Theo of Golden: A Novel by Allen Levi - 44

Eleventh month. Eleventh day. Eleventh hour. Armistice.

The hour the First World War went silent.

It was also the date and time, twenty-nine years later, that Tony the bookseller was born.

Theo, having somehow learned that fact, handwrote and personally delivered an invitation to his gregarious friend. It read:

Next week, your birthday, six p.m., please join me at Ponder House, third floor, for celebration of a good man’s life.

Tony promptly accepted, though he questioned the goodness of the life being celebrated.

On the agreed-upon day, he closed the Verbivore early, changed clothes in the shop’s backroom, and made the short walk to Theo’s. It was dark out and cold.

Tony climbed the three flights of stairs, looked briefly at the river from the high perch of the landing, knocked on the door, and then stepped into the warm sanctuary of Theo’s home. Like the few others who had ever been inside the apartment, Tony was eager to tour the interior of a space he had only seen from ground level. At first glance, he was struck by its charm and by the stark contrast it offered to the clutter of the Verbivore.

“Theo, it looks like Sicily gives you a pretty good housing allowance. This is gorgeous, my friend. If you ever need an interior decorator to help you upgrade it a bit, I’m for hire. This is really nice.”

His banter did not belie his admiration of the place. Theo took Tony’s coat.

A young woman stepped out of the kitchen into the hallway.

Her hair, shoulder length and ink black, was pulled behind her ears, carefully but casually. Several strands escaped her gold hairclip and fell prettily across her temples. A crisp white blouse and black silk pants covered her lean, sculpted figure. The unblemished, olive skin of her face and neck, the full lips and duchess nose, and the dark amber eyes that sparkled with lamplight were, to Tony, a feast before a feast. He was discreet in the way he looked at her, but he did not miss a detail of her beauty.

He tried not to act surprised and almost said something to Theo about the perks of belonging to the Mafia. Instead, he gently shook the young woman’s hand, bowed slightly as Theo would have done, raised his eyebrows, and kept his silence. That she was almost young enough to be his granddaughter did not mitigate one bit his pleasure in watching her return to the kitchen.

Theo and Tony walked down the hallway to the front room, where an elegantly set table awaited them. En route, Tony nudged Theo, smiled dopily, nodded back over his shoulder toward the kitchen, then winked and held a thumb up, the gestural equivalent of “you old devil, you.”

Theo could not help but chuckle.

“Tony, I was going to cook for us tonight but, instead, I had Chef Bouchard prepare a special meal for this special occasion. He has made Portuguese dishes and added his own magic touch. Do you know Chef Bouchard?”

“I don’t know him, but I’ve heard of him. He owns that fancy restaurant, doesn’t he? The Canto? On my poor, pitiful wages, I’m afraid I’ll never be able to eat there.”

Theo patted Tony’s shoulder. “Well, then, I’m even more happy to introduce you to his work. He is an artist, a maestro.”

In the months Theo had been in Golden, he typically ate small meals that he either prepared himself or purchased from eateries around Broadway. He was mindful of his slowing metabolism and watchful of what and how much he ate. With one exception.

The Canto.

As a reward for discovering such a singular culinary paradise, Theo permitted himself one meal each week at the Canto for as long as he was in Golden. He would arrive at five o’clock and sit at a corner table with a book, a glass of wine, and a meal fit for royalty. He and Chef Bouchard became acquainted, spoke frequently, often in French, and always with mutual admiration. The chef appreciated Theo’s discriminating palate almost as much as Theo enjoyed the chef’s cuisine.

By early autumn, Theo had achieved the enviable goal of eating every item on the menu, a feat that prompted Chef Bouchard to begin creating one-of-a-kind meals exclusively for the distinguished old gentleman.

“No wonder I walk so much,” Theo said. “Your meals threaten to kill me first and then make me want to stay alive so I can return the next week for more!”

It was icing on the cake that a number of Asher’s large paintings were on display throughout the restaurant.

And so, when Theo asked Chef Bouchard to prepare a special meal for Tony’s birthday and send it to Ponder House, an agreement was quickly struck.

