Once Again With Feeling

"I'm the sea of all your ports. The talisman of your skin has promised me that your destiny lies at my door." Rosana,

El Talisman

.

**********

19-year-old Ezequiel Galindo Muñoz was setting the table for dinner.

Alejandra, his sister of 22, was preparing the arroz con leche; a pudding of rice, sugar and spiced goat's milk that everybody ate during Holy Week.

Today was April 13th, one of the last days of Holy Week. Lent would soon be over. There'd been a Pasos through the streets of Jerez that afternoon, with the plaintive singing of the saeta floating through the alleyways, and the crowd joining the prayers.

They had attended the procession, then returned home to this pueblo, a big collection of dwellings inhabited by jornaleros--people who toiled the land on nearby latifundios. Those vast tracts owned by the upper classes.

With dinner to be made as soon as they'd come home to the pueblo, Alejandra had taken off her mantilla, changed from her only black lace gown into a housedress, and joined their mother in the kitchen. She had made a fish salad as a starter, and was now making the arroz con leche for dessert. Their mother Soledad was making the main course; a vegetable stew cooked in olive oil.

Soledad and Alejandra did all the housework themselves, with help from Ezequiel when it was asked of him. The Galindo family had never been able to afford help at home. Nobody living in this pueblo 3 miles from the Torrejón latifundio could afford paid help. At times, affording fish could be difficult for a jornalero.

The Torrejón latifundio had been a vineyard since 1896, when Don José-Miguel Torrejón had decided that his 527 hectares of albariza soil was better suited to planting grapes, not almonds. That was 72 years ago now.

Now, in 1968, Casa Torrejón was a successful vineyard, all things considered. Ezequiel would know, seeing as he and his father Laureano were among the jornaleros there.

It wasn't much money, but it was enough to put fish salad, vegetable stew and arroz con leche on the table during Holy Week.

And it gave him his only opportunities to see Esperanza, the girl he loved. 19-year-old Esperanza Torrejón Lagares, the only child of Don Cipriano Torrejón y Reguera and Angela-Maria Lagares.

Esperanza...

She was

his

Esperanza, although nobody knew it except the two of them. They had belonged to each other for 4 months now, since she'd returned home from getting her fancy education in Madrid. That first night of her return to Andalucía, under the stars in the Torrejón

cortijo

, they had experienced physical love. It had been the first time for the both of them, and they'd shared it with each other.

Ezequiel smiled to himself, continuing to lay the table.

He laid places for five people; himself, his sister Alejandra, their mother Soledad, and their father Laureano. The fifth place was for Fermin Jurado, Alejandra's fiancé who was currently out on the veranda, watering the potted herbs.

"Don't let that burn," Soledad said to Alejandra.

Alejandra, who'd been looking thoughtful, lowered the heat on the arroz con leche, stirring slowly.

"In two minutes, you should take it off the heat, add the cinnamon and put it in the lower room to cool," Soledad continued.

Alejandra shot their mother a look. "I know that, Mama. I've been making this since I was 12." She poured the pudding into five bowls, sprinkled each with cinnamon and took the bowls down a short stairwell to the larder.

Soledad turned to Ezequiel. "When you finish setting that table, go tell your father that dinner will soon be served. I don't know what that man is always doing in that salon these days."

Ezequiel only nodded. Once the last dish was laid, he left the kitchen to find his father, going along a low-ceilinged corridor with white-painted walls.

This house had belonged to their family for three generations. It was one of four pueblo houses built around a central courtyard; a humble version of the grand single-owned

cortijos

. Like the kind Esperanza lived in on the Torrejón vineyard.

Ezequiel walked to his father's small salon. As soon as they'd all gotten home from the Pasos procession, his father had retreated to the salon, shutting the door behind him. He'd seemed more distracted than usual of late. It might just be one of his moods, but then it might also be something serious.

The salon was a cool south-facing room where they stored their few valuables and a small wine collection. Ezequiel knocked on the closed door.

It was several seconds before his father responded from within. "Come in," Laureano called.

Ezequiel opened the door, hesitating on the threshold. His father Laureano Galindo sat in his chair, a man of 56 with silver strands in his black hair. There was an open bottle of wine in front of him.

"Mama said to tell you dinner's almost ready," Ezequiel said.

Laureano nodded.

Ezequiel made to turn away, but changed his mind. Better to be sure than keep wondering. "Is something wrong?"

