The Winepress

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The Winepress

by Josef Essberger

"You don't have to be French to enjoy a decent red wine," Charles Jousselin de Gruse used to tell his foreign guests whenever he entertained them in Paris. "But you do have to be French to recognize one," he would add with a laugh.

After a lifetime in the French diplomatic corps, the Count de Gruse lived with his wife in an elegant townhouse on Quai Voltaire. He was a likeable man, cultivated of course, with a well deserved reputation as a generous host and an amusing raconteur.

This evening's guests were all European and all equally convinced that immigration was at the root of Europe's problems. Charles de Gruse said nothing. He had always concealed his contempt for such ideas. And, in any case, he had never much cared for these particular guests.

The first of the red Bordeaux was being served with the veal, and one of the guests turned to de Gruse.

"Come on, Charles, it's simple arithmetic. Nothing to do with race or colour. You must've had bags of experience of this sort of thing. What d'you say?"

"Yes, General. Bags!"

Without another word, de Gruse picked up his glass and introduced his bulbous, winey nose. After a moment he looked up with watery eyes.

"A truly full-bodied Bordeaux," he said warmly, "a wine among wines."

The four guests held their glasses to the light and studied their blood-red contents. They all agreed that it was the best wine they had ever tasted.

---

One by one the little white lights along the Seine were coming on, and from the first-floor windows you could see the brightly lit bateaux-mouches passing through the arches of the Pont du Carrousel. The party moved on to a dish of game served with a more vigorous claret.

"Can you imagine," asked de Gruse, as the claret was poured, "that there are people who actually serve wines they know nothing about?"

"Really?" said one of the guests, a German politician.

"Personally, before I uncork a bottle I like to know what's in it."

"But how? How can anyone be sure?"

"I like to hunt around the vineyards. Take this place I used to visit in Bordeaux. I got to know the winegrower there personally. That's the way to know what you're drinking."

"A matter of pedigree, Charles," said the other politician.

"This fellow," continued de Gruse as though the Dutchman had not spoken, "always gave you the story behind his wines. One of them was the most extraordinary story I ever heard. We were tasting, in his winery, and we came to a cask that made him frown. He asked if I agreed with him that red Bordeaux was the best wine in the world. Of course, I agreed. Then he made the strangest statement.

"'The wine in this cask,' he said, and there were tears in his eyes, 'is the best vintage in the world. But it started its life far from the country where it was grown.'"

De Gruse paused to check that his guests were being served.

"Well?" said the Dutchman.

De Gruse and his wife exchanged glances.

"Do tell them, mon chéri," she said.

De Gruse leaned forwards, took another sip of wine, and dabbed his lips with the corner of his napkin. This is the story he told them.

---

At the age of twenty-one, Pierre - that was the name he gave the winegrower - had been sent by his father to spend some time with his uncle in Madagascar. Within two weeks he had fallen for a local girl called Faniry, or "Desire" in Malagasy. You could not blame him. At seventeen she was ravishing. In the Malagasy sunlight her skin was golden. Her black, waist-length hair, which hung straight beside her cheeks, framed large, fathomless eyes. It was a genuine coup de foudre, for both of them. Within five months they were married. Faniry had no family, but Pierre's parents came out from France for the wedding, even though they did not strictly approve of it, and for three years the young couple lived very happily on the island of Madagascar. Then, one day, a telegram came from France. Pierre's parents and his only brother had been killed in a car crash. Pierre took the next flight home to attend the funeral and manage the vineyard left by his father.

Faniry followed two weeks later. Pierre was grief-stricken, but with Faniry he settled down to running the vineyard. His family, and the lazy, idyllic days under a tropical sun, were gone forever. But he was very happily married, and he was very well-off. Perhaps, he reasoned, life in Bordeaux would not be so bad.

But he was wrong. It soon became obvious that Faniry was jealous. In Madagascar she had no match. In France she was jealous of everyone. Of the maids. Of the secretary. Even of the peasant girls who picked the grapes and giggled at her funny accent. She convinced herself that Pierre made love to each of them in turn.

She started with insinuations, simple, artless ones that Pierre hardly even recognized. Then she tried blunt accusation in the privacy of their bedroom. When he denied that, she resorted to violent, humiliating denouncements in the kitchens, the winery, the plantations. The angel that Pierre had married in Madagascar had become a termagant, blinded by jealousy. Nothing he did or said could help. Often, she would refuse to speak for a week or more, and when at last she spoke it would only be to scream yet more abuse or swear again her intention to leave him. By the third vine-harvest it was obvious to everyone that they loathed each other.

