Sweeter Than Wine (11 page)

"You have not had it cleaned since Bill left. Pasteur would have wept!"

Alice's expression became stony. "Old Mr. Verdacchia told me--and Bill, too--
'Don't touch anything!'"

She was trying to explain her failure! Militant contempt filled him to
overflowing. "Your wine spoiled because of filth!" He gestured emphatically at the
brass fittings and spouts, layered with bright green corrosion. He rapped his
knuckles against the dark stains of spilled wine and tartrate deposit, furry with the
generations of mold that jacketed the huge redwood tanks. "Would you cook in a
kitchen like this?"

"I--no--" Alice turned away from him, her arms folded tightly across her
stomach.

Siegfried realized with a shock that she thought he was angry at her. And
capable of acting on that anger physically.

He took a step back, mastered his emotions, and shrugged in the fashion his
old drill sergeant repeatedly damned as "too French." He shook his head as futility
replaced fury. "You do not need my help here, Alice. You need a miracle!"

Montclair

Sunday, May 18

Alice escaped into the kitchen after that.

Siegfried let her go, feeling as guilty for telling her the truth about the
conditions inside the winery as if he had actually man-handled her. He stayed out
of her way, walking the verdant rows of vines, until it was time to eat.

Throughout the Sunday supper of tender pork roast, home-canned vegetables,
mashed potatoes, and a crisp, fruity Riesling, Siegfried was painfully aware of the
crushed expression in Alice's eyes as she made polite conversation. It destroyed
all his pleasure in the meal.

And her silence left him too much time to think. He had to do something with
his life. He couldn't stay at Montclair and expect Alice to feed him for nothing. The
fields gave promise of an abundant harvest. They might sell the crop to another
winery, but he longed to make his own wine, to participate in the magic of that
transformation. Yet how could he practice his art in a ruin?

His mind began to enumerate the tasks that needed to be done, the manpower
required, and the expense to make the winery operable. He had faced similar
situations before, during the War, when he had been asked to perform the
impossible with too few men, and all of them dispirited. Then, he had succeeded
against the odds. Could he do it again?

As Siegfried continued to eat his dinner, he began to look at each part of the
disaster in the winery separately, to divide the gigantic whole into tasks that were
merely daunting. He could see each step, and he began to hope. It would be
difficult. But maybe it could be done. And for a man who wanted to make wine
here--his own wine--it would have to be done.

He took a second helping of roast pork and ate it with gusto. When he had
cleaned his plate, he refilled Alice's glass, and then his own. "I have been thinking,
Alice," he announced. "I think we can do it. I think we can be prepared in time for
this year's crush."

Alice looked at him blankly. "But I thought you said-"

"A complete renovation will be necessary," he interrupted, eager to convince
her, and ticked off the points on his fingers. "The winery floors must be swept and
washed. We must scrape all of the mold and tartrate deposits from the inside and
outside of the redwood and oak tanks, and scrub them with soda ash and
potassium permanganate. That will be a hard, dirty task, and I will need men to
help me."

Alice eyes narrowed during his enthusiastic recital. "I see. And how many men
will you need for this housecleaning project?"

"At least five," Siegfried replied, ignoring the suspicion in her voice.

"For how long?"

"Until crush. Three months, perhaps a little more. Also, the crusher and pumps
are in dire need of cleaning and maintenance. We will have to remove as much of
the rust and corrosion as we can from the pipes and fittings. I saw only a single
crusher, and a very small one at that. A second crusher, much larger, is needed.
The bottling equipment is inadequate as well. We must replace all of the pumps
and pipes with nickel-plated--"

Alice fixed him with a cold stare. There was nothing in her face now of the
solicitous angel who had fed him or of the vulnerable girl whose treasure had
tarnished in her keeping. "Your grandfather made perfectly good wine with that
equipment. You said so yourself last night. With barely three months to go before
the harvest, I cannot possibly tear out machinery that's in working order."

"I cannot guarantee good results with the existing equipment."

She shook her head. "An hour ago, you said it couldn't be done at all!"

"Ah-lees," Siegfried, said, his accent slipping, "I have thought this over. We
can do it. We can make wine at Montclair."

