Lapis Lazuli (2)
“Farming like this is going to ruin the Merlot. Tsk, tsk, tsk…”
I clicked my tongue and shook my head. Cedric came toward me with glittering eyes, gripping a pair of rusted, wickedly sharp pruning shears.
“What’s supposed to be wrong with it?”
From behind him, his son Leo—who had been fidgeting restlessly—hurried forward and seized my arm.
“Mr. Brian, please just leave. Once Father starts having one of his episodes, he’ll be like this for days. You caught him at a bad time. He was perfectly lucid this morning…”
I gently freed my arm from Leo’s grip. My gaze was fixed not on the tip of the old man’s threatening shears, but on the grapevine leaves scattered around his feet. Slowly—very slowly—I knelt and picked up one of the fallen leaves.
“Look. The spaces between the veins are burning yellow.”
Cedric edged closer and stared blankly at the leaf I held out.
His pupils trembled. Even if he was trapped in the thick fog of dementia, a lifetime spent in the soil and among the vines had not erased a farmer’s instinct. Without lowering the shears, he stared hard at the leaf in my hand.
“That’s… just autumn. Of course it would—”
“No. This isn’t fall color. It’s a toxic reaction from nitrogen toxicity. Sir, you’ve been dumping organic fertilizer on this sticky clay field, haven’t you?”
Even as the tip of the shears closed to within a handspan of my chest, I didn’t so much as blink.
“The dew point in Coombsville runs between 7°C and 11°C, and the water table is lower than you think.”
“What are you talking about? Why would the dew point only be that high? And why would the water table be dropping?”
“I’m right. Check the temperature at dawn and you’ll see. And Napa Valley’s water table has fallen because of the long drought and reckless well-drilling. That’s why the vines are suffering. Tsk, tsk…”
“That can’t be…”
Cedric’s face fell at the suggestion that his own mistakes had harmed the vines. He had treated the grapevines like his children his entire life; the yellow-burned leaves clearly pained him.
I pretended not to notice and kept going.
“So all that precious fertilizer you gave them is choking the roots right now. The trees can’t breathe, so they’re pushing the poison out through the tips of the leaves. Are you just going to leave them like this?”
Cedric’s arm began to tremble faintly. The fury that had filled his face gave way to a strange mix of curiosity and bewilderment. He snatched the leaf from my hand and peered at it with narrowed, age-weakened eyes.
“Nitrogen toxicity? What I put down was the finest compost. I gave it so the vines would regain their strength!”
“Unfortunately, you overdid it. Right now the soil of Lapis Lazuli is past full—it’s bloated. Look here. The lignification at the shoot tips is incomplete; they’re soft and floppy. If winter hits them like this, every one of these vines will die of cold damage.”
I turned to the children.
“Do you have a portable refractometer and an acid meter here?”
Any vineyard worth the name would have the equipment. Leo looked startled for a second, then dashed inside and came back with the instruments.
I took them and began reading measurements against the trunk of the ancient vine in front of me.
“pH has climbed all the way to 3.8. Potassium levels are bound to be abnormal. Optimal pH is 3.4 to 3.5. At this level the wine loses its fresh fruit character and turns flabby—dull and soft.”
“Th-then why would the potassium be abnormal?”
“The pH spiked because of excess potassium in the soil. By over-fertilizing out of love for the vines, you’ve made them sick.”
Stunned, Cedric let the shears drop to the ground with a dull thud. Then he sank down at the base of the vine like a child and stroked the trunk.
“No wonder… the kids kept wilting this year. I thought it was just me getting old… but they were sick too, weren’t they?”
Behind us, Leo and his sister Rose watched as if they had seen a ghost. Even the first-rate winemakers William Harlan had sent, even Napa’s famous consultants, had fled with their tails between their legs from Cedric’s shears. Yet a few words from a young Asian man they had never met before had completely disarmed the old man.
I squatted beside him and spoke quietly to the dejected Cedric.
“It’s not as if there’s no solution…”
Naturally, Cedric’s head snapped around.
“There is? What kind of solution?”
“Well, it isn’t easy. Managing a place this size is hard enough for you already… and it’s not something you can finish in a day or two…”
“So what is the method?”
“There are a few approaches. The very first thing is water-stress management. Coombsville’s deep clay layers hold water far too long. Instead of forcing drainage, you need to make the roots thirsty so they go looking for the magnesium-rich layers farther down.”
“Make them thirsty? You want to dry the vines to death?”
Cedric asked, startled.
“More precisely, you give the vine a warning before it dies of thirst, so it learns to fend for itself. A kind of strategic starvation. If you restrict water right up to the moment the stomata are about to close, the vine’s survival instinct concentrates anthocyanins in the skins. That’s when you finally get the velvet-textured Merlot you’re after.”
“I’ve never heard of a method like that.”
Of course he hadn’t. In the 1960s no one practiced water-stress farming. Rainfall had been higher then anyway; even if the technique had existed, it would have been useless. Only under the prolonged drought of the present could it be properly applied.
“It’s a technique that was developed without you knowing about it. This place has the perfect environment for growing Merlot. But without the right methods, you’ll never bring out the true value of the land.”
