Chapter 45 #2
“Since the eighteenth century, the hillsides have been terraced by the poor hardworking people of the villages along the river. Here is the interesting thing. There is very little soil on the hillsides, only rock. Rock like slate.
“Long before bulldozers and big machines came along, men had to work with hand tools and dynamite to make the land ready for the grapevines. That is why they are called ‘the vineyards of Hercules.’ Some of the vintners say, ‘We get no help from God.’ Tsk, tsk, tsk. It is hard, hard work.
“Well, the farmers plant the small plants, and then the small plants have to grow deep, deep down to reach the water in the ground.
For four meters and more, the taproots go down and down, weaving between the slate to find water.
If all goes well, the vines grow, and when the summer is over, there is a beautiful crop.
Then everyone along the river — men, women, children — begins the slow, steady work of harvest, the colheita.
“My father was a manager at Quinta das Carvalhas for many years.
He loved the river, the valley, and the vine, and he took great pride in caring for the place.
When I was a little fellow, my father let me work, made me work, to learn the life of the vineyard.
At harvest time, we would take the secateurs — you know, the scissors — and all day, clip, clip, clip.
Cut, cut, cut the grapes. So beautiful, Tony, I tell you, the fruit was so beautiful.
Touriga Franca, Tinta Roriz, Tinta Barroca.
“So, we cut the grapes and put them in the baskets. The men, like mules, carried them on the shoulder to wagons. Sixty kilos, they weighed. Day after day till all the fruit was gathered.”
Theo hesitated. “I’m telling you more than you wish to know?”
Tony shook his head. “No, no. I’m very interested, but I have to confess, I would never have taken you for a farm worker.”
Theo grinned. “Ah, but everyone in Pinh?o was a farm worker, at least part of the year.
Pinh?o was just a village; it still is today.
Like much of Portugal, it was a poor place.
We had a president who treated us harshly, and we all suffered.
But always our land, our climate, and the will of the people survive.
“Once we had gathered our grapes from the vines, they were taken from the hillside to large stone tanks called lagares, thirty feet square and four feet high.
Things have changed, but, when I was a boy and a young man, we would march on the grapes with our bare feet.
We would line up, fourteen men shoulder to shoulder like a chorus line, and march, up and down and back and forth, for hours at a time, all day, until the juice was out of the skin.
“The feet are perfect for the work, Tony. Machines can be too rough, too heavy on the seeds. They make for bitter wine. But feet are just right. It was serious work, important work, hard work, but also much fun. Always, we had accordion music to lighten the mood and break the monotony. We believed that a happy room makes good wine.”
Tony had leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, left cheek propped on his hand, attentive, nodding from time to time to affirm his interest in Theo’s narrative.
“The juice would ferment for three days and then be mixed with brandy and put into barrels. And then, after six months or so, the barrels would be loaded onto wooden boats called barcos rabelos and taken to the town of Vila Nova de Gaia, on the riverbank across from Porto. It was a dangerous adventure. Three men on a boat with sixty barrels. Three days and nights it took to transport the port to Gaia. Even today, all the port in the world is stored and bottled in the port cellars of Gaia. For ten, twenty, thirty, forty years, the port ages, some ruby, some white, some tawny. All those years in deep sleep, but the port is changing like a chrysalis, letting God take His time to do what only He can do. Water to wine, but slowly. It is all so remarkable.”
Theo took a long breath. “Tony, you are a good student. Now you know something, a wee bit, about port wine. And there is a reason I explain all this to you.” Theo held up the bottle ceremoniously.
“Let me now tell you about this very bottle and why I chose it for us.
There are different categories of port: ruby, white, tawny.
These are all blends of many grapes from different vines.
But in certain years, grapes of a particular vineyard and particular vines are deemed to be of exceptional quality.
We call these ‘vintage.’ They are not blended with anything else. They stand alone.
“Vintage is God’s work. A grower cannot make it happen, and no one knows when a crop will be of such rare excellence.
