ABOUT A MAN’S WORK
Heroica was constructed as a long tumble down a steep slope. A visitor arriving from the highway would see it was very well tended, but the first impression was of a little residential folly dreamed up by an ambitious architect, a place that might be the perfect winter hideaway for a reclusive writer. It was, in fact, an industrial operation.
A team of twenty men or more was waiting on the steps and along a narrow gallery. They turned when they heard Daniel arriving with Manuel.
“Bos días,” Daniel greeted them in Gallego dialect as he got out of the car.
“Today don Manuel will be accompanying us to the vineyards,” the cellar master told the assembly. The men responded with nods and gestures of welcome. Manuel returned the courtesy.
“Let’s get going while I give Manuel a tour of the operation here,” the enologist announced briskly. “Then he and I’ll go down with a group to the muras of the ribeira so the boss can see how we work.”
After passing through vast rooms with tanks and enigmatic equipment, they climbed to a wide exterior balcony overlooking the gorge. The view from there gave one the sensation of hanging in the void. Manuel saw the workmen descending the steep slope in the tentative rays of a morning sun.
In a corner of the balcony stood a display of bottles and labels. Manuel picked up a bottle with a stark white background interrupted only by the proud sweep of silver letters in álvaro’s distinctive handwriting proclaiming Heroica.
They left the winery and went toward the river, passing the first terraces. Daniel greeted by name each of the half-dozen workmen. He ushered Manuel to a terrace where no one was yet at work and demonstrated how the grapes were harvested. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the work. It’s the most primitive and yet the most human task; especially when you think that humans were gatherers before they were planters, fruit eaters before they were meat eaters.”
Manuel accepted the proffered small sickle and made a couple of awkward attempts.
Daniel had no complaints. “Don’t worry. It takes practice to judge exactly how firmly you have to grasp the bunch without crushing the fruit, but other than that you don’t look at all like a first-time harvester.”
Manuel worked in silence at a distance from the others, concentrating on the task. The scent of the grapes became more intense as they warmed in the morning sun. He was aware of the ripe aroma of old vines, earth and granite, and fragrant herbs that grew along the edges of the terraces. The morning hours slipped away in silence.
“Hey, se?or marquis!”
Manuel turned in surprise and looked uphill toward a terrace where a rural workman was holding up a wineskin. The man waved the leather pouch. “Want some wine?”
Manuel smiled and accepted. He stepped to the edge of the terrace and reached up for the wineskin. “I’m not a marquis.” He grinned as he took it in hand.
The man shrugged as if in disbelief.
The wine had a strong bouquet, probably accentuated by the flavors accumulated over time in the leather wineskin. Cool and fragrant, it left an almost perfect acid tang in his mouth.
At lunchtime the workers shared fragrant chunks of brown bread and rough-cut pieces of cheese.
While they were eating, Manuel saw one of those curious floating contraptions go by on the river. Daniel gave him a wink and turned to one of the oldest workers.
“Abu, yesterday we were up on the Godello muras and saw your daughters in one of their floating crates. They were bailing like mad, and Manuel thought they were going to sink.” He was greatly amused.
Manuel looked up in surprise.
“Eso no hunde, home!” Abu exclaimed. The old fellow turned to share the joke with the others. He reiterated, “That thing won’t sink, man! If the folks on the Titanic’d had one of them things, they’d still be afloat out there!”
The men laughed.
Manuel smiled. “So those were your daughters?”
“They were and they still are,” Abu replied with the assertive scornful tone Manuel was beginning to recognize as typical of the region. “And for sure they’ll be coming back soon enough. They’re harvesting our plot.”
“So you have your own grapes as well?”
“Everybody around here has grapes in Ribeira Sacra, even if just on a tiny little scrap of land. The work’s harder than it looks. My family’s grapes are nothing like Heroica grapes. It’s just a pedaci?o pequeno, a tiny bit of land, on a really steep slope. But it’s enough for my daughters to support themselves. At least they won’t have to leave the way others have.”
As the day wore on, the heat of the burning sun high overhead was reflected by the river in dazzling optical illusions. They kept filling the crates and toting them to the edges of the terraces. After that they formed a human chain to pass the crates down to the stone wall at water’s edge to be stacked on the strange floating container boat.
At about five in the afternoon the enologist called an end to the day’s work. The men began to climb the slope, reinvigorated by the prospect of a hearty meal.
Manuel picked up Café and began climbing behind Abu. Though at least twenty years older than Manuel, the fellow scrambled deftly up the incline. Once at the crest, Manuel put the dog down and leaned over to catch his breath.
“You’re doing a fine job,” Abu told him, and then followed Café toward the picnic area.
The boisterous gathering of thirty people at the big table was a celebration. Baked potatoes and green salad awaited them on the table, quickly supplemented by trays loaded with meat the warehouse team had grilled over fires fed with roots from their own grapevines. Wine was poured freely into glasses that clinked in toasts to the new harvest.
They ate without ceremony or much talk. There was no dessert; instead fragrant pot-boiled coffee was brought to the table.
Some of the men got up to stretch their legs. A foreman glanced at Daniel, received an encouraging nod, and spoke to Manuel. “Look here, se?or marquis . . .”
Manuel raised a hand. “Manuel. Please.”
“Okay, then, don Manuel.” This was plainly costing him some effort. “I know Daniel gave you a tour, and se?or Gri?án has lots of information.” The fellow chose his words with great care. “I think you’ve had a bit of a look at the way we work, and how important every single plant is, every square inch of earth.”
Manuel nodded gravely and heard the man settle into his exposition.
“Well, right now the winery is working flat out, but things aren’t the same in winter. Recently we’ve been studying the possibilities of purchasing the vineyard next door. Along with the vines there’s a house with more than two acres of land that’s never been planted.”
The man picked up a wine cork from the table and began fidgeting with it as if he were facing invisible barriers. He was getting to the hard part.
“Don álvaro told us he’d decided to buy it, but then he had his accident, and the owner says she knows nothing about it. So maybe he didn’t have the time to give instructions to Gri?án, and . . . well . . . the thing is, it would mean more work for us building the terraces, and the plantings would give all of us work for the whole winter. We could renovate the house, too, and, well . . . we were wondering if you plan to proceed with the project . . . or not.”
The man fell silent and seemed to be holding his breath.
Everyone was watching the new owner.
Manuel picked up his coffee to buy himself some time. It was already cold, but he took a sip anyway. “Well,” he said, “I wasn’t aware of any of this. I’m afraid Gri?án didn’t mention it . . .”
“But do you think it could be done?” asked someone in the crowd.
Manuel felt cornered. The eyes, gestures, and expectant physical posture of these men were begging for reassurance he couldn’t provide.