One Friday evening, Pierre was down in the winery, working on a new electric winepress. He was alone. The grape-pickers had left. Suddenly the door opened and Faniry entered, excessively made up. She walked straight up to Pierre, flung her arms around his neck, and pressed herself against him. Even above the fumes from the pressed grapes he could smell that she had been drinking.

"Darling," she sighed, "what shall we do?"

He badly wanted her, but all the past insults and humiliating scenes welled up inside him. He pushed her away.

"But, darling, I'm going to have a baby."

"Don't be absurd. Go to bed! You're drunk. And take that paint off. It makes you look like a tart."

Faniry's face blackened, and she threw herself at him with new accusations. He had never cared for her. He cared only about sex. He was obsessed with it. And with white women. But the women in France, the white women, they were the tarts, and he was welcome to them. She snatched a knife from the wall and lunged at him with it. She was in tears, but it took all his strength to keep the knife from his throat. Eventually he pushed her off, and she stumbled towards the winepress. Pierre stood, breathing heavily, as the screw of the press caught at her hair and dragged her in. She screamed, struggling to free herself. The screw bit slowly into her shoulder and she screamed again. Then she fainted, though whether from the pain or the fumes he was not sure. He looked away until a sickening sound told him it was over. Then he raised his arm and switched the current off.

---

The guests shuddered visibly and de Gruse paused in his story.

"Well, I won't go into the details at table," he said. "Pierre fed the rest of the body into the press and tidied up. Then he went up to the house, had a bath, ate a meal, and went to bed. The next day, he told everyone Faniry had finally left him and gone back to Madagascar. No-one was surprised."

He paused again. His guests sat motionless, their eyes turned towards him.

"Of course," he continued, "Sixty-five was a bad year for red Bordeaux. Except for Pierre's. That was the extraordinary thing. It won award after award, and nobody could understand why."

The general's wife cleared her throat.

"But, surely," she said, "you didn't taste it?"

"No, I didn't taste it, though Pierre did assure me his wife had lent the wine an incomparable aroma."

"And you didn't, er, buy any?" asked the general.

"How could I refuse? It isn't every day that one finds such a pedigree."

There was a long silence. The Dutchman shifted awkwardly in his seat, his glass poised midway between the table and his open lips. The other guests looked around uneasily at each other. They did not understand.

"But look here, Gruse," said the general at last, "you don't mean to tell me we're drinking this damned woman now, d'you?"

De Gruse gazed impassively at the Englishman.

"Heaven forbid, General," he said slowly. "Everyone knows that the best vintage should always come first."

Kilangan Anggur The

oleh Josef Essberger

Kilangan Anggur "Anda tidak harus Perancis untuk menikmati anggur merah yang layak," digunakan Charles de Jousselin Gruse untuk memberitahu tamu asing setiap kali ia menghibur mereka di Paris. "Tapi kau harus Perancis untuk mengenali satu," dia menambahkan sambil tertawa.

Setelah seumur hidup dalam korps diplomatik Perancis, Count de Gruse tinggal bersama istrinya di sebuah townhouse elegan di Quai Voltaire. Dia adalah seorang pria menyenangkan, dibudidayakan tentu saja, dengan reputasi yang baik sebagai tuan rumah murah hati dan pencerita lucu.

Tamu malam ini adalah semua Eropa dan semua sama-sama yakin bahwa imigrasi adalah akar dari masalah Eropa. Charles de Gruse berkata apa-apa. Dia selalu menyembunyikan muak terhadap ide-ide tersebut. Dan, dalam hal apapun, dia tidak pernah terlalu peduli untuk para tamu khusus.

Yang pertama dari Bordeaux merah yang disajikan dengan daging sapi muda, dan salah satu tamu berbalik de Gruse.

"Ayolah, Charles, itu aritmatika sederhana. Tidak ada hubungannya dengan ras atau warna kulit. Anda pasti memiliki tas pengalaman semacam ini. Apa d'kamu katakan?"

"Ya, Jenderal. Bags!"

Tanpa banyak bicara, de Gruse mengangkat gelasnya dan memperkenalkan bulat, hidung winey nya. Setelah beberapa saat ia mendongak dengan mata berair.

"Benar-benar penuh bertubuh Bordeaux," katanya hangat, "anggur antara anggur."

Keempat tamu diadakan gelas mereka ke cahaya dan mempelajari isi merah darah mereka. Mereka semua setuju bahwa itu adalah anggur terbaik yang pernah mereka rasakan.