If a grower thinks he has a vintage crop, he sends a sample of his fruit to be evaluated and certified.
If approved, voilà, vintage. If not, maybe next year.
There is no finer drink than vintage port.
“Well, Tony, we are fortunate, you and I. I have friends and family still in the Douro Valley and friends at the port cellars in Gaia. Sometimes I ask them to send an old bottle of the very best port. If there is something important I wish to celebrate, I request a bottle. They are a trophy.”
Theo held the bottle out to Tony. “Look here.” Theo pointed to the label.
“This bottle is vintage 1947, yes, 1947, the year you were born. Tony, I should tell you, we Portuguese save the good port only for very special occasions. Well, meeting you has been a special occasion for me. Your goodness to Ellen, your goodness to me, your love for books, all these deserve the praise of man, and so…”
Tony, rarely at a loss for words, fumbled for something to say, but nothing surfaced, not even a thank you.
“So, Tony, I remind you, the roots can only grow in stony, difficult ground. The pruner’s shears cut deep. The grapes are crushed and kept in the dark for decades. For the sake of the sweetness. For this very moment.”
Tony had no time to process the long metaphor before Theo, brimming with excitement, pointed again to the bottle’s label, to a very small line of print that identified the particular vineyard from which the vintage had originated.
“Tony, listen carefully to me. I worked that vineyard in 1947, that very vineyard. I was fifteen years old but strong enough to be of some help. It might well be that these hands,” Theo held out his open palms, “these very hands cut the grapes whose juice is in this very bottle.
It is possible that these feet, when they were much younger, of course, danced on those grapes in the winepress.
“Know this: When you drink this port, you taste the hillside of my childhood. You taste the sunlight and the Douro. You taste the strength of the vine, the sweetness of the fruit, the sweat and labor of the harvesters, the oak in the barrels. You taste the music of the accordion, the laughter of the children, and the prayer of the priest. You taste a young man’s joy and an old man’s memory.
“Now, Tony, last thing, and then we drink. Vintage port, unlike the others, will not last in a decanter. You have only two days to drink what is in the bottle before it goes bad.”
Tony laughed. “Well, then, let’s get to work, Professor.”
Theo poured the deep red liquid into delicate glasses. He inhaled the bouquet of the drink, sighed contentedly, and raised his glass. “I present to you, 1947, Vintage Tony.”
They took sips and allowed the complex richness of the port to rest on their tongues.
“Is it not divine, Antony? Have you had a drink so beautiful?”
Tony replied with a question of his own.
“Theo, would you mind if I tell you another story from the war? It’s about some wine I had while I was over there. I’ve never told anyone about it. Don’t worry; I’ll try not to fall apart like I did the last time.”
Theo nodded. “I would be honored.” Quietly, though, he feared a return to the jungle.
“I had this really good friend in Vietnam. Robert Akroyd. We all called him Bobbo. Everybody in Nam was either a nickname or a last name.
“He was from New Jersey. Strong as an ox, smart as anything. And the nicest guy you’d ever meet. He read lots of serious books about deep stuff, but he loved cowboy stories, too, especially Louis L’Amour.”
Tony chuckled. “I never understood how somebody in New Jersey could even find Louis L’Amour books, much less like ‘em. But he did. I’ve got a whole shelf of them in the shop, and whenever I see ‘em, I think of Bobbo.
“He and I went through Basic together, deployed together, stayed together while we were over there. Kind of hard to explain, but we became really good friends, almost like brothers. Here I am, this turnip seed from the South, and he’s an Einstein from New Jersey with a Yankee accent, but somehow we clicked.
“He didn’t do much talking like the rest of us did, but he had this great laugh, and his voice was kind of soft. He’d do anything to help you.
“We saw some awful things. Did some awful things and survived some really close calls.
“You remember that other story I told you about Ben Suc?”
Theo nodded. How could he possibly forget it?