“Chef, I’m very pleased to come to the restaurant, but sometimes in crowded places, I find it difficult to hear well. For this one occasion, it would be very nice to dine at home.”

“It is my pleasure, Mr. Theo. And my honor.”

On Armistice Day, late afternoon, Chef Bouchard himself arrived at Theo’s apartment with dishes and pans full of delicacies. The aroma alone was worth the price of the meal.

With him was a young woman from Barcelona, Mia, who had recently begun working as a hostess and server at the Canto. Her face was vaguely familiar to Theo, but he could not recall where he might have met her. He had met so many people by then!

Once the dishes were brought up the three flights of stairs and laid out in Theo’s kitchen, Chef Bouchard instructed Mia and Theo about heating, preparing, and plating the food to assure that the meal would meet the demanding standards that governed all things Canto.

“Now, Theo, I must get back to the restaurant. Mia will stay here until the meal is served. If you have questions about anything, you can call me.”

Theo bowed to the chef.

For the next half hour, the old man and the young woman put finishing touches on the meal and the dining room. Mia remained in the kitchen while Theo tended to the table setting.

Minutes before Tony was to arrive, they worked together in the kitchen, removing dishes from the oven and garnishing the food as Chef Bouchard had instructed. As they did, they spoke a mixture of Spanish and Catalan in a conversation that was mostly Theo’s questions and Mia’s short answers.

Theo learned that Mia had been in Golden for a year on a worker’s visa, doing an internship with a marketing firm. She had recently begun working evenings at the Canto “to meet new people and get away from the house.”

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.

“The feet are perfect for the work, Tony. Machines can be too rough, too heavy on the seeds. They make for bitter wine. But feet are just right. It was serious work, important work, hard work, but also much fun. Always, we had accordion music to lighten the mood and break the monotony. We believed that a happy room makes good wine.”

Tony had leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, left cheek propped on his hand, attentive, nodding from time to time to affirm his interest in Theo’s narrative.

“The juice would ferment for three days and then be mixed with brandy and put into barrels. And then, after six months or so, the barrels would be loaded onto wooden boats called barcos rabelos and taken to the town of Vila Nova de Gaia, on the riverbank across from Porto. It was a dangerous adventure. Three men on a boat with sixty barrels. Three days and nights it took to transport the port to Gaia. Even today, all the port in the world is stored and bottled in the port cellars of Gaia. For ten, twenty, thirty, forty years, the port ages, some ruby, some white, some tawny. All those years in deep sleep, but the port is changing like a chrysalis, letting God take His time to do what only He can do. Water to wine, but slowly. It is all so remarkable.”

Theo took a long breath. “Tony, you are a good student. Now you know something, a wee bit, about port wine. And there is a reason I explain all this to you.” Theo held up the bottle ceremoniously. “Let me now tell you about this very bottle and why I chose it for us. There are different categories of port: ruby, white, tawny. These are all blends of many grapes from different vines. But in certain years, grapes of a particular vineyard and particular vines are deemed to be of exceptional quality. We call these ‘vintage.’ They are not blended with anything else. They stand alone.

“Vintage is God’s work. A grower cannot make it happen, and no one knows when a crop will be of such rare excellence. If a grower thinks he has a vintage crop, he sends a sample of his fruit to be evaluated and certified. If approved, voilà, vintage. If not, maybe next year. There is no finer drink than vintage port.

“Well, Tony, we are fortunate, you and I. I have friends and family still in the Douro Valley and friends at the port cellars in Gaia. Sometimes I ask them to send an old bottle of the very best port. If there is something important I wish to celebrate, I request a bottle. They are a trophy.”

Theo held the bottle out to Tony. “Look here.” Theo pointed to the label. “This bottle is vintage 1947, yes, 1947, the year you were born. Tony, I should tell you, we Portuguese save the good port only for very special occasions. Well, meeting you has been a special occasion for me. Your goodness to Ellen, your goodness to me, your love for books, all these deserve the praise of man, and so . . . “

Tony, rarely at a loss for words, fumbled for something to say, but nothing surfaced, not even a thank you.