Laureano regarded him some time. Without replying, he turned to the window overlooking swathes of other pueblo houses--these dwellings of jornaleros and itinerant workers that made up their crowded, nondescript Andalucían pueblo. It was that fleeting period between sunset and dusk, where there was just light enough to make out the shape of the distant wine-growing hills.

A full minute passed without a reply from Laureano.

"Papa?" Ezequiel prompted.

Laureano's eyes remained fixed out the window. "This summer will mark the 50th year that our family has lived in this house and worked in the Torrejón bodegas."

"Yes. And?"

"I think it's time we left."

The words reverberated in Ezequiel. His instinctive response was disbelief, but the look in his father's eyes confirmed the truth of it. "Leave?! Leave to where?"

"Sevilla, most likely. Fermin has completed his pharmaceutical studies. He came to me last week to tell me that his plan is to open a pharmacy in Sevilla. Of course, he'll take your sister with him once they're married next month. It occurred to me that we might well join them. I can help add capital to what Fermin already has, and we'll all help run the pharmacy. It would be a family venture. That would certainly be a better life than the one we have here in this pueblo. Fermin agrees."

Ezequiel stared at his father. Leave this place where his own grandfather had lived and toiled? Leave this land? Leave his Esperanza? No!

"Fermin agrees?" Ezequiel couldn't help a sneer. "Of course Fermin agrees. He doesn't have ties to this land. Not like you and I do. He doesn't understand."

"But that doesn't make him wrong on this, Ezequiel."

Ezequiel entered the salon, pulled the chair across from Laureano and sat. He leaned forward, a thick mop of black waves falling over his forehead. His dark eyes burned. "Papa, I know things haven't been good in these recent times, but to just leave...?"

Laureano smiled bitterly. "Why not? Everybody else seems to be. It's not just in recent times either. Ever since that godforsaken Franco took over and destroyed our Spain, everybody in Andalucía has been leaving for Madrid and Barcelona and Alava. There's no reason we can't leave only for Sevilla."

Sevilla was still in Andalucía, but it was 55 miles away from here in Cádiz. 55 miles away from Esperanza.

"But there's no reason we can't--"

"Whatever you're about to suggest, I've already thought about it," Laureano cut in. "I considered everything before I considered leaving. Do you think I'd abandon the trade my father spent his life doing if I believed there might be some other way? I want to work in a bodega, not in a pharmacy, but we have no choice now. There's no money."

"There has to be something we can do. Maybe you can talk to Don Cipriano about paying you more. After all, your father worked in the bodega for years. There must be a way."

"Don Cipriano would laugh me out of the room if I made such a request. He wouldn't pay me a single

peseta

more than he already does. These times are tough on everyone. It's hard for any landowner to keep salaried workers at all. We're lucky as it is."

This silenced Ezequiel for half a minute. He looked down at his hands. Callused, scraped hands. Hands that hauled wine barrels, hefted to fill criaderas, and operated bottlers. They were not the hands of a pharmacist or a shopkeeper. They were the hands that created wine.

Specifically,

this

open bottle of wine on his father's table. It was a black glass amontillado bottle with a gold label printed: 'Casa Torrejón.'

The bottle was a gift from Don Cipriano himself; Esperanza's father. Every year, Don Cipriano gifted the bodega staff with a bottle.

From the open top, the wine's fragrance teased Ezequiel's nostrils. He already knew what it tasted like. He'd begun drinking Casa Torrejón amontillado before he'd begun drinking water. It was a medium-dry amber colored liquid that sat perfectly on the palate, with notes of brine, caramel, almond and oak. Aged under flor for 7 years and oxidized for another 8 years.

The finest amontillado in the world. And it wasn't only because his labors helped produce it.

Ezequiel stared hard at the bottle of amontillado. To leave the skills he'd been bequeathed by his grandfather? To leave the only life and land he knew? To leave Esperanza?

He looked from the bottle to his father's face. "Don Cipriano isn't a completely unreasonable man, Papa. At least I don't think so. It can't hurt for you to just ask him for more money. The worst he can do is refuse."

Laureano's eyes were hard. The line of his mouth was harder. "No. I won't beg for more from a man hardly older than myself. A man whose father respected mine. I'll talk to Don Cipriano alright, but only to tell him my plans to leave."

