The Winemaker's Daughter, page 20
“Ready?”
They follow the Columbia north, new grass fuzzing the hillsides. The river is pregnant with young salmon, millions of fingerlings driven by biological imperative to make it downstream through the desert toward the ocean; they are trapped in a river with little snowmelt, a river that won’t move. Clouds of pink rise from the orchards as bulldozers knock down apple trees in midblossom. The bigger trees will yield cordwood; the younger ones will be burned this week. Brunella tries to find a tune on the radio of the Forest Service Suburban, but all she gets are rants from local demagogues. No matter the station, the host is livid, the callers apoplectic. Everybody is going under, their land drying up, their water disappearing, their fruit worthless in a market where money flows to the cheapest producer. They want the government to step in and then step away. They want the Indians to go back to being invisible.
Up ahead, a roadblock, sirens and flashing lights from the state patrol. Somebody has driven a truck and trailer across the width of the road and left it there, stopping all traffic in both directions. The long trailer, the kind used to haul logs, is empty but for a single coffin, over which is draped a banner that reads AMERICAN IRRIGATOR.
In midafternoon they arrive at the Indian construction site. It’s a sprawling complex, several stories high, with cement arches out front and workers pouring pavement for a wraparound parking lot, set right next to the backed-up ever-more-cumbrous Columbia. To the side, she sees two canals emptying water into a deep pit covering several acres. As Leon walks to the front, two security men step in front of him.
“Hold on there, chief. You got business here?”
“Forest Service,” Leon says, producing a card. “Need to speak to your manager.”
The guard runs Leon’s business card into a construction shack. Leon and Brunella wait in the sun, watching liquid pavement roll over the crushed brown land. Steam rises from the fresh asphalt; it looks like black oatmeal. Early May, and the heat is already starting to bear down, a hint of the coming months. Two Indian men in hard hats emerge from the shack; Brunella recognizes one of them, Tozzie Cresthawk, and smiles at him. He looks gaunt.
“Help you?” says the older man, gray braids on the front of his shirt beneath his hard hat.
“Need to talk about your water,” says Leon.
“What about it?”
“Any of this water come from the coulee up near where we had the fire last summer?”
“You’re Treadtoofar. A Wanapum?”
“Half.”
“Who’s your family?”
“I got a sister at Inchelium. Brother married into the Sho-Bans.”
“Your father: he was council president on Bluerock’s side, wasn’t he?”
“That was my uncle. Long time ago.”
“Not to my family. Bluerock has it in for us. What’s your business today?”
“Just need to see where your water’s coming from. I’m finishing up an investigation of the Johnny Blackjack fire.” He motions to the half-sheathed building. “You got quite the Taj Mahal going up here.”
“It’s gonna get bigger, too.”
“You’ve been buying up a lot of water rights.”
“Everything we can get our hands on. The X-O ranch, two golf properties, all the orchards on the east slope—we bought all them water leases, every goddamn drop. It’s Bu Rec and Corps stuff, most of it going back to the early fifties. Those boys had some pretty sweet deals. We paid ten times what it was costing ’em. Senior water rights don’t come cheap.”
“Any of it come from up above, near where we had the fire?”
“You’re a Johnny One-Note, ain’t ya?”
“You can’t possibly need that much water.”
“We have plans.”
“I’d like to see some documentation of the purchases.”
“Fine. It’s all on the rez, in Nespelem. You remember how to get to the rez, don’t you, brother? Or are you going to need a passport?”
“So this water you’ve been buying,” Brunella says. “How much of it—”
“Who’s this?” the man in the braids asks Leon, without making eye contact with Brunella.
“Cartolano,” says Tozzie, turning to the older Indian. Tozzie fidgets as he talks, clawing at his arms. “I used to know her brother.”
“Ah, Cartolano,” says the man with braids. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of the old man.”
“My father.”
“I’m Red Thunder. Danny Red Thunder, tribal chairman and general manager. We got an offer standing on your place. You’re just about the last holdout.”
