“The wine started”, Marcelo Birmajer’s new story. Illustration: Hugo Horita
Professor Soker decided that the investigation was done. The birth anomaly exhibited by the sheep does not warrant further comparisons. Is it worth the trip from the Capital to the far corner of the humid Pampa?
The judgment on that question must in any case be dictated by the company: they sent him, paid his expenses and considered him part of their activities. Born in Buenos Aires and from Buenos Aires throughout his life, Soker respects every crossingwith higher expectations than actually provided by each of these transfers.
Dawn, riding a train, bus or plane, awakens in him a youthful longing, illusions and hopes. Then the half-empty terminal, the three-star hotel, the passive travelers failed him. He looked for a restaurant where he could avenge the futility of that trip.
A rack of lamb, a salad and a wine, to drown – not grief, that is impossible – but the feeling of dryness, wasted time.
No lamb: empty, with puree, this is the only slice of meat and the only garnish. Empty !, nothing missing, as felt. The waitress explained that there was only a liter of wine: from home. And the owner, at the cash register, clarified this indeed a local wine, made on their ownalong with other ranchers.
Soker thought to ask why, if they were ranchers, they only offered a slice of meat. But they treated her well, both the farmer and the waitress, and she preferred to just accept what existed.
“Ask for a liter,” insisted the owner. You will not regret it. Whatever you leave, we will keep it for tomorrow.
Soker had another night in town, and he agreed.
The girl’s beauty is dazzling. There, between the asphalt and the farm, it appeared as if it were a stellar phenomenon. Her full and inverted forms, her faint face, and at the same time mysterious, and no makeup. It’s so beautiful that it shines.
He opened the wine unparalleled and with effort. He poured the drink into Soker’s glass and invited him to try, validate or reject the bottle. Soker has gone through the same comedy countless times, with the melody of the ceremony: wine tasting and nodding.
He has no idea if a wine is at its best, too sour, too sweet, or opened early. He could only testify, after a few hours, whether he liked her or not. But … taste it?
Under any concept. It is as if he is being challenged to confirm the operation of a nuclear power plant or guarantee the validity of a soda processing belt. How will he know if the procedure is optimal or out of date? It is not in his cognitive possibilities.
He just always sipped alcohol, put on a knowing face, clicked his tongue, and gestured for others. He also ran his nose over the edge of the mirror as if it meant something. (Both can be brought close to the ear or soak an earlobe in red liquid).
But this time, as his eyes focused on the waitress, his tongue clicked, the wine was so upsetting to him that he almost spit it out. Only the waitress’s unhurt beauty allowed her to suppress the scream and the expression of disgust. He drank the malicious liquid and invited the remaining glass to be served.
How else can he work? “No, I don’t like alcohol. Bring another bottle. “Who is he, the Marquis of Mantua? The comedian from Toboso? The hidden sommelier? On the hundreds of times where, laughing at himself and the incident, he acted as a taster, not he ever faced the iron dilemma of rejecting a wine. “It must be the ’90s harvest, which came out unevenly.”
I can’t find arguments to remove the bottle, and what happened to him was ridiculous. They will think of him as the annoying one who makes the ring raje or a phone call. “You don’t know, yesterday a porteño came pretending to be a gourmet. It should be thought that it is Gato Dumas. ”
Just as a person’s acceptance of life’s futile hardships – his own face, his inherent weaknesses – he also had to accept his bottle of stale wine. That was masculinity in the 21st century, in that little town, at that moment, with those people.
At dinner, he just took a sip and threw the remaining contents of the glass under the table. She finished her vacuum with juice, the waitress brought the bottle to the owner -with more than half of the wine left- and she covered it with the same cork, declaring: – Here it stays till tomorrow. You’ll find that tomorrow night, being “breathing”, you’re better off. What do you think?
“Exquisite,” Soker improvised, leaving a heavy tip, as if real that wine seemed abhorrent to him was his own fault And you must pay it in cash.
The little wine he drank made him feel severe pain. But nonetheless, he spent the next day touring town not knowing how he could avoid the responsibility of emptying the prepaid bottle. paid for the bottle it did not set him free as a client: it bound him as a man. Giving away the bottle seemed like a huge rudeness.
To make matters worse, he bumped into the waitress, dressed in civilian clothes, as she was exiting the self-service grocery store. He looked at her, with the beet and parsley plants coming out of the bag, and invited her: – Tonight come and drink some wine. We treat you better than yesterday.
He stared into the heavy big eyes and gently moved his hip, with a movement in the woods. Soker thought that he could take a hemlock to see her again. But not that wine. They could not convict him of drinking that bitter and destructive potion again. It is also not possible to throw the entire contents on the floor: they will discover it.
What he felt in those moments was that he had left a bride at the altar, waiting for him. But the bridegroom is not the woman, but the situation: he promises to come back and finish the wine he paid for. Why was he involved in such nonsense? Suddenly a reckless decision came to him: will present himself, in due time, as Gary Cooper, and acknowledge his deadly position.
“Sorry: every time I taste wine, click my tongue and approve, it’s fake. Never in my life have I been able to distinguish wine. But this wine is severe. You don’t have to be Anthony Bourdain to know this. It’s crap: it’s not your fault. Something went wrong. Take myself, for example. No one is at fault. But I can’t drink that syrup from hell. Bring me some sparkling water. “
But if he confesses, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of restaurant managers around the world will know he cheated on them. Each approval he gave to each bottle was no more than a racket.
when night came, decided to flee the train. His original ticket was by bus, at 10 a.m. the next day. He bought a ticket at that time and rode as an escape from himself.
In a double seat, the waitress and a man a little older than Soker are furiously kissing. But shouldn’t he have been working then, in the restaurant? With a small moment of pause, he looked at her over his girlfriend, as if to say: – I will not work because I am running away from him. I’ll be back tomorrow. you lost me
The guard came in to ask for a ticket. He was carrying, tied with a rope, the two -headed lamb.