their wives and children; they’ll eat well, drink too much and taste our first brandy. As Raúl says, it’s going to be a great party.
‘Let’s take a walk,’ I suggest to Raúl.
He nods to me and we turn to the children. Mimi is trying to pick up her baby brother, but he’s too heavy for her, and as she half lifts, half drags him towards me, his face scrunches up and he starts to cry.
When Mimi was a baby, she rarely cried, but when she did, it was a heartbreaking sound. Maybe it’s because she was our first, but often my wife and I, and even Chita, would rush to see what we could do to ease her distress.
Néstor, however, cries often and the sound is shrill and screeching. It’s not an endearing noise and, I’m ashamed to say, all too often we placate him with food. He’s a portly baby, which is perhaps why he is late to start walking. But my wife insists once he’s on his feet and running around, the weight will drop off him.
I lift the boy from Mimi’s arms and bounce him up and down until his crying eases. He grabs my ear and pulls hard, grinning a toothy smile. His grip is strong and I have to gently prise his fingers open to release my sore ear.
‘Right,’ I say loudly, ‘who wants to go and inspect the grapes?’
‘Me!’ shouts Mimi loudly and happily.
Alberto nods enthusiastically.
‘Me too!’ says Raúl cheerfully.
Together, the four of us stroll out of the courtyard and down to the land. The new season’s growth looks good. Lines of vines with large, veined leaves stand healthy and strong. As we walk down the dusty, dry path between the crop, I stop at one vine and fold back a few of the leaves. There, hanging like a bunch of green bullets, are the grapes.
I pick one from its stalk and wipe the dust from it. Bending down, I hold it in front of Mimi and Alberto. Néstor, resting on my hip, looks over my shoulder back towards the house.
‘Look, children,’ I say to them both. ‘What do you think this is?’
‘It’s a grape,’ says Alberto confidently.
Grinning, Mimi shakes her head.
‘It’s much more than a grape, Alberto,’ I say.
The young boy looks confused.
‘It is the blood of Christ.’
Poor Alberto looks even more confused.
‘It’s the toast at a wedding,’ I continue. ‘It’s the completion of a business deal. It’s the heart that beats between family and friends. This tiny grape, children, is going to be wine. Wine that may be savoured with a loved one, or shared among many. It may be drunk as soon as it’s bought, or hidden away in a cellar. But however and whenever it is drunk, in that moment, it will be a part of people’s lives.
‘As a family of winemakers,’ I continue, ‘it is our past and our future. And this grape will take a little piece of us to people we’ll never meet, all over Spain. Isn’t that incredible?’
Mimi nods enthusiastically. She loves to hear about the wine.
Alberto nods a little more hesitantly. Looking up at his father, he says, ‘But I am n
ot a Quintero. Papá and I are Romeros.’
Raúl gives me a worried look, but with a nod I indicate that I will explain.
‘Alberto, family is not always about a name. In our case, family is more than birth. It’s about an unbreakable bond of love. You and your papá have been a part of my family since before you were born, and that bond is very strong.
‘And if ever you wanted proof of your role in this family, you need only look at the bottle of brandy that we will open tonight. You’ll see on the label how it celebrates you and your beloved mamá.’
The boy looks a little unsure still. I wonder how much Raúl has spoken to him about his mother. Shifting Néstor on my hip, I hunch down to Alberto’s level.
‘You are an important member of this family, Alberto. You hold a special place in our hearts. And I hope that in the future you will help Néstor run the Quintero vineyard as your father has helped me. The wine we produce today is the best we’ve ever made, and that’s thanks to your father. It is my ancestor’s name on the bottle, but there’s as much of your father’s soul in every sip as mine.’
I look at Raúl. He seems uncomfortable but bends his head to me in thanks. He is a good man, and I hope I tell him often enough how much I value him.
Alberto smiles at me and his soft brown eyes melt my heart – they are just like his mother’s.
Ruffling his curls, I stand straight. ‘Right, who can run to the fence and back the fastest?’
Before I’ve finished speaking, Mimi is off, running as fast as she can, kicking up tiny dust clouds behind her. Alberto gives me one last look before dashing after her.
‘Thank you, Dante,’ says Raúl quietly as we slowly start to walk in the direction the children are running.
‘I mean every word I say.’
Raúl shakes his head and says, ‘I mean thank you for taking us into your family. You knew nothing about us when we arrived and yet you took in an inexperienced chemist and his pregnant wife as if it were nothing. And now you talk about Alberto being part of Quintero’s future, well, it’s incredible.’