“We’re not selling, thank you very much.”
“Every other irrigator has sold.”
“My father is a winemaker. We’re here forever. What exactly is the tribe building?”
Tozzie looks at her. “Something grand,” he says, twitching, scratching at a lesion on his arm.
Brunella detects a mocking tone. “How grand?”
“This parking lot will hold two thousand cars when we’re done,” says Red Thunder.
“Two thousand cars,” Brunella says. “I thought the tribe was building a culture center here.”
“We are,” says Red Thunder.
“What kind of culture center needs a parking lot for two thousand cars?”
“Culture of blackjack and slot machines.”
“A casino.”
“Three hundred jobs is what it is,” says Red Thunder. He moves closer to Leon and looks him up and down, then holds his stare on the small Forest Service tattoo on one arm. “Casinos are the new salmon, the only way to get back from them a little piece of what they took from us. But you wouldn’t know about that, since you wear the uniform.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means whatever you want it to mean.”
“How deep does the water go in that pit of yours?” Leon says. “Looks like you got yourself a good-sized lake.”
“Gonna get bigger,” says Red Thunder.
“Why do you need so much water?” Brunella asks. “You trying to duplicate Las Vegas?” She notices that one of the white security guards has his ear cocked to their conversation.
Red Thunder laughs. “Yeah, we should put a couple of neon cowboys out front riding on the world’s tallest fountain. That’s an idea.”
On the drive to the Cartolano house, Leon ignores Brunella’s questions. She wants to know about his family on the reservation, about tribal quarrels, and why Danny Red Thunder seemed so hostile. He shakes his head once, keeps his gaze tight on the road. Now he extends his big right arm and a long slender finger to Brunella’s mouth. “Stop. You’ll never understand.” She thinks Leon is not so hard to comprehend; he is a man who builds his fences to last and lets people in on his terms.
They see dust clouds ahead and hear honking horns; a line of traffic is backing up the single lane of dirt road leading up to Angelo’s vineyard. Cars snake all the way to the house. She gets out and starts to trot toward the vineyard. At the head of the line of cars, Miguel is acting like a traffic cop, trying to get people to turn around. He’s flustered. Next to him is a big hand-painted sign: SORRY NO WINE.
“Brunella, thank God,” he says. “Look at this mess! It’s crazy.”
“What’s going on?”
“Ever since the word got out from France, your father’s wine has become a—how did they call it?—cult wine.”
“But he got rid of that vintage.”
“Yes! Nobody believes me when I say it’s gone.”
“That’s the one he oaked with the wood chips.”
“It doesn’t matter. The prices people are willing to pay! I’ve never seen anything like it, Brunella.”
“Where’s Babbo?”
“Inside. He’s . . . he doesn’t care. He hasn’t left the house in three days. Your brother’s been calling, but Angelo won’t talk to him. Roberto even called me. He says this French thing—Vin whatever—is huge. Wants me to lean on Angelo. He’s got an offer to sell the place. Beeeeeg bucks, he says. But I can’t get your dad to pay attention. The bud is just around the corner, and I haven’t set the irrigation drip line yet, and smudge pots will have to be cleaned and set, and where is Mr. Cartolano?”
“I’ll help you, Miguel. You can teach me.”
“But where is the winemaker? See for yourself and then talk to me. Call the sheriff while you’re inside. I need help with all these cars.”
Angelo has transformed Niccolo’s room into a shrine to Mount Stuart. On the wall is a blown-up picture of the mountain, marked by Angelo’s notations. Piles of climbing gear—crampons, pitons, carabiners, headlamp and batteries, chest and seat harnesses, jumars, and a ninety-foot rope— as well as clothes, gaiters, and packets of sugary drink have been sorted and tagged. He is milling around the room in his underpants, shirtless and barefoot, talking to his ice ax while cross-checking an old notebook. Brunella walks in alone.
