Table of Contents
To B.,
who took me there
For J.,
who brought me back
It was held, that every wine disease had its specific microbe. In reality, there is no such thing. Wine bacteria are the result of adaptation by a large number of species to this environment, which is in the first instance unfavorable to them. A few cells of each species have been able, with time, either by mutation or by adaptation, to attack the wines substrata... and have changed into spoilage bacteria.
Emile Peynaud, Knowing and Making Wine
in the beginning nothing raw matter cold dark a void there are two latent on the surface of the sphere of all nature they split and then split again from two four, from four eight, from eight, hundreds they eat and eat and multiply and multiply again warmth there are thousands they stuff themselves, eating and shitting, their offspring the spontaneous combustion, spawning nebulae of voracious appetite there are millions identical in their instantaneous gestation roiling the waters of the void devouring sugar, more sugar whipping the dark chaos into a froth of birth and death heat the stink of their exhalation, foul odors of exhumation fill the atmosphere oxygen, no oxygen the frenzy of feeding and coupling, gorging themselves primitive violence of creation bacchanalian orgy of bubbling, frothing, stinking life and death the boiling waters of life quintessence of spirit and their bodies rise and sink, exhausted no air no air there is only spirit and death and wine
They brought in the harvest early that year in Napa, and with it, Richard Wilsons body. A perfect flowering, a mild spring dotted with just the right amount of rain, and a hot, dry summer had ripened the fruit to twenty-eight Brix by late August. Wilsons selection, on the other hand, had nothing to do with how sweet he was.
The bar was always dead that time of year. The whole world, it seemed, was out picking. I dreaded going to work but dragged my ass down the mountain and opened the place. I did the books from the night before and swept up. A few customers wandered in, guys too old to stoop in a vineyard for ten hours straight in ninety-degree heat. By three oclock, Id done a staggering twenty bucks.
Ill never forget that day. It was the first time Id seen Wilson in more than a decade, and it was the last day I would see him alive.
I was just settling into the lazy rhythm that creeps up on you late in the afternoon: time to slice lemons and limes, fill the condiment caddy, and contemplate your favorites on the jukebox. Al Green was serenading the few off-hour drinkers whod straggled into Panchos, asking his plaintive question How can you mend a broken heart? Apparently, none of my customers had a clue.
It was sweltering, so Id propped the front door open to capture what little breeze there was. I had my back turned and was just emptying the last of a jar of McSweet onions into the caddy, when a voice out of my past said, Pour me something Ive never tasted. I turned around. Hed put on weight, a lot of weightthe college jock gone to seedbut he was immediately recognizable.
Hello, Richard. I ducked under the backbar and pulled out a bottle, set a wineglass in front of him, and started to pour. An old-vine Mataro thatll knock your socks off, I said, as if I had seen him only the day before. He held his hand up.
Just a taste. Im on my way to Norton.
In the middle of harvest?
Filling a few gaps before the second edition of my California book goes to press.
He picked up the glass the way pros do, his thumb and forefinger pinching the base of the stem, twirled it deftly, inhaled, and set it down. Then he turned his back to me, took two steps, and stopped.
I dont get it, he said.
Get what?
This place, your life. You gave it all up... for this?
Yeah, Top of the Mark, I said. I had no intention of falling for it. Where are you staying?
With a friend.
Have you seen your father yet? I said.
I dont know why Janie moved him out here, Wilson said, shaking his head as he turned around.
Do you really think its possible to take care of someone with Alzheimers long-distance? Shed have had to dump him in a nursing home.
Hes in a nursing home here. His whole life is in New York.
What life? I said. The one he cant remember?
He stared into the wine. I feel badly that Janies been strapped with this.
Somebodys got to do it. Youre not about to put your life on hold. At least this way hes close. She can keep an eye on him, make sure he gets proper medical attention.
It was an accusation, an indictment, and made for an uncomfortable silence.
What about Janie? I asked. Any time for her this trip?
I was supposed to have dinner with her last night, Wilson said.
Supposed?
Something came up. I couldnt make it, but Ill try to catch her tomorrow before I take off.
What about tonight? You could see Danny. I know hed love to see his uncle.
He sidestepped the suggestion. You remember how crazy we were, way back when? he said, lifting his gaze but refusing to look at himself in the mirror that lined the back of the bar.
Yeah, pretty intense, I said, sniffing a glass that reeked of detergent and buffing out a water stain.
As if our lives depended on what we could detect in a glass of wine, Wilson mused.
He took a turn into the room, walked to the pool table, and rolled the cue ball across the manicured lawn of felt.
Im headed for Europe in a few weeks. You should bag all of this and come with me, he said. It would be like old times.
One of the regulars looked at me as if I were about to walk out the door. And it was tempting, tempting to walk away, to disappear, to leave the bar to my partner, Frank Mulligan, leave my son to Janie, to pretend I was twenty years younger, without a care in the world.
Im not going to do that to Danny, I said. Owning this place is bad enough. I seem to have less time now than I did in Seattle.
You own this dump? When I didnt answer, he said, Its a waste of your talents.
Its impossible to waste yourself on your child, I said. A kid changes everything.
He turned his gaze on me, but his eyes seemed to look straight past me, through me, to the bar-length mirror.
Whyd you quit? What happened? he said.
After your sister left me, I thought I could deal with it. I used to love my work. Those early years. I picked up where you and I left off, tasting everything I could. I think I memorized whole swaths of Lichine and Broadbent.
I sent you those books.
Did you? I dont remember. Maybe you did. You were very generous. Im sure your letters got me the distributor job and my first gig as a sommelier. You were already famous.
Hardly. Id only just started the newsletter.
Well, people knew about it, I said, carefully peeling a lemon in a single, continuous spiral with a stripper. Anyway, something changed after Janie split. Everything and everyone irritated me. I finally snapped one night. A customer I knew pretty well, a typical venture capital type, had his nose stuck in one of your newsletters and wanted to quibble that the bottle Id brought to the table had failed to fetch ninety points.
Wilson smiled, pleased with himself. What did you say?
