The Winemaker's Daughter, page 5
A beige car with the government emblem of the Fish and Wildlife Service pulls into the Cartolano driveway. A man with a full beard knocks on the door. Angelo welcomes him inside and offers him coffee.
“That creek outside your place, Mr. Cartolano. Have you taken a look at it lately?”
“I saw it when we pulled up,” Brunella says, jumping in. “It’s dewatered.”
“That’s what it looks like. Without water, we will lose one of the last runs of spring chinook left in the upper basin. We intend to find out what happened. And we intend to prosecute.”
“Drought,” says Angelo, with a shrug.
“Not likely,” says the government man. “That stream came from water that’s been in the ground for centuries. It’s spring-fed. And now—where did it go?”
“The water table’s down,” says Angelo.
“Not enough to dry up a spring-fed stream that has been here since the first hydraulic maps were drawn.”
“Look around the basin,” says Angelo. “The land is turning itself inside out.”
Shortly after noon, Niccolo pops awake and pronounces himself ready for reheated venison steaks, leftover peach pie, and the Omak Stampede. He gulps down the pie while the venison warms in the oven.
“You eat the peach pie before the meat?” Ethan asks him, horrified.
“You can do it either way. Same result.”
“That was a beautiful toast last night,” Brunella says.
“Yeah—what’d I say? Nothing stupid, I hope.”
“You were channeling the poet, little brother. It was sweet.”
They pile into the car and head north. Brunella tells her brother to pause for a look at the Indian construction site, a hive of workers, bulldozers, and cranes. An immense dust cloud rises from sprouts of rebar and cement pilings.
“The hell are these Indians building here?” says Niccolo.
Following the Columbia River, they drive through patches of rectangular green set on disorderly land. Canals line the upper and lower parts of the canyon, two tiers of irrigation water that keep everything alive. They enter a canyon crowded with sickly apple trees and rusted mobile homes that look like tin cans in a discard pile. The road leads to Lake Chelan, deep and clear, the inland fjord that snakes nearly sixty miles from the desert hills to the cloud-scraping peaks of the North Cascades. The Cartolano family always took relatives from Italy there because it was so much like Lake Como, a wild version with glaciers at the edge and mountains nearly eight thousand feet above the water.
Brunella has promised her father to return Alden Kosbleau’s watch, which he put aside as collateral for a cash infusion late in the poker game. His home is a three-story manse atop a hill above the lake, surrounded by a forest of lanky sprinklers for the exotic trees, shrubs, and plants on the Kosbleau grounds—the water king and his empire. They find Alden Kosbleau cradling a rifle and sweating. He is straining, a twitch in one eye, a finger still on the trigger of the gun, a different man from the one at the party.
“My God, Alden, what happened here?” Brunella asks.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
He is crouched over the body of a cougar, its almond eyes still open. Fresh blood has drained out of an ear of the big cat, though it appears to have been shot in the belly, the tan fur matted and red. The paws are worn like sandpaper with a sheen, a sign that the animal has spent much of its time on hot pavement. Brunella notices the partially eaten remains of a pile of meat nearby.
“This son of a bitch has scared its last family,” Alden Kosbleau says. “It’s the third one we’ve had to kill this month. I’m gong to hang the carcass from a tree.”
“That sounds barbaric,” Brunella says. “Why would you want to do that?”
“To send a message. These cats don’t belong here. They kill pets. They threaten kids. They have no respect for man.”
“Ah, c’mon, Alden,” Niccolo says, biting into an apple. “A cougar hasn’t killed anybody in this state for a long time.”
“But something has changed, Nick, or haven’t you noticed? These animals have lost their fear of man. They’re staking out this territory as their habitat. And it’s not theirs for the staking. It’s ours. Something is seriously out of whack.”
“So you baited him?” Brunella says, pointing to the pile of meat.
“I took preemptive action. He’s a trophy now. Hey, do you kids want to see where I’m planning to grow the blue rose?”
“Here’s your watch.”