He looks up but does not flip up his reading glasses or even seem to recognize his daughter. “Un momento.” He tells the ice ax to hold on a minute, he is sorry to interrupt. He reads a page with his fingers, walks to the map and big picture on the wall, traces a route. “ Alora. The glacier is gone.”
“Babbo, I need to talk to you. Adesso!”
“Oh, Brunella, mi dispiace. I didn’t see you there. I thought you were Miguel.”
“Miguel?”
“Come, find a place to sit. I know it’s cluttered.”
She notices more jars of urine. “You’ve gotten worse with these pee jars of yours. Can’t you just use the bathroom?”
“Let me show you something.” He points to the map. “We climbed it this way. There was a good-sized glacier there. Oh, that was scary, let me tell you. But look at this picture from Beckey’s new book. See? Now the glacier is gone.”
“Babbo, you can’t climb Mount Stuart at your age. This is a delusion.”
“A what? Did you bring me any of the big clams?”
“No, but I brought a guest. Who were you talking to just now?”
“My ice ax.”
“And how did that go?”
“Fine. Nella, listen to me: I’m going to rewrite my will and give everything to you.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I don’t trust Roberto—my own blood. He’s been calling every day, sometimes three and four times. He says he’s selling the place. I say it’s not for sale. It never will be. He says we have to get out now, before it’s too late, before they take it, because we have the big prize from the French wine contest. Oh, how they love the wine that tastes like oak shit. It’s caca! I wish I had destroyed every drop. I say to Roberto: A Cartolano does not sell land! Roberto has lost his way in this big country. I knew once he moved to Texas—acch, don’t let me talk too much about it. But that reminds me of something that is more important now. Bring me my radio. We must hope that God keeps punishing the Texas Rangers.”
She makes pasta from scraps in the pantry and refrigerator. Two mounds of measured flour are placed on the counter, one for her, one for Leon. She shows him how to make a hole in the center of the mound, add eggs and olive oil to the well, and slowly work the blend. Leon has trouble keeping the mix from spilling beyond the walls of the flour. She takes his long fingers and works them slowly with the dough, kneading in a deliberate, careful manner, until the surface is somewhat smoothed.
“Cover that,” she says, “or it’ll dry out.”
A half hour later, she takes a roller and smooths out the dough on the counter until it’s a thin sheet. She cuts strips, rolls them, and then slices small dollops of pasta, resembling tagliatelle. They let it dry. Outside, she snips off a cluster of chives from a grassy clump and takes sprigs from just emerging oregano. The garden is fragrant with daphne.
“This is my favorite perfume,” she says to Leon, running a daphne blossom under his nose.
“You should try sage on that pasta,” he says.
“We have some in the corner of the herb garden.”
“Not that. I’m talking about wild sage.” He pinches off a stem from a scratch of untended land, where mesquite and sage have been left to their own. “Enjoy. I’m not staying for dinner.”
“Leon, you have to. You’re invited to stay the night, as well.”
“Forest Service has a cabin outside Wenatchee.”
“No. I insist. Besides, it’s bad luck not to eat your own tagliatelle. It’s a curse, in fact.”
“A Sicilian curse?”
“No, a curse of the Piemontese. Don’t you dare test it.”
Back in the kitchen, she melts butter, and when it is hot she mixes pine nuts in with the herbs. She stirs for a moment or two while the pasta cooks. At the call of dinner, Angelo emerges. He’s wearing pants and a shirt, much to Brunella’s relief.
“Needs something,” he says, his nose in the blend.
“Bullshit,” says Brunella. “Sit down, Babbo. Do you remember Leon Treadtoofar, from the funeral?”
“I recognize the face.”
She starts to pour a Pinot Gris, an American version of the Italian Veneto grape that grows well in the Pacific Northwest, but then she remembers what Leon said about alcohol.
“I want you to do as you would always do,” he says.
“Then may I pour you a glass of wine? That’s what I do for guests.”
“No.”
