Page 24 of The Truth About Myths
He stood several feet from her, but the vaulted ceiling echoed his voice as if he had spoken near her ear.
"To store wine?"
He chuckled, closing his eyes. "No."
"I shouldn't intrude. I just wanted to—"
"The Cister Order arrived in Portugal in the twelfth century. They brought their methods of winemaking from France." Holding a bottle with his bare hand, he turned it on its axis like a faucet. He then moved to the next in line and repeated the same gesture. Slowly, reverently, he played glass against wood, evoking a mournful chime.
"Are you familiar with winemaking science?"
Isabel shook her head and stepped closer.
"After the grapes are macerated, wild yeasts on the skins attack the juice, turning the sugar into alcohol." Like when he spoke about cicadas, his voice became lower and graver. It held a hint of wonder, of deep curiosity that made her want to partake in his science as if it were delicious food or a ticket to an exotic place. "Because of Távora's colder temperature, the yeasts don't complete the fermentation in the pipes. They go to sleep. When they wake up in summer, the process starts again, this time inside the bottles, trapping the carbonic gas. The result? Bubbles."
"Champagne?"
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Sparkling wine. But the gas comes with an unwanted byproduct. Do you see? This mossy powder inside the glass? It's the dead yeast. The monks built these racks to turn the bottles a few degrees every month, sweeping the powder closer and closer to the bottle's finish. This way, when the dust reaches the cork, they can extract the yeast with minimum loss of bubbles."
Awed, she touched the rack, and the raspy wood caught on her glove. "I didn't know Portugal produced such wine. Why is this place deserted then?"
"After the liberal revolution, the monks were expelled. I'm not a religious man, but did we have to forget the process along with the tonsured folk? And now, fifty years later, France sells champagne for fifteenReisa bottle. Portugal peddles a full casket of red wine for five."
"I will write to my brother. Certainly, he can do something—"
"Why not? Let our King Luis resolve everything." His voice changed, becoming cool and detached.
The loss of wonder disturbed the air, making it thick and uncomfortable.
Isabel felt inside her skirt pocket until she clutched the gift. Her cheeks grew warm, and she extended her arm before courage deserted her. "I've brought you this."
Frowning, he opened the package and stared at the gold piece atop his palm.
"It's a filigree heart. The symbol of Portugal. For what you did yesterday. A token of friendship." She delivered the words in short bursts.
His virile hand closed around the medal, engulfing it. He averted his eyes, his attention back on the bottles. "I'm sorry. I'm dreadful company for princesses today."
She took a step closer. "Does it have to do with the vineyards?"
He exhaled loudly. "The cure for phylloxera was found last year, but winemakers are still trying the most outlandish methods to get rid of this plague." He jerked the bottles.
"Do you know how many types of grapes are only raised here, in this country that fits six times inside France? Over two-hundred-fifty. Much more than the forty that exist in Bourdeaux and Burgundy. Do you know what will happen? No Portuguese native vine will survive." The bottles shrieked in the rack as he turned them violently.
Isabel covered her ears.
"After the grapevines are destroyed, we will have to import them from France. Stupid villagers."
Isabel flinched. How could he speak as if the problem didn't concern him? "You are the wine expert. Why don't you do something?"
He halted. The last screech echoed on the stone walls and vanished, leaving in its place a pointed silence.
"I won't be here."
"I don't understand."
"After this little trip of yours, I will leave Portugal."
"But when will you return?"