Satu demi satu lampu putih kecil di sepanjang Seine itu datang, dan dari jendela lantai pertama Anda bisa melihat terang benderang bateaux-Mouches melewati lengkungan Pont du Carrousel. Partai pindah ke hidangan permainan disajikan dengan anggur merah lebih kuat.

"Dapatkah Anda membayangkan," tanya de Gruse, seperti darah dituangkan, "bahwa ada orang-orang yang benar-benar melayani anggur mereka tahu apa-apa tentang?"

"Sungguh?" kata salah seorang tamu, seorang politikus Jerman.

"Secara pribadi, sebelum saya membuka sumbat botol saya ingin tahu apa yang ada di dalamnya."

"Tapi bagaimana? Bagaimana bisa ada orang yang yakin?"

"Saya ingin berburu di sekitar kebun-kebun anggur. Ambil tempat ini saya gunakan untuk mengunjungi di Bordeaux. Aku harus tahu winegrower ada pribadi. Itulah cara untuk mengetahui apa yang Anda minum."

"Masalah silsilah, Charles," kata politisi lainnya.

"Orang ini," lanjut de Gruse seolah-olah Belanda tidak berbicara, "selalu memberikan Anda cerita di balik anggur. Salah satunya adalah cerita yang paling luar biasa yang pernah saya dengar. Kami mencicipi, dalam anggur, dan kami datang untuk sebuah tong yang membuatnya mengerutkan kening. Dia bertanya apakah saya setuju dengan dia bahwa Bordeaux merah anggur terbaik di dunia. Tentu saja, saya setuju. Lalu ia membuat pernyataan aneh.

"'The anggur di tong ini," katanya, dan ada air mata di matanya,' adalah vintage terbaik di dunia. Tapi itu memulai hidup jauh dari negara di mana ia tumbuh. '"

De Gruse berhenti untuk memeriksa bahwa tamunya sedang disajikan.

"Yah?" kata pelatih asal Belanda.

De Gruse dan istrinya bertukar pandang.

"Apakah memberitahu mereka, Mon Cheri," katanya.

De Gruse mencondongkan badan ke depan, meneguk anggur, dan mengusap bibirnya dengan ujung serbet. Ini adalah kisah katanya kepada mereka.

Pada usia dua puluh satu, Pierre - itulah nama dia memberi winegrower tersebut - telah dikirim oleh ayahnya untuk menghabiskan waktu bersama pamannya di Madagaskar. Dalam waktu dua minggu dia telah jatuh cinta pada seorang gadis lokal bernama Faniry, atau "Desire" di Malagasi. Anda tidak bisa menyalahkan dia. Pada usia tujuh belas dia memesona. Dalam sinar matahari Malagasi kulitnya keemasan. Hitamnya, pinggang-rambut panjang, yang tergantung lurus di samping pipinya, dibingkai besar, mata tak terukur. Itu asli coup de foudre, bagi mereka berdua. Dalam lima bulan mereka menikah. Faniry tidak memiliki keluarga, tetapi orangtua Pierre keluar dari Perancis untuk pernikahan, meskipun mereka tidak benar-benar menyetujui itu, dan selama tiga tahun pasangan muda hidup yang sangat bahagia di pulau Madagaskar. Kemudian, suatu hari, sebuah telegram datang dari Perancis. Pierre tua dan saudaranya satu-satunya tewas dalam kecelakaan mobil. Pierre membawa pulang penerbangan berikutnya untuk menghadiri pemakaman dan mengelola kebun anggur ditinggalkan oleh ayahnya.

Faniry menyusul dua minggu kemudian. Pierre adalah sedih, tetapi dengan Faniry ia duduk untuk berjalan kebun anggur. Keluarganya, dan malas, hari indah di bawah matahari tropis, pergi selamanya. Tapi dia sangat bahagia menikah, dan ia sangat kaya. Mungkin, ia beralasan, kehidupan di Bordeaux tidak akan begitu buruk.

Tapi dia salah. Segera menjadi jelas bahwa Faniry cemburu. Di Madagaskar dia tidak cocok. Di Perancis dia cemburu setiap orang. Dari pelayan. Dari sekretaris. Bahkan gadis-gadis petani yang memilih anggur dan terkikik aksen nya lucu. Dia meyakinkan dirinya bahwa Pierre bercinta dengan masing-masing secara bergantian.

