Friday, October 2, 2009

The Tragedy of Greatwine part I

Corbrand Millerson was a man who had come into a high fortune young in life. He had inherited a modest company from his father and when he took it over he was able to expand it. His heart wasn't in it, and soon enough, the company was taking care of itself. He collected great wealth, for very little effort. Corbrand began to entertain many hobbies and interests that he really had no business doing, except now he had so very much time and no financial reason to not indulge himself.
Corbrand had grown up believing in modest living. He shopped the discount stores for cheap suits, when his hand-me downs had gotten threadbare to the point that his secretary was forced to mention it. He bought most of his household items from the lowest priced store. He kept his hair short with a beard trimmer his aunt gave him for 16th birthday. He trimmed his fingernails with same pair of scissors he used to open his mail.
The insignificant things seemed mountainous to him. An new appliance was a shift in lifestyle. "Tools," he would say, "I don't want more of them, I want less." He would say this because every time he dared buy something new, to repair it he would need a new set of tools to take care of it. He hated replacing things as much as he hated changing his routine.
His first shift in thinking began unexpectedly on the day his company went international. He had started it just like any other day. The exception being that he had cut himself with his straight razor. And as he sharpened his scissors that afternoon to open his mail the whetstone cracked in half. "What a waste," he said as he dropped it into the empty garbage can.
That set him in a foul mood. When the special deliveries arrived his faithful second in command brought them into his office and arranged them while he was out pacing through a store. A hundred gifts had come pouring in from each and every branch in his company. Grateful employees, all who had become prosperous by way of his business and leadership, wishing him(and subsequently themselves) the best in the venture.
Still peeved Corbrand overlooked the goods. Which were: twenty some bottles of wine or champagne, Swiss chocolates, cigars, assorted nuts, and someone had the audacity to send flowers. Corbrand frowned. His beaming second in command had assembled it and had stood there waiting to surprise him.
"Ship it to my place," Corbrand said gruffly, "Feel free to take something home for the wife." He grabbed his briefcase and made for the door, stopping only to add, with an edge on his voice, "Don't forget to take out that stinking garbage."

