The aroma of Lacrima di Morro d’Alba is a springtime triumph. Rose first, and then the fresh and luscious fragrance of berries: from currant in the dry wines and raspberry and black cherry in the Superiore, to nuances of blackberry and forest floor in a dry Passito. A brush of herbs, a splash of white pepper, hmmm… that light itch in the nostrils. What a blessing to have my wish granted. I finally bring the glass to my lips to feel on my tongue the juice of blossoming fields, the tangy taste of blueberries, and a long, sweetish note that reminds me of that summer. I had stopped for the night in Morro d’Alba, of all places, and stumbled into a photography exhibition. The setting sun tinged the black-and-white photos with reddish hues as the air grew crisper and cooler.
I swallow the first taste, eyes closed. I savor my second sip, letting my eyes run across the raw stone walls of light tan stretching and rounding into a vaulted ceiling. The hanging lights are reflected by the wine cabinet glasses onto the wooden tables, each of which is supported by an olive tree trunk.
“I really wanted this winery because I visited it with my wife years ago.”
“Oh, how many times you came here together!” says the sommelier from the old days, beaming. He’s the only proprietor now. How sad, he’d even had to find a replacement for his brother at the stove. He bites his lip, killing an uncomfortable question, I can tell.
“I love the pairing with the stewed lamb.”
“All local herbs, and our own homegrown oil.” He’s been saying this for thirty years now.
“And with dessert?”
“A Passito, from the same varietal you requested.” The conversation proceeds with the usual exaggerated kindness. I detect a gloom in those eyes that are framed with ‘salt and pepper’ wisps, a bitterness that disturbs me a little.
The food, the wine, the atmosphere—all excellent to the end. My gastronomy guide escorts me to the door while I enthuse about the culinary experience. I could wish for nothing better than to relive the memories Lacrima di Morro d’Alba gifted me with. Nothing to be done about the bill; the pleasure is all his. I’m ready to hug him. As I turn to him, I glimpse embarrassment. I put on a businesslike face. Offer him my hand. How tender of him to add his left hand to convey warmth.
Leaving the empty restaurant, I venture out into the noonday sun. How it beams! Two guards at the entrance flinch as I pass. A huddle of onlookers encircles the black van parked ungainly in the middle of the plaza in front of the castle. Two guards descend from the front of the van and open the rear doors, revealing two others in black uniforms. The sunlight reveals their contours out of the darkness. They’re as still as naval guns, fixed on the side benches they sit on. Truncheons, no less. The priest amidst the Party uniforms already wears the purple stole.
I look around, catching sight of a few familiar faces. What a risk! Good for them, they are wearing the Party uniform. Oh God, a knot in my throat. I must not. It would be such a mistake to shed a tear for having recognized friends from before history took the latest turn. No, all has been said and done.
I nod in greeting to the priest. The guards at the entrance come up behind me.
It is time.
Facing the dark entrance, I look the brutes in the eye. They granted my wish for a menu designed around the wine that had won me years ago, but I’m denied the farewell of the love of my life. Nonsense. Do they still hope to win the citizens over after executing their family or their friends as rebels? They sow terror, but will they still scare them after making a martyr? It’s but a final cruelty to punish me, this pleasing of the senses over the soul. For all my hate, I still can’t change my destiny. I set out to die alone, careful not to meet friendly glances. I climb into the van and extend my wrists to the handcuffs. They won’t get even a shiver from me.
“What a world, Fr. Rito! All right, I’ve been after the Promised Land. I wanted to go there with my own legs, though.” I make the sign of the cross and clutch my one sacred object, the wedding ring.
“Like Moses, your hero.” A tear glistens on the cornea, suspended, as he solemnly traces a cross to begin the Reconciliation. I wish I were free enough to shed a tear myself.
The doors close behind me. Two guards climb on the front seats of the van, and we’re off to the Promised Land. As the memories of my sins overwrite the freshly savored wine that still lingers in my mouth, the image of my lonely wife, mourning, pierces me. Fury burns in my chest. My teeth clench. I hate the Party. Even now, when my soul struggles for solace. Fr. Rito lays his hand on my chained wrist. I’m powerless to undo any of it. Head down, I hear my confession pour out, chasing the moments I had to love her and let pass.