Dia mulai dengan sindiran, sederhana, yang polos bahwa Pierre bahkan hampir tidak diakui. Kemudian dia mencoba tuduhan tumpul dalam privasi kamar tidur mereka. Ketika ia membantah bahwa, ia terpaksa kekerasan, denouncements memalukan di dapur, anggur, perkebunan. Malaikat yang Pierre telah menikah di Madagaskar telah menjadi kurang ajar, dibutakan oleh cemburu. Tidak ada yang dia lakukan atau katakan bisa membantu. Seringkali, ia akan menolak untuk berbicara selama seminggu atau lebih, dan ketika akhirnya dia berbicara itu hanya akan berteriak lebih banyak lagi pelecehan atau bersumpah lagi niatnya untuk meninggalkan dia. Dengan anggur panen ketiga itu jelas bagi semua orang bahwa mereka membenci satu sama lain.

Satu Jumat malam, Pierre turun dalam anggur, bekerja pada sebuah pemerasan anggur listrik baru. Dia sendirian. The anggur-pemetik telah meninggalkan. Tiba-tiba pintu terbuka dan Faniry masuk, terlalu dibuat. Dia berjalan lurus ke Pierre, melemparkan lengannya di lehernya, dan menempelkan diri dia. Bahkan di atas asap dari buah anggur ditekan ia bisa mencium bau bahwa dia telah minum.

"Sayang," dia menghela napas, "apa yang harus kita lakukan?"

Dia sangat ingin, tapi semua penghinaan masa lalu dan adegan memalukan membuncah dalam dirinya. Dia mendorong dia pergi.

"Tapi, Sayang, aku akan punya bayi."

"Jangan macam-macam. Pergi tidur! Kau mabuk. Dan mengambil cat yang off. Ini membuat Anda terlihat seperti pelacur."

Wajah Faniry yang menghitam, dan ia melemparkan dirinya padanya dengan tuduhan baru. Dia tidak pernah menyayanginya. Dia hanya peduli tentang seks. Dia terobsesi dengan itu. Dan dengan wanita kulit putih. Tapi perempuan di Perancis, perempuan kulit putih, mereka Tart, dan dia dipersilakan untuk mereka. Dia menyambar pisau dari dinding dan menerjang ke arahnya dengan itu. Dia menangis, tetapi mengambil semua kekuatannya untuk menjaga pisau dari tenggorokannya. Akhirnya ia mendorongnya pergi, dan dia tersandung menuju tempat pemerasan anggur. Pierre berdiri, terengah-engah, seperti sekrup pers tertangkap di rambutnya dan menyeretnya masuk Dia berteriak, berjuang untuk membebaskan diri. Sekrup menggigit perlahan ke bahunya dan dia menjerit lagi. Kemudian ia pingsan, meskipun apakah dari rasa sakit atau asap dia tidak yakin. Dia tampak pergi sampai suara memuakkan mengatakan bahwa itu berakhir. Lalu ia mengangkat tangannya dan beralih off saat ini.

Para tamu tampak gemetar dan de Gruse berhenti dalam kisahnya.

"Yah, aku tidak akan masuk ke rincian di meja," katanya. "Pierre makan sisa tubuh ke pers dan merapikan. Lalu ia pergi ke rumah, telah mandi, makan makan, dan pergi tidur. Keesokan harinya, dia memberitahu semua orang Faniry akhirnya meninggalkannya dan pergi kembali ke Madagaskar. Tidak ada yang terkejut. "

Dia berhenti lagi. Tamunya duduk diam, mata mereka berpaling ke arahnya.

"Tentu saja," lanjutnya, "Enam puluh lima adalah tahun yang buruk untuk Bordeaux merah. Kecuali Pierre. Itu adalah hal yang luar biasa. Ini memenangkan penghargaan setelah penghargaan, dan tak seorang pun bisa mengerti mengapa."

Istri Jenderal berdeham.

"Tapi yang pasti," katanya, "Anda tidak merasakannya?"

"Tidak, aku tidak merasakannya, meskipun Pierre tidak meyakinkan saya istrinya telah meminjamkan anggur aroma tak tertandingi."

"Dan kau tidak, eh, membeli?" tanya sang jenderal.

"Bagaimana aku bisa menolak? Hal ini tidak setiap hari bahwa seseorang menemukan silsilah seperti itu."

Ada keheningan panjang. Pelatih asal Belanda bergeser canggung di kursinya, gelasnya siap tengah antara meja dan bibir terbuka. Tamu-tamu lain memandang sekeliling gelisah satu sama lain. Mereka tidak mengerti.

"Tapi lihat di sini, Gruse," kata jenderal pada akhirnya, "Anda tidak bermaksud mengatakan kita minum wanita sialan ini sekarang, d'Anda?"

De Gruse menatap tanpa ekspresi di Inggris.

"Surga melarang, Jenderal," katanya pelan. "Semua orang tahu bahwa vintage terbaik harus selalu didahulukan."

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