"You wouldn't be begging. Only asking your due. Just think about it. If he agrees, we wouldn't need to leave."

Laureano didn't reply for a moment, then he sighed. "We'll see." He pushed his chair back. "We shouldn't keep your Mama waiting any longer. You know how she gets."

Soon, they were all seated around the dinner table. As was their usual, their meal lasted well into the night. Ezequiel, who had been relieved that his father hadn't dismissed his idea outright again, was pleased to see that the thoughtful frown didn't leave his father's face throughout the evening.

Laureano said no more on the subject the next day, or the next.

The Tuesday after Easter, they set out for the vineyard. They left the pueblo and headed northwest with 25 other jornaleros, all on horseback. There were no major highways in this stretch of land far out from the city. There was a simple road ahead; wide and unpaved. Around them were the rolling Andalucían hills of cedar trees and white albariza soil. Soon, their destination was on the horizon--Casa Torrejón.

The riders turned into a narrower track where the wild cedars became cultivated land.

Now that it was springtime, the vines were sprouting. Vines bearing the Palomino grapes that would later become a prime amontillado. Men were already in the fields. Several buildings were spread out at the far end of the track; the stables, the bodegas, and the equipment sheds. Lying farther to the east was the old family chapel. Farther west was the overseer's house--the only employee permitted to live on the land.

In the distance was the

cortijo

, a fortress that had homed generations of the Torrejón family. The vineyard, with its neat rows of vines, separated the

cortijo

from all the other buildings. The great house stood at the southern point of the estate, backed immediately by an oak grove.

The riders followed the track to the stables. There, they dismounted in a cacophony of hooves, boots, voices and laughter, trooping out to the bodegas.

As they did, Ezequiel turned his gaze southwards, squinting into the distance at the

cortijo

. Looking for his Esperanza. This action was automatic; his obedience to an intrinsic urge to seek her out always.

He was rewarded--there she was, standing under the colonnade with Don Cipriano. The father and daughter were arm-in-arm, having what appeared to be a deeply engrossing conversation. Esperanza's eyes never left her father's face.

Ezequiel's gaze must have lingered too long on the pair, because his own father Laureano stopped walking to follow his gaze to the

cortijo

.

"Don Cipriano is already outdoors," Laureano said quietly. "I might well approach him now, instead of knocking on the doors to beg a meeting later."

Equally hopeful and uneasy, Ezequiel turned to his father. "To ask him for the pay rise?"

Laureano sighed and shook his head. "No. I've thought it over and I still see no point to it. He'll refuse and I'll have lowered myself for nothing. Going to Sevilla is our best option. At least for now. Until things get better, whenever that may be."

Ezequiel's heart sank like a boulder in a pond. He couldn't reply.

Laureano squinted in the direction of the father-daughter pair again. Then he placed a hand on Ezequiel's shoulder. "Be careful of your heart, son."

Ezequiel's face heated. He hadn't realized that his father had noticed his feelings for Esperanza. Had anyone else noticed, too? He looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. Take care, Ezequiel. She is Don Cipriano's daughter. She is not and never will be for you." Laureano removed his hand from Ezequiel's shoulder. "I'll go and talk to him now, if he'll give me a hearing." He took the first step towards the

cortijo

.

Ezequiel stepped after him. "I'm coming with you."

His father gave him a pitying look, then shrugged. A non-verbal way of saying, "Very well, then."

Together, they started through the vineyard's central path. Their pace was brisk; from here, it was almost a mile to the big house.

Ten minutes later, they crested a hill. The

cortijo

stood before them with its high stone walls and arched windows. The main entrance was under a colonnaded open gallery. There were Esperanza and Don Cipriano, still absorbed in conversation.

Together, Ezequiel and Laureano climbed the stone steps and reached the gallery. Only then were they noticed by the father and daughter. Don Cipriano looked at them with an impatient frown. Esperanza did the same--but the instant her eyes met Ezequiel's, her frown disappeared. The barest of smiles played on her lips.

Those sweet lips. He should know; he'd tasted them many times.

Sweet and full, those lips were her only soft feature. The rest of her was angular; a wide forehead with a widow's peak, high cheekbones, a pointed chin. Her body was very slender; sharp angles, subtle curves, lean muscles and delicate joints. Her morning gown hugged her figure. A hat dangled from her fingers. Her coal-black hair was in a single braid falling to her waist.