On the north shore of the lake, Niccolo stops at El Hombre Grande for afternoon enchiladas. At the city park, Teddy Flax is hitting fast balls from a pitching machine, trying to clear the fence and land one in the lake. He wears his baggy bathing suit and nothing else. His friend feeds hardballs into the machine. Teddy lines shots to left field and grounders up the middle. He lifts two near the end but cannot clear the fence. Niccolo, half an enchilada in his mouth, takes a turn and hits the first ball over the fence.
“See the ball, hit the ball,” says Niccolo. “By the way, you’re on my crew, Teddy. You can thank big sister here for pulling strings.”
Brunella is distracted by the view across the lake, the copper-colored flanks of the mountains, nearly a mile above the water, a sheer vertical wall. Staring at the mismatch of water and land, she wonders if the uplift had been incremental, a swollen crust rising as the young planet took shape, or if it had been sudden and violent. She decided on her last trip to Italy that she was genetically predisposed to see the fracture lines of the earth where others saw only a mall or a highway. The old peninsula of the Cartolano family was alive, not unlike the Pacific Northwest, with volcanoes that had never settled down and cliffs that could fall away in a random lurch. She had even come to accept some of the ancient superstitions about the land, after seeing how Neapolitans wept with joy when the dried blood of their patron saint, Gennaro, liquefied on cue on the first Saturday in May, a failure to do so being a harbinger of disaster.
They arrive at the Omak Stampede in the hottest part of the day, the sky white. Ethan looks more pale than usual, as if he is going to faint. They find a place in the shade of the old wooden stands and settle in to listen to a mariachi band. A blond rodeo queen prances and preens for the crowd, her crimson underpants matching the short skirt that bounces during her high-stepping promenade. Indians in Columbia Plateau regalia parade from a tribal encampment next to the grounds.
“Real Indians?” Ethan asks.
“Yes and no,” Niccolo says. “They do this for the tourists, and the rodeo gives them a cut of the gate. You want to see a real Indian, go to the reservation, just across the river. It’s not on any tourist maps.”
Niccolo inhales two hot dogs and washes them down with a beer. He points to the sandy hill behind the rodeo stands, high above the river, as he explains the Suicide Race, the highlight of the rodeo.
“About twenty riders enter, sometimes less. It’s a straight drop down that humongoloid steep hill to the river. Half the horses won’t make it to the water without a sprain or a broken bone. They swim across the river and make a final dash to the stands.”
“Will the horses actually go off that cliff?”
“They will and they do. Don’t ask me why.”
Brunella and Teddy slip away to a patch of dried grass in the shade behind the stands. She asks him to join her and Ethan on their hiking trip.
“Depends on whether the United States Forest Service pulls on my leash,” Teddy says. “Last night’s lightning started some spot fires. Plus I don’t want to break anything up.”
“Oh, no, you’d be perfect. I think you and Ethan would like each other. I’m working for him; there’s nothing else between us. Just be nice. How’s your mother?”
“Hungover. Pissed off at the world.”
“Did she say anything?”
“About what?”
“The orchard. The water. Her hysterical appeal to the party last night.”
“She asked for tea instead of coffee. And she wanted me to spike it with Yukon Jack.”
Brunella moves closer to Teddy and runs her hand through his hair. “You looked good trying to hit Pedro Martinez today.”
“Are you going to lick the inside of my ear again?”
“I don’t know. Should I?”
“I’m getting kind of excited thinking about it.”
“I can see that,” she says, a glance at his shorts.
“Don’t remember you this way as a kid, Brunella. You didn’t like me much then, did you?”
“What makes you think I like you now?”
“I don’t. I mean, yeah, that’s presumptive, isn’t it? Even in Montana, I would never assume a thing unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Forget it. At least dogs are honest.”
“Dogs? What do you mean by that, Teddy?”
“The sniffing. The whole ritual.” He’s blushing, starting to sweat. “Forget it. I’m just . . . stupid.”
“Teddy, relax. Are you hungry?”
“I can wait.”
“I’m starved. Let’s . . . find someplace to wrestle.”
“Wrestle?” He laughs.
“I meant eat.”
“Did you?”
