Page 81 of Theo of Golden

Her voice had an alluring softness about it, a quality that, to Theo, was a welcome departure from the loudness that typified so much American talking. Her tone was not attributable to timidity or bashfulness. It was simply a choice of volume that complemented the sensuousness of her beauty. Perhaps someone as pretty as her did not have to speak loudly to get the attention of others.

And yet, beneath her poise and pleasantness, Theo detected a nervousness in the young woman. He wondered what her story was. And how, he wondered, did he know her? Had he seen her at the Canto?

“Mia, have we met before?” he asked finally. “I have a feeling that I know you from somewhere, but I cannot recall where.”

She put down the dish she was holding and faced him, obviously intending to answer his question.

There were three loud knocks on the door. It was six o’clock.

Tony had arrived.

When Tony and Theo had taken their seats, Mia brought serving dishes, placed them at predetermined spots on the table, poured wine in the glasses, and explained the menu. It was an artful blend of dishes, American and Portuguese. Her accent was one more exotic touch to a meal full of exoticism.

When Mia finished her presentation, she made sure everything was in order, wished Theo and Tony “a bon appétit,” and quietly left the apartment.

“Now, Theo, she is what you call an appetizer. She could have spent ten more minutes telling us about the food, and I’d have been just fine with that. Well done, old boy… Heavenly.”

Theo and Tony began the feast.

Between grunts of praise, fragments of attempted conversation, and a hailstorm of compliments — from Tony to Theo for his hospitality, from Theo to Tony for his recognition of epicurean excellence, from both to the chef for his artistry — the meal received the highest tributes payable to good food… unhurried enjoyment and utter disappearance.

Theo excused himself from the table and went to the kitchen. He returned with a small cheesecake, a single candle glowing from the center.

He sang “Happy Birthday” heartily in Portuguese.

They moved from the dining area to the plush armchairs beside Theo’s reading lamp. On a small table between the chairs sat a bottle and two small glasses.

“And now, Tony, your birthday gift. One more touch of Portugal. A very special piece.”

Theo reached for the bottle with both hands and held it as if it were delicate as a hummingbird.

“Tony, before we open the bottle, I must tell you a bit about port wine. Not to insult your sophistication, my good fellow, but just so you will know what you are tasting. Will you allow me?”

“Whiskey, I know. Beer, I know. Wine, a bit. But Theo, I’m totally ignorant when it comes to port. I do know it’s a favorite of the Godfather, but other than that, I know nothing. So talk. I am your student.”

“And a good student you are sure to be. Tony, this,” Theo lifted the dark bottle as if it were an infant at baptism, “this bottle comes from grapes on a hillside above my home, at Quinta das Carvalhas near Pinhão.

“The vineyard is owned by the same family now that my father worked for when I was a boy. Did you know that all the port wine in the world comes from the hills of the Douro River Valley? One hundred miles, twenty-five thousand farmers, one hundred thousand acres of vines.

“Port wine was invented by the British, and the port companies are now owned mostly by the Spanish. But only the Douro River Valley of Portugal can make the grapes.

“Since the eighteenth century, the hillsides have been terraced by the poor hardworking people of the villages along the river. Here is the interesting thing. There is very little soil on the hillsides, only rock. Rock like slate.

“Long before bulldozers and big machines came along, men had to work with hand tools and dynamite to make the land ready for the grapevines. That is why they are called ‘the vineyards of Hercules.’ Some of the vintners say, ‘We get no help from God.’ Tsk, tsk, tsk. It is hard, hard work.

“Well, the farmers plant the small plants, and then the small plants have to grow deep, deep down to reach the water in the ground. For four meters and more, the taproots go down and down, weaving between the slate to find water. If all goes well, the vines grow, and when the summer is over, there is a beautiful crop. Then everyone along the river — men, women, children — begins the slow, steady work of harvest, the colheita.

“My father was a manager at Quinta das Carvalhas for many years. He loved the river, the valley, and the vine, and he took great pride in caring for the place. When I was a little fellow, my father let me work, made me work, to learn the life of the vineyard. At harvest time, we would take the secateurs — you know, the scissors — and all day, clip, clip, clip. Cut, cut, cut the grapes. So beautiful, Tony, I tell you, the fruit was so beautiful. Touriga Franca, Tinta Roriz, Tinta Barroca.

“So, we cut the grapes and put them in the baskets. The men, like mules, carried them on the shoulder to wagons. Sixty kilos, they weighed. Day after day till all the fruit was gathered.”

Theo hesitated. “I’m telling you more than you wish to know?”

Tony shook his head. “No, no. I’m very interested, but I have to confess, I would never have taken you for a farm worker.”

Theo grinned. “Ah, but everyone in Pinhão was a farm worker, at least part of the year. Pinhão was just a village; it still is today. Like much of Portugal, it was a poor place. We had a president who treated us harshly, and we all suffered. But always our land, our climate, and the will of the people survive.

“Once we had gathered our grapes from the vines, they were taken from the hillside to large stone tanks called lagares, thirty feet square and four feet high. Things have changed, but, when I was a boy and a young man, we would march on the grapes with our bare feet. We would line up, fourteen men shoulder to shoulder like a chorus line, and march, up and down and back and forth, for hours at a time, all day, until the juice was out of the skin.