Cedric listened, almost dazed, then asked,
“So how do you do it?”
“If I teach you, will you learn?”
“Of course I’ll learn. How else am I going to get proper grapes next year?”
“Exactly.”
“Then teach me. I’ll study hard.”
That afternoon a strange sight unfolded at Lapis Lazuli Vineyard. A ninety-year-old man and a young man in his twenties sat side by side in the field, measuring soil acidity and the internodal spacing of the shoots. Cedric marveled at the concepts of modern agronomy I explained and absorbed the knowledge as something precious.
From a distance Leo whispered to his sister Rose,
“Sis… this isn’t a dream, right? How long has it been since we saw Father talk to anyone this peacefully?”
“More than twenty years. That young man… who the hell is he? He’s completely enchanted Father.”
Only at dusk did Cedric’s strength finally give out. He rested his head on my shoulder and began to doze. With Leo’s help I carried the old man indoors. Even in sleep Cedric refused to let go of my hand, murmuring,
“Tomorrow… you have to come back tomorrow and teach me more… how to make that blue velvet…”
When I stepped into the living room, Leo and Rose were waiting with carefully prepared coffee. Their eyes had changed—full of deep trust and a desperate determination not to let this chance slip away.
“Mr. Brian, thank you so much. The fact that Father fell asleep so peacefully is nothing short of a miracle.”
Leo spoke with genuine feeling. I took a sip of coffee and got to the point.
“It wasn’t a miracle… I think he was lonely. He never once gave up on this land, but his body wouldn’t cooperate and the vines wouldn’t listen. It must have been incredibly frustrating. All I did was point him in a direction.”
“We know. That’s why we could never persuade him even when places like Harlan Estate made offers. But after watching the two of you talk just now, we’ve decided. The person who should take responsibility for this vineyard is you, Mr. Brian.”
I knew there was no real sincerity in Leo’s words. What he felt was the certainty that if it was someone his father would not refuse, they could finally sell the place for a proper price.
Sure enough, Rose picked up the thread and tapped the briefcase resting on the table.
“Which is why we think we should settle this while Father’s heart is open. We can’t keep fighting over the vineyard while looking after our elderly father. You clearly understand the true value of this place, so instead of some complicated management contract, why not just buy it outright?”
I set the coffee cup down and looked at them without expression.
“Buy it… I assume the family has a price in mind?”
Leo spat out the number as if he had been waiting for the question.
“As of 2007, A-grade vineyard land in Oakville or Rutherford is going for over three hundred thousand dollars an acre. Coombsville may still be treated as the outskirts, but as you can see, Lapis Lazuli is packed with fifty-year-old vines. We’re thinking two hundred fifty thousand per acre. Twelve acres—three million dollars total—and the title is yours, clean and simple.”
Three million dollars. That was the same price as prime Cabernet Sauvignon land in the heart of Napa Valley. In a market where Merlot values had hit rock bottom, anyone who paid that much for a Coombsville clay field would be called insane.
Rose drove the point home.
“You won’t get another chance to acquire old vines of this age, lock, stock, and barrel, in Napa Valley. I want to be clear upfront that we will not come down on price. Harlan already offered a similar figure. Father simply refuses to sign. But if it’s you, Mr. Brian, you can persuade him. Shall we prepare the papers tonight?”
Their proposal was brazen. The temptation was clear: stamp the documents while Father’s mind was cloudy or while his heart was open to me. I found it hard to believe Harlan had really offered a comparable sum.
I rose slowly from my chair.
“I’ve heard your offer, but I still need to talk with the old gentleman further.”
When I did not accept on the spot, the impatient Leo pressed me.
“Why? From that passionate lecture earlier, it looked like you wanted to tear this field up and start over right now.”
“Because I still haven’t spoken with the real Cedric. The man I talked with today is still trapped in the memories of the sixties. A decision as important as handing over the vineyard has to be made when he is at his clearest, of his own free will.”
I pulled on my coat and continued firmly.
“I’ll come back tomorrow morning. I promised him I’d teach him more about how to save the vines. I’ll see him myself tomorrow, confirm whether he truly wants to share the future of this land with me, and only then will we talk about a contract.”
I opened the door and stepped out; the two children followed. Rose spoke urgently.
“It might not be that easy. He could treat you far more strictly.”
“That’s fine. Even if he becomes stricter, even if he drives the price up and the deal falls through, I’ll still consult with him.”
“Why? If Father has mental issues, we have legal rights to this land as well.”
“…Legally, perhaps. But from a farmer’s standpoint, you two have no rights at all.”
Leo, who had been listening in silence, cut in.
“What the hell—! Watch what you say!”
“Not at all. I’m dealing with the owner of Lapis Lazuli. Whether his mind returns or not… the owner of Lapis Lazuli is Cedric. Still, I’ll keep both of your opinions in mind when I negotiate with him. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
I left the two of them standing speechless and walked to my pickup. Looking out over the vineyard lined with massive valley oaks, the half-day conversation with a Cedric who still lived in the past felt almost like a dream.