"Great wine?" she asked, and bit her lower lip uncertainly.

Could she be wavering? "The best." He had to convince her.

The shrill vibration of the phone intruded. "I'll get that!" Alice sprang to her feet
and rushed into the hallway.

"Hello?" Siegfried heard her say, cautiously. Then her voice changed. "Oh,
Grandmother Tati--how nice to hear from you. Siegfried and I were just finishing
supper."

A silence, then Alice said, a little stiffly, "Certainly. I'll ask him to come to the
phone... Siegfried!"

He left the dining room, took the small receiver from her, and spoke down into
the cone-shaped mouthpiece. "Hallo, Oma?"

"Oh, Friddy--but I mustn't call you that anymore. You're all grown up now.
Siegfried. I just wanted to find out how things were going."

"They are going well," Siegfried slanted a glance at Alice's back. She had
returned to the dining room and was stacking the plates. "Alice is a wonderful
cook, and she has made me feel very welcome."

"That's good," Tati said, and immediately asked, "Have you had a chance to
look over the winery yet?"

"Well, it's all very...dusty." Siegfried saw Alice stop, and her back become rigid.
"But the vineyards are in the best order, and everything else will be fine by
crush."

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear that, dear!" Tati said. "Please let me know if you need
anything. I want so much to help you. And do let me know how you're getting
along with Alice. I know that Montclair will be all right, now that you're there."

"Alice has been taking very good care of Montclair," Siegfried said, quickly.
Alice knocked over a glass, and it rang against the edge of a plate. The sound
stopped as she snatched it up. "You need not have worried. We shall get along
very well together."

They rang off, and Siegfried went into the dining room. Alice had disappeared,
so he picked up a serving platter and joined her in the kitchen.

"Why didn't you tell her the truth?" Alice asked, stooped defensively over the
dishpan. "That I've ruined everything!"

"Because you have not," Siegfried replied, surprised by his desire to put a
comforting arm around her. "You have taken very good care of the house and the
vineyard. It was not your fault that no one explained to you how to care for the
winery."

The gratitude in her eyes made him feel heroic. And besides, he decided, he
had not really lied to Oma. He would have everything in order by crush--or he
would die trying.

* * *

They spent the afternoon in the winery, doing a thorough inspection and
inventory, and all evening in Alice's office, compiling a complete listing of the
necessary tasks.

When Alice retired to her room after supper and cleanup, Siegfried grabbed
Grape Culture, Wines, and Wine-making
, one of his favorite books from
Opa Roye's library, then undressed and went to bed. He turned the pages of
Haraszthy's European adventure until his eyes crossed, then switched off the light.
But sleep was slow in coming. He was keyed-up and conscious of the hours
slipping by. Harvest would come too soon!

When he finally did drift off, he dreamed of Rodernwiller.

...the house was dark, cold, and deserted. Siegfried climbed the stairs,
knowing what awaited him in his father's study.

He steeled himself to touch the corpse. The dead fingers twitched as
Siegfried pulled the signet ring from the cold hand. They reached up blindly
towards him, grasping, as Siegfried tried to make his suddenly heavy limbs dodge
out of the way.

Father's shoulders tensed and the dark-stained head struggled to rise from
the pool of dried blood on the gilt-stamped blotter. Siegfried whimpered with terror
as he scrabbled at the doorknob. He did not want to look at that shattered
face
.

He ran down the hallway, clutching the gold ring he had looted from the
dead, the heavy metal weighing him down as if he were running chest-deep in a
flooded trench.

Down the dark staircase with its stained wallpaper, towards the beckoning
square of the front door...behind him he could hear an irregular shuffle, growing
ever closer. Dread gripped Siegfried's stomach at the thought of those cold fingers
grabbing him. Out--he had to get outside!

Enemy artillery fell, a rain of deadly fire, screaming with the lost voice of his
little brother.

There was a faint whoosh as the curtains ignited, then a wave of heat that
dissolved the sticky bonds weighing down his limbs.

Siegfried looked over his shoulder to see fire flowing like water across the
parquet floor towards him. His father's corpse, now a flaming torch, stood at the
foot of the stairs.

