stress.
Then he awoke one morning to thunder and a world awash. The rain slashed without pause for three days, followed by a return of heavy warmth. The tough grapevines survived, the heat and the rain combining to produce fresh buds and then aprofusion of new flowering that would become a heavy crop of extra large fruit. Josep knew that if the weather was the same in Languedoc, Leon Mendes was full of gloom, for the large, vigorously growing grapes would be inferior in flavor and character, poor stuff from which to fashion wines. But what was bad news in Languedoc was good news in Santa Eulália, where increased bulk and weight of the grapes meant more wine to sell to the vinegar and brandy companies. Josep knew that the weather had made it possible for him to realize income from his first season as proprietor of the vineyard, and he was grateful. Still, he was intrigued to note that in the row of old Ull de Llebre plants where he had dug in raw wool to aerate the hard soil, the vines were full and dense and laden with clusters. He couldn’t resist treating the fruit of just that one row of vines as he knew Mendes would have done, thinning it and taking some of the leaves, so the essence of each plant would be concentrated in the grapes that were left.
The lush weather and the moisture had caused the weeds to flourish as well, and soon the spaces between the rows were overgrown again. Cultivating the vineyard by hand would be an unending task. The horse show in Castelldefels had come and gone, and Josep had resisted the urge to buy a mule. Slowly but surely, his little hoard of money was depleting, and he was aware that he must conserve his funds.
But Maria del Mar Orriels had a mule. He forced himself to go to her vineyard and approach her.
“Good morning, Marimar.”
“Good morning.”
“The weeds are fierce, no?”
She stared at him.
“If you let me use your mule to pull my plow, I’ll turn your weeds under as well as my own.”
She thought for a moment and then agreed.
“Good,” Josep said. She watched while he went and fetched the animal. He started to lead the mule away, but she held up her hand.
“Do mine first,” she said thinly.
8
A Social Organization
There was a time when he and Teresa Gallego had been inseparable, when everything had been clear to them, the world and the future plain to contemplate, like the routes on a simple map. Marcel Alvarez had seemed strong as stone; Josep had thought Padre would live a long time. He knew vaguely that when Padre finally did die, Donat would take over the vineyard, and he was dimly aware that then he would have to find a way to earn his own living. He and Teresa would find some way to marry, have children, do hard labor to earn their bread, and then die as everyone must, Jesús protect us! There was nothing complicated about it. They understood very well what was possible in life, and what was needed.
The villagers became accustomed to seeing them together whenever they weren’t working in the vineyards for their fathers. It was easier to maintain perfect propriety during the daylight hours, when all the eyes of the village witnessed them. At night, under the cover of darkness, it was more difficult; the call of the flesh was stronger. They began by holding hands while they walked, a first erotic touching that made them want more. The darkness was a private chamber, allowing him to embrace her, to give her clumsy kisses. They pressed together so each could learn of the other by the tactile imprint of thigh and breast and groin, and they kissed a great deal as time went by, and grew very familiar.
One night in August when the village was panting under hot, heavy air, they went to the river and, shedding their clothes, sat hip to hip in the gently flowing water and explored one another with thrilled wonder, touching everywhere, hairiness, nakedness,muscle and curve, soft creases of skin, hard horn of toenails, scratches and calluses left by hard
Then he awoke one morning to thunder and a world awash. The rain slashed without pause for three days, followed by a return of heavy warmth. The tough grapevines survived, the heat and the rain combining to produce fresh buds and then aprofusion of new flowering that would become a heavy crop of extra large fruit. Josep knew that if the weather was the same in Languedoc, Leon Mendes was full of gloom, for the large, vigorously growing grapes would be inferior in flavor and character, poor stuff from which to fashion wines. But what was bad news in Languedoc was good news in Santa Eulália, where increased bulk and weight of the grapes meant more wine to sell to the vinegar and brandy companies. Josep knew that the weather had made it possible for him to realize income from his first season as proprietor of the vineyard, and he was grateful. Still, he was intrigued to note that in the row of old Ull de Llebre plants where he had dug in raw wool to aerate the hard soil, the vines were full and dense and laden with clusters. He couldn’t resist treating the fruit of just that one row of vines as he knew Mendes would have done, thinning it and taking some of the leaves, so the essence of each plant would be concentrated in the grapes that were left.
The lush weather and the moisture had caused the weeds to flourish as well, and soon the spaces between the rows were overgrown again. Cultivating the vineyard by hand would be an unending task. The horse show in Castelldefels had come and gone, and Josep had resisted the urge to buy a mule. Slowly but surely, his little hoard of money was depleting, and he was aware that he must conserve his funds.
But Maria del Mar Orriels had a mule. He forced himself to go to her vineyard and approach her.
“Good morning, Marimar.”
“Good morning.”
“The weeds are fierce, no?”
She stared at him.
“If you let me use your mule to pull my plow, I’ll turn your weeds under as well as my own.”
She thought for a moment and then agreed.
“Good,” Josep said. She watched while he went and fetched the animal. He started to lead the mule away, but she held up her hand.
“Do mine first,” she said thinly.
8
A Social Organization
There was a time when he and Teresa Gallego had been inseparable, when everything had been clear to them, the world and the future plain to contemplate, like the routes on a simple map. Marcel Alvarez had seemed strong as stone; Josep had thought Padre would live a long time. He knew vaguely that when Padre finally did die, Donat would take over the vineyard, and he was dimly aware that then he would have to find a way to earn his own living. He and Teresa would find some way to marry, have children, do hard labor to earn their bread, and then die as everyone must, Jesús protect us! There was nothing complicated about it. They understood very well what was possible in life, and what was needed.
The villagers became accustomed to seeing them together whenever they weren’t working in the vineyards for their fathers. It was easier to maintain perfect propriety during the daylight hours, when all the eyes of the village witnessed them. At night, under the cover of darkness, it was more difficult; the call of the flesh was stronger. They began by holding hands while they walked, a first erotic touching that made them want more. The darkness was a private chamber, allowing him to embrace her, to give her clumsy kisses. They pressed together so each could learn of the other by the tactile imprint of thigh and breast and groin, and they kissed a great deal as time went by, and grew very familiar.
One night in August when the village was panting under hot, heavy air, they went to the river and, shedding their clothes, sat hip to hip in the gently flowing water and explored one another with thrilled wonder, touching everywhere, hairiness, nakedness,muscle and curve, soft creases of skin, hard horn of toenails, scratches and calluses left by hard
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