When the sky darkens, the horses mill at the top of the hill in a lather even before the start of the race. Sheriff’s deputies try to hold the crowd back, but it’s futile. People are drinking and shouting, jostling to get close. Only a handful of bettors and the best riders care who wins the race. The reason people come from all over the world to the top of a steep hill outside one of the lost towns of the West is to see how far a human can push a horse. Somebody might die or break a neck. A horse or two will surely get injured. It’s the thrill of being so close to risk in fast motion, like watching someone drop over Niagara Falls in a barrel, that keeps the Omak Stampede alive while other rodeos have died. Time has given the race the gloss of Western tradition, of custom and culture in a part of the world where such things are usually artificial in origin and then no sooner endangered.
The Cartolanos and their two guests have a prime viewing spot on the edge of the cliff, thanks to their long relationship with a county sheriff who has developed a taste for Nebbiolo. Niccolo tries to catch the attention of one of the riders, his friend Tozzie Cresthawk. The rider ignores him at first, then nods in his direction.
“Kick some butt, Toz.”
“They’re all Indians in this race?” Ethan asks Niccolo.
“It’s an Indian race,” Brunella says.
“White men can’t fall off cliffs nearly as good as Indians can,” says Niccolo.
Ethan cannot take his eyes off Tozzie Cresthawk. “I think your friend on the horse is drunk. Look at him! Brunella, Niccolo. He’s wobbly. He’s got to be drunk.”
“Happens every year,” Teddy says.
“No, this is seriously negligent. They can’t let him ride a horse in that condition.”
“He’s Nez Perce,” Niccolo says. “They’re the best horsemen in the West. They beat Lewis and Clark in races two hundred years ago.”
“But he’s drunk! And, and . . . smell that? I think all these boys have been drinking!”
“They’re going to do what they do,” Brunella says. “You can’t know them.”
“So you’re saying this is some sacred ritual: Drunken Indians plunge over a two-hundred-foot cliff for the amusement of forty thousand tourists.”
“They’re not all tourists.”
“You wouldn’t let a drunken race car driver take the wheel.”
“They have a race in Siena twice a year, a mad dash around a tight cobblestone oval that isn’t a decent enough track for a passeggiata, let alone a horse race.”
“You don’t have to lecture me about the Palio,” Ethan says.
“Are you going to tell the people of Siena to give up their race after four hundred years so you can sleep better?”
The horses are anxious, dropping turds as their riders reassure them. Tozzie Cresthawk mounts an Appaloosa without a saddle. As he talks quietly into the horse’s ear, he loses his grip and falls to the ground, a painful splat, met by laughter from the crowd.
“Riders, take your marks”—Tozzie scrambles to remount his horse— “set . . .” The judge fires the gun. The sprint to the edge of the cliff is short. One animal balks at the precipice, falling back on its haunches, causing another horse to skid and tumble in front of it. Two horses down, and here is the drop. They plunge off the cliff, disappearing into the night, kicking up an enormous cloud of dust in the spotlight that provides a view for the spectators back in the rodeo stands. Near the bottom, a mass pileup. Most horses are off their feet in the clump of adrenaline-fired sweat, shit, and dust. The better horses spring from the pile, popping up like foldouts in a children’s book, and swim. Tozzie’s Appaloosa has taken the hill well, holding back just enough to avoid the jam. Attempting to jump over the others, the horse makes a magnificent leap to the edge of the river. It falls just short, slamming into the gravel at the bank, a headfirst snap. The horse rolls over once and is pounded into the water by other horses just behind it. The animal comes back to the surface, floating unconscious in the current. Tozzie swims to join his horse. He strokes the eyes, which are still blinking, and the forehead. He does not weep. On the other side of the river, four riders emerge from the water and surge into the arena to the finish line. The crowd is on its feet, screaming, the announcer calling out the riders. At the finish, a Nez Perce rider edges out a Flathead from Montana. He tears off his shirt and circles the track in a victory lap.
When the rodeo stands empty and a hazy darkness covers Suicide Hill, Tozzie Cresthawk shoots his brain-dead horse. He has sobered up enough to kill him right, with a single shot to the temple. And then he weeps.