"Bring the buckets, son, and fight to the death!" rasped the thing. "Bring
water!"

"Water?" Siegfried managed to force a whisper around the fear strangling
his voice. "But there is no water, Father. No water!"

* * *

Alice awoke abruptly as she heard Siegfried cry out.

A terrible fear squeezed her chest. Before she could think, she jumped out of
bed and ran down the hallway.

Siegfried had not drawn his bedroom curtains before retiring. In the faint
moonlight coming though the window, she saw that he was asleep, moving
restlessly under the coverlet, captive to some disturbing dream.

Her anger at his arrogant and belittling remarks about the winery had faded in
the face of his plan to save Montclair. And he had been gallant, defending her to
Tati.

Alice started as he spoke suddenly, his voice low, harsh: "
Wasser? Aber da
ist kein Wasser, Vater. Kein Wasser
!"

She sat down on the edge of the bed. "Hush," she whispered, as if to a child.
"Hush. It's all right now." She gently stroked his face to comfort him. His cheek
was faintly rough with stubble--and wet.

He was crying in his sleep.

She stopped, unwilling to experience such a feeling of communion with this
stranger, her husband. He did not wake, but her touch had already soothed him.
His jaw muscles relaxed and he turned towards her, one arm reaching over her
lap, his face nestling against her thigh. "Mutti," he mumbled, drawing her
close.

She knew that much German, at least. He had mistaken her for his mother.
Feeling oddly tender, she rested her hand in his rumpled hair. "It's all right. You're
safe here."

Even though she wished with all her heart that he had never come, she felt
sorry for him now. No one should have to wake up to a damp pillow, alone.

Alice sat there a few minutes longer, until Siegfried fell into deeper sleep, then
she carefully removed his hand from her waist, and went silently out of his
room.

Back in her own lonely bed, she still felt the warmth of his arm across her
lap.

* * *

He woke to the sound of a man's voice, cursing, then retching repeatedly.
Sitting up, reaching for a rifle, it took Siegfried a moment to recognize where he
was in the gray gloom. Four intact walls and a floral carpet. Montclair. California.
Safe.

He relaxed onto his pillow, feeling sympathy for the sufferer, and sweet guilt
for the extra minute of rest before he extricated himself from the delightful bed with
its clean dry sheets.

He ignored the aching in his leg as he dressed swiftly and limped downstairs.
When he reached the archway to the kitchen he straightened, steadied himself
with one hand on the jamb, and came around the corner.

A young woman was setting the kitchen table. She was slightly plump, a
smooth olive complexion and dark hair combed into a neat bun. Her fine features
showed strain in a smudge of indigo beneath soft brown eyes. Full lips, pursed in
concentration, opened in surprise as she looked up at him. Her "Good morning,"
died in her throat as a fork clattered to the floor.

"Good morning?" Siegfried's greeting turned into a question.

"Peter said you--but I didn't expect you to--Oh, my. You look just like Bill. Like
Mr. Roye did, I mean. But your poor face." She closed her mouth and nervously
bent to pick up the fork.

When she stood facing him again, Siegfried gave her a half-bow. "You must
be...Maria? Peter is a lucky man."

As if in response to his name being spoken, Peter Verdacchia banged open
the screen door and came inside. His sturdy trousers and shirt, along with a
battered Stetson, already showed the effects of several hours of work.

He was a handsome man in his mid-twenties, with a full head of blue-black
curly hair, but his sun-weathered face was rather green this morning, as if he had
a miserable hang-over.

Seeing Siegfried, Peter exclaimed, "Crimeny, but you're tall, Sig--almost taller
than Mr. Roye was!"

"No one could ever be that tall," Siegfried answered with a slow smile. "It is
good to see you again, Peter." He put his hand out, remembering the sun-
drenched days and easy camaraderie of his apprenticeship.

The three of them, he and Peter and Bill, had shared their dreams that
summer. Bill, in his first year at Berkeley, had been army-mad. Siegfried had
wanted nothing more than to be a vintner. Peter had been ardently in love and
pursuing a shy young thing still in school.