"Harris, Joanne - Blackberry Wine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harris Joanne)

Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pie.
To my grandfather, Edwin Short:
gardener, winemaker and poet at heart.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks go to the following: Kevin and Anouchka for
bearing with me, to G. J. Paul, and the Priory Old Boys'
Club, to Francesca Liversidge for her inspired editing, to
Jennifer Luithlen, to my splendid agent, Serafina Clarke, for
showing me the ropes, but not giving me enough to hang
myself with, and to Our Man in London, Christopher
Fowler. To all my colleagues and pupils at Leeds Grammar
School, goodbye, and good luck. I'll miss you.
WINE TALKS. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT. LOOK AROUND YOU. ASK
the oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the
wedding feast; the holy fool. It talks. It ventriloquizes. It
has a million voices. It unleashes the tongue, teasing out
secrets you never meant to tell, secrets you never even
knew. It shouts, rants, whispers. It speaks of great things,
splendid plans, tragic loves and terrible betrayals. It
screams with laughter. It chuckles softly to itself. It weeps
in front of its own reflection. It opens up summers long past
and memories best forgotten. Every bottle a whiff of other
times, other places; every one, from the commonest
Liebfraumilch to the imperious 1945 Veuve Clicquot, a
humble miracle. Everyday magic, Joe called it. The transformation
of base matter into the stuff of dreams. Layman's
alchemy.
Take me, for instance. Fleurie, 1962. Last survivor of a
crate of twelve, bottled and laid down the year Jay was
born. 'A pert, garrulous wine, cheery and a little brash, with
a pungent taste of blackcurrant,' said the label. Not really a
wine for keeping, but he did. For nostalgia's sake. For a
special occasion. A birthday, perhaps a wedding. But his
birthdays passed without celebration; drinking Argentinian
red and watching old Westerns. Five years ago he laid
me out on a table set with silver candlesticks, but nothing
came of it. In spite of that he and the girl stayed together.
An army of bottles came with her - Dom Perignon, Sto-
lichnaya vodka, Parfait Amour and Mouton-Cadet, Belgian
beers in long-necked bottles, Noilly Prat vermouth and
Fraise des Bois. They talk, too, nonsense mostly, metallic
chatter, like guests mingling at a party. We refused to have
anything to do with them. We were pushed to the back of
the cellar, we three survivors, behind the gleaming ranks of these newcomers, and there we stayed for five years,
forgotten. Chateau-Chalon '58, Sancerre '71 and myself.
Chateau-Chalon, vexed at his relegation, pretends deafness
and often refuses to speak at all. 'A mellow wine of great
dignity and stature,' he quotes in his rare moments of