She was perfect.

Torn between the pleasure of seeing her again and the despair that he soon would be gone, Ezequiel lowered his eyes. It was bad enough that his father had noticed his feelings. It would be disastrous if Don Cipriano caught on too.

Laureano removed his sombrero. "Good day to you, Don Cipriano. And to you, Señorita Torrejón."

"Good morning, Laureano." Don Cipriano's impatient frown didn't soften. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, Señor. Nothing is amiss in the bodegas that I've been made aware of. I approached to ask for a few minutes to speak with you in private about another matter."

"Very well. I've no time now, but you can return later in the afternoon and ask to be shown into my salon."

Laureano nodded respectfully. "Of course."

While this exchange went on between the two older men, Ezequiel stole another glance at Esperanza. She too was looking at him. They shared a smile. Ezequiel subtly inclined his head, asking her a silent question -- "Can you meet me in the courtyard this night?" She gave a barely-perceptible nod. It was a silent answer -- "Yes. I'll meet you there at the usual time."

Before the older men had finished their exchange, this silent agreement was made. Laureano put his sombrero back on. Ezequiel did the same. Together, they retraced their path to the bodega to start their day's work.

Despite the heaviness in Ezequiel's heart at soon leaving this land, there was the warm anticipation of another clandestine meeting tonight, and the assurance that she was his.

She loved him as he loved her. She would wait for him until he returned here. And he

would

return. They were destined to end up together. He knew it. He'd known it since that first fevered night they claimed each other. When they'd joined with eyes closed, limbs entangled, hearts pounding and skin burning.

*****

Dawn hung over the sprouting vines of the Torrejón estate.

Esperanza Torrejón Lagares, arm-in-arm with her father Don Cipriano, walked the vines near the

cortijo

.

It wasn't unusual that they took these quiet dawn walks. This morning, they'd come out here even before their café con leche. Her mother Angela-Maria was still sleeping. Angela-Maria never rose without the sun, and the sun wasn't up yet. It would be soon. It was 5:00am. on the Tuesday after Easter. The workers living in the nearby pueblo were due to return to the vineyard today. Their work would begin at 5:30.

In half an hour, a band of men on horseback would swoop into these fields and the bodegas. Then, before noon, all the field laborers would have left again. Exhausted. Sweating. Dusty. Backs aching. Muscles sore. Fingers scraped. It wasn't easy work, and during the hand harvest, the physical toll was excruciating. But every drop of fine amontillado made each sore muscle and sliced finger worthwhile.

Esperanza gazed across the expanse of vines. Her vines.

They were mostly Palomino grapes. A small percentage were Pedro Ximénez. Their amontillado was a 7:1 blend of these two grape varietals. These unripe grapes currently on the vine would be amber-colored wine in fifteen years' time. Fifteen years ago, the wine now being bottled had been grapes on the vine.

This circle had been unbroken for 72 years.

Tradition. Continuity. Pride. Duty. These things were life to her.

"I'm glad to be home," she said to her father.

Don Cipriano gave her a sideways glance. "Good." They continued at their strolling pace. "You've given some thought to what we discussed before you left for Madrid?"

"I have," Esperanza replied.

"And?"

Instead of answering his question, she asked one of her own. "Of all possible other suitors for me, why did you decide on Florentin San Roman?"

"Why should it

not

be Florentin? Their family ticks all the boxes. We've known them for years, they have the money, and they're one of the few members of the bourjois who haven't left for Paris or Switzerland."

"The obvious choice, then." Esperanza smiled coolly. "You know, Papa, if I were to judge from some comments Florentin made to me in Madrid, I'd say that the San Romans don't support Franco nearly as much as they'd like him to believe they do."

Don Cipriano laughed. "Can you blame them? With their money tied up in local banks, they're not looking to join the ranks of exiled left-wingers. They'll say almost anything to stay in Franco's good graces. I'd bet that half the bourjois in Madrid still claiming to support him aren't being truthful. The nationalists want democracy as much as the rest of us."

"And it doesn't feel like it's coming anytime soon. I'm irritated with the way he's handling the economy and how much it's affecting the vineyard, but I

really

take exception now it's affecting my choice of husband."

Don Cipriano eyed her. "Didn't you enjoy spending that time with Florentin in Madrid? The whole point of my telling you to stay there those extra weeks was to solidify things between you two. I thought you liked him."