The smell of smoke has intensified. Angelo walks his two children through the vineyard in midmorning, bluish plumes to the west. Last night, a message was waiting for Niccolo: Lightning brought fires to the Cascades, and the smoke jumpers will chase the critical ones. Niccolo has half a day at home before he must report to base, and he wants to spend it going through the vineyard.
Angelo says he has a bad feeling about the next two months. Because of the water withdrawals, he has switched to drip irrigation this year, giving the vines less than half the usual water for summer and relying on the original pond once again for the oldest of the vines. The big mystery is what sort of grapes will come. The fruit could be small and raisiny. It could be concentrated with flavor. It could be more prone to disease, weakened, vulnerable. He thinks about the fruit all day; often he dreams about it as well. After filtering last year’s vintage with oak chips, he still feels shamed by the self-betrayal, as if he has violated his family.
During the growing season, Angelo goes through three stages of rolling anxiety. In the spring, when the vines bloom and the fruit sets, he fears prolonged rain and cold, which would result in a bad set and much less fruit. In the summer, as the grapes fatten, he talks excessively about his heat units; premium red-wine grapes need a high amount of sunlight for conversion of the sugars. And in the fall during the harvest, when timing is everything, Angelo waits, trying to stretch out the start of picking until the last warm days, when the temperature goes from 80 degrees in the day to near freezing at night. Nebbiolo grapes are the last to be picked.
“We should get some new oak for this vintage,” Niccolo says. “Start fresh with barrels from the Allier forest in France.”
“And I could pay for it,” Brunella says. “It’s not a problem.”
“What’s wrong with the oak I’ve been using?”
“The grain, Dad. You know that. You get much tighter grain with Allier oak. It makes for an explosion of fruit.”
“Basta! Wine should not be a loudmouth, Niccolo. It should taste like the grape and the earth that produced it. And Brunella, you can’t buy that with French oak or anything else. You can’t buy a story from the earth. Here. Put your hands into this ground of ours. Both of you, go ahead.”
Niccolo scoops up a handful of small dry stones; Brunella does the same.
“Smell that. Go ahead. You cannot find them anywhere else in the world, these pebbles from the great flood. Our wine is a child of this land. Wine should never—how did you put it?—explode. Everybody wants a shortcut in this country.”
“Now look where Mount Stuart should be,” says Brunella, pointing to the west. “Nothing but haze.”
“I don’t think we should bottle last year’s vintage,” Angelo says. “We should kill it.”
“But you haven’t missed a year since ’54, Dad.”
Angelo stops, plants a worn-out baseball cleat in the uphill side of the slope, spins to look at his children, and falls on his back. Brunella reaches down to him.
“I’m all right. Would you lie next to me? One child on each side. Vieni qui. Vieni.”
Niccolo and Brunella share a look; the old man’s heart needs to soak up just enough sentiment every year, like the grapes and their sun. Of late, his appetite has grown large. They lie on the ground, shaded by Nebbiolo vines, looking skyward.
“You go through your years, you start out thinking of just getting by. Then it gets better, and you start to think beyond your daily needs. And after a while, you think you can do something great.”
He makes a sweeping motion with his atrophied left hand, pointing to the arena of red-tiered rock, his life’s work at the center. “Try to imagine what this land used to be like a hundred years ago. Greasewood and sage, the ground so hard the only way you could break it was with an ax.”
Angelo closes his eyes, as if in prayer.
“Have I ever told you children about the Ladin? They were the last Roman soldiers, the people who never made it home after the empire collapsed. They wandered for a long time. They hid in the forests and mountains. They stole food and hunted on land that was not theirs. And then they found a valley in the Dolomites, in the Alto Adige. They found a home. My father took me there when I was—I must have been ten, eleven years old, just before I came to America. He lost two brothers in the war and wanted me to see where they died. These people, they spoke a language in that valley, a kind of Latin I did not understand. They dressed funny. The Ladin were part of the mountains. And when I first wandered through America, this big land did not have a place for me until I came here. I saw this coulee, and I felt like a Ladin. I knew the Cartolanos had found a home. And now . . . we have to defend it.”