“Why can’t Indians drink?” says Angelo, sitting down with a massive helping.
“I don’t know,” Leon says. “Why don’t the Cartolanos eat camas bulbs?”
“Eat what?”
“Camas. It was a staple of Indian diets on the Columbia for as long as people lived here. Ten thousand years. In the spring, all the fields were full of blue-flowering camas. You eat it fresh, with elk meat or venison in a stew. Or you dry it and store it for the winter months. My grandmother picked camas. The Nez Perce gave it to Lewis and Clark; it made ’em puke.”
“What’s it taste like?”
“A sweet onion, or mild garlic.”
Angelo stares at Leon; tension has contorted his face. He sets his fork down. “What are you doing to my boy?” Brunella shoots him a look, extending her hand across the table to cover Angelo’s, which is shaking.
“I have a report to finish, Mr. Cartolano. We are trying to get to the bottom of what happened last summer. I know Niccolo acted honorably.”
“But you’re going to blame him,” Angelo says.
“Did your daughter tell you that, Mr. Cartolano? Because I’m starting to suspect that the death of our smoke jumpers was the fault of more than one person.”
“Really?” says Brunella, taken aback. “And what brought on the change of heart?”
“As I told you, we don’t understand why Niccolo couldn’t get the pumps to work. Our tests showed nothing wrong with the engines. That’s still a mystery, though I have some ideas. I’m sorry, Mr. Cartolano; it points to a lapse of judgment by your son that cost many lives, including his own. But I’m very troubled by what I’ve been seeing over here. Brunella found something—a pipe, with water emptying out of it up on the ridge. We don’t know who owns the water, who would hoard that amount, and for what purpose. We don’t even know who owns the land with the pipe. The property records are missing. But we do know where the water’s going, and that makes me suspicious.”
“So now you think the tribe diverted water from the forest?”
“I didn’t say that.” He turns to face Angelo, official now, the interrogator from the government, no longer a dinner guest. “And you, Mr. Cartolano, you have people lining up in the dust to buy the wine you make here. So may I ask you one question, sir? How did you produce such a wine during the worst drought in a century? You were under the same water restrictions as everyone else.”
The anger reddens Angelo’s face; he remains seated, his hand shaking wildly as if under a separate command, and speaks very deliberately. “I make wine from the heart. Everything else is up to God.”
“Fine. We’ll leave that to God. I have to go.”
“Wait.” Brunella tries to sit him down. “Dessert. I can thaw some huckleberries.”
He thanks them for dinner and leaves the house. After fifteen minutes, he returns, anguished, explaining that he cannot find his car key. “This has never happened to me before,” he says. “I’ll have to get someone out here with another key.”
“You’ll stay the night,” Brunella says.
“You have an extra room?”
“Three of them.”
“Fine. But . . . I had one more question, Mr. Cartolano.”
“S, s. Have a seat. Brunella will bring coffee and huckleberries.”
“No coffee for me. Mr. Cartolano, the IC told us your son was patched through to you on the day of the blowup. Twice.”
“S.”
“And what did you say to him?”
“I told him about . . . our situation.”
“What situation?”
“With the fire approaching the vineyard. Are you sure you won’t have cappuccino?”
“No.”
“I told Niccolo not worry about me. He asked me some questions. I told him about our situation.”
“Then what did he say?”
“I don’t remember much of it except the end. He said, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night.’ ”
Brunella waits until she hears the purr of her father’s snoring before sneaking down the hall to the room they have given Leon. She sees a light under the door, knocks, and enters. He is bare-chested, sitting up in bed, taking notes on a legal pad while going though a thick report.
“Working?”
“I thought you were asleep.”
“Let me get you something, some tea or hot chocolate.”
“I don’t need anything. But the flower is nice.”
She sniffs the blossom. “What if we all smelled like daphne.”
As she moves closer to him, sitting on the bed, she notices the thin wisp of hair on his chest and the Forest Service tattoo on his upper arm. “The room okay?”