He had purchased a house at the recommendation of his accountant. In fact he had his accountant pick the house for its various tax breaks. It was much larger than he needed, so he closed off all but the entryway, kitchen, bathroom and a smaller room he used for general living needs.
When the gifts came by post he left it all in his living area. Which forced him to either find room for it all or open up another room in the house. Neither of which he wanted to do. So he looked at the first bottle and realized he didn't have a corkscrew. He tried with his scissor, to cut the cork in half and extract it but it proved a hopeless task but he managed to get the bottle to leak. When he was about to
give up when a champagne bottle uncorked itself with a sound like a gunshot and sprayed down the ceiling in great bubbling geyser.
Corbrand was stunned, and then he laughed, a great long laugh. Until his sides ached. He laughed at himself, his business, all the things he had tended dutifully for years seemed as silly as the puddle on his floor that formed from the drippings off the ceiling. He picked up the bottle and drank what remained.
It was hard to say what flavor enticed him. But when the bottle was dry he walked himself to the nearest store and got a corkscrew. Two more bottles were emptied. And when he woke he found the stubble on his chin no longer bothered him. The straight razor looked like more trouble than it was worth. And all he could think about was getting through the day to see what the other wines tasted like.
Within a month he had joined a connoisseur association. He bought a few books on the subject, and purchased a periodical. He was by no means a drunk, though some would have called him a bit of a lush. It was not the alcohol that enticed him, but the endless variations. The core hypocrisy of vintners was that they were trying for consistency, and yet though this pursuit so very many variations had been made. Corbrand felt like he was searching for buried treasure with every bottle. But his newly found addiction was soon not something he could keep to himself. He began to throw lavish parties as his network of wine tasters grew. With each meeting he got new tips on exotic and rare wines. He retired from his business and began traveling the world; tracking down these leads.
Some years later. Corbrand had developed some sophisticated tastes. His favorite wines were paired with his favorite foods. His favorite lunch was a salad and bread with a glass of sparkling apple wine at a bistro in France run by a very talkative elderly Albanian man and his niece. The bread was very expensive. But it was in the perfect shape of a bottle and it was the most perfect bread he had ever tasted. "Why is this bread so expensive?" he asked as he handed over fifty euros.
"Because it is the best in the world, and I only have the means to make one per day." was the old man's reply.
"How do you make it so perfectly like a bottle?"
"It is made in an old wine bottle," said the niece. She was very pretty. Corbrand would steal glances at her when he thought her uncle didn't notice.
"Is it a kind of French bread?" asked Corbrand innocently.
His niece turned a color and looked fearfully at her uncle. The old man laughed. "No the french don't have the brains to make this bread. They couldn't make it like I do. Not in a million years. Yes they could make it in the shape of a wine bottle. But they don't make bread like this."
"How do you make it differently?"
"Wouldn't you like to know? Wouldn't France like to know? I have had every baker in the world try and steal my recipe. What makes you think I'll tell you my family secret?"
"I'm not a baker, I'm a connoisseur."
"You and half of France. Those of you who are not bakers drink too much wine. And not just wine. You drink trash. What are you drinking? That German white? Rubbish, I'll show you a real wine."
Every time Corbrand visited the old man he was the only one in the shop, and they had a long conversation about wine, his homeland, and what Corbrand thought he was doing with his life.
"Wine will not make you happy." the old man would said, "a tasty venture, but it does not care whether you drink it or not, it will not morn you when you pass from this world. Corbrand: You need a family."
"I'm very happy as I am."
"You say that now, but wait until you are old like me, you will wish you still had the virility of youth to start again. I thought like you once, and now I will die alone with only my niece to bury me."
Corbrand almost offered to marry his niece there, so that he could be there for him.
Instead he said he would be there when the time came.
"No," said the old man knowingly, "you are not family. A good man, to be sure, but a dying man needs blood. Life provides plenty for everyone but if you do not choose family, it will not choose you."
Corbrand would nod and smile and listen. But not a word he took to heart and his mind drifted to the gentle curves of the the old man's niece. And then he would leave after leaving a generous tip under his plate. The old man would refuse it, if offered, but he hoped every time he did so the young woman would find it and buy herself something nice.
Corbrand's list of wines to conquest was growing short. It was still great sport to him, and he had found many other hobbies in the process. A friend had a group of very knowledgeable colleagues on his polo team. Which Corbrand studied and came to play, with the ulterior motive of finding wines, but he found the sport enjoyable and continued long after the wine leads dried up.
Art galleries and museums became a favorite place to meet and discuss with educated people. His prize bottles, that he had not yet dared open, had first been found in a painting by some obscure artist in the 17th century. The label however was quite clear, a word in the right ear had earned him a lead that led him to Switzerland. Switzerland held nothing, except that the vintage wine no longer existed. Winery and vines had all been extinct for a century, but had once upon a time rested in the hills of Northwestern Italy.
Borderlands being quite tricky, as they had changed hands over the years. Corbrand found it just across the border in France. The vines were all still there, the new winery had been erected over the site of the old. He walked in walked the facility with a bus tour of Germans. He talked with the experts and showed them a picture of the painting. The tour leader smiled kindly and pointed up into the rafters where thousands of antique bottles of the vintage lined the building. But they were empty. Corbrand purchased an empty bottle as well as bottle of new wine and went to leave with a sinking feeling. It was gone. That was his only thought.
He was driving away when he saw an old manor house sitting up on the peak of a hill. A glimmer of light caught his eye from one of the windows. He turned down the dusty roads and wound his way up. The house was falling into disrepair. The tiles on the roof were broken. The shutters all askew save one. An old Peugeot sat in the driveway. A dog came barking. Someone still lived here. Corbrand grabbed his Italian phrase list and stepped out of the car and quickly made friends with the dog.
The door creaked open and a middle aged gentleman appeared. He set a straw hat on his head as he stepped through the door.
"Good evening," he said in English.
"How did you know I was American?"
"You drive a rental car. I know every car that drives through my valley."
"Good evening," said Corbrand backtracking, "I'm Corbrand."
"I am Giuseppe, and you are in my valley."
"Your valley? Shall I leave?"
"Please I am not a busy man, but if you are not here about wine please leave."
"Very good then," said Corbrand, "I am here about wine." and he named the vintage.
The man made a noise that he understood.
"My price is the painting." Corbrand's heart skipped a beat.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"What?"
"You found the painting? Yes?"
"You mean-"
"Of course I mean that one, there is no other."
"May I see the wine?"
"Yes, if you are serious buyer."
"I am."
"Follow me." and Corbrand did.
As the made their way into a older farm building the man began to explain.
"I am an artist. I paint. My father owned all the land of this valley. He was the son of the vintner. Yes the very same. He had no other sons to leave the farm. When he died I sadly, did not manage it well, as I put myself into my painting."
The farm building was decorate by at least a hundred paintings. Not of bad quality. But it they all left the view feeling hollow. As if there was something missing.
"But I could not support the winery with my attention so fixed. I lost it. I was forced to sell it. I was shamed. I sold the winery and became quite wealthy. But my art suffered. My regret cripples my craft, I cannot paint until I can win back what my father left me." They stopped over a pile of straw. "Here." said the man as he shoved the pile aside. His hand found a rope, and he pulled it and a hatch opened into the ground. "This is it."
He disappeared into the ground. Corbrand followed, his heart racing.