“So, Tony, I remind you, the roots can only grow in stony, difficult ground. The pruner’s shears cut deep. The grapes are crushed and kept in the dark for decades. For the sake of the sweetness. For this very moment.”

Tony had no time to process the long metaphor before Theo, brimming with excitement, pointed again to the bottle’s label, to a very small line of print that identified the particular vineyard from which the vintage had originated.

“Tony, listen carefully to me. I worked that vineyard in 1947, that very vineyard. I was fifteen years old but strong enough to be of some help. It might well be that these hands,” Theo held out his open palms, “these very hands cut the grapes whose juice is in this very bottle. It is possible that these feet, when they were much younger, of course, danced on those grapes in the winepress.

“Know this: When you drink this port, you taste the hillside of my childhood. You taste the sunlight and the Douro. You taste the strength of the vine, the sweetness of the fruit, the sweat and labor of the harvesters, the oak in the barrels. You taste the music of the accordion, the laughter of the children, and the prayer of the priest. You taste a young man’s joy and an old man’s memory.

“Now, Tony, last thing, and then we drink. Vintage port, unlike the others, will not last in a decanter. You have only two days to drink what is in the bottle before it goes bad.”

Tony laughed. “Well, then, let’s get to work, Professor.”

Theo poured the deep red liquid into delicate glasses. He inhaled the bouquet of the drink, sighed contentedly, and raised his glass. “I present to you, 1947, Vintage Tony. ”

They took sips and allowed the complex richness of the port to rest on their tongues.

“Is it not divine, Antony? Have you had a drink so beautiful?”

Tony replied with a question of his own.

“Theo, would you mind if I tell you another story from the war? It’s about some wine I had while I was over there. I’ve never told anyone about it. Don’t worry; I’ll try not to fall apart like I did the last time.”

Theo nodded. “I would be honored.” Quietly, though, he feared a return to the jungle.

“I had this really good friend in Vietnam. Robert Akroyd. We all called him Bobbo. Everybody in Nam was either a nickname or a last name.

“He was from New Jersey. Strong as an ox, smart as anything. And the nicest guy you’d ever meet. He read lots of serious books about deep stuff, but he loved cowboy stories, too, especially Louis L’Amour.”

Tony chuckled. “I never understood how somebody in New Jersey could even find Louis L’Amour books, much less like ‘em. But he did. I’ve got a whole shelf of them in the shop, and whenever I see ‘em, I think of Bobbo.

“He and I went through Basic together, deployed together, stayed together while we were over there. Kind of hard to explain, but we became really good friends, almost like brothers. Here I am, this turnip seed from the South, and he’s an Einstein from New Jersey with a Yankee accent, but somehow we clicked.

“He didn’t do much talking like the rest of us did, but he had this great laugh, and his voice was kind of soft. He’d do anything to help you.

“We saw some awful things. Did some awful things and survived some really close calls.

“You remember that other story I told you about Ben Suc?”

Theo nodded. How could he possibly forget it?

“Well, Bobbo was with me that day when it happened. He was one of the guys who warned me about the little boy running toward me. I think he felt some responsibility for what happened. So, we both carried that guilt together.” Tony paused. “But here’s what I noticed about Bobbo. Whenever we were fighting the VC, we were all beasts. All of us. Even him. We had to be. But even when we weren’t fighting, most of us still acted like beasts. The way we talked, the way we bragged and played tough and lied and thought about people; it was horrible. I know it was a way to cope, but still, the war brought out the worst in all of us.

“But not Bobbo. He was hell on wheels when the battles were going on, but when they were over, he was quiet and calm. And it wasn’t weed or whiskey. That’s just the way he was. He was different from the rest of us.

“He was planning to finish college after the war and study to be a high school coach and history teacher, maybe a principal. He could have been anything, a doctor, a lawyer, anything, but that’s what he wanted to do.

“We were there in 1968, when Tet happened. We were in Khe Sanh.”

Theo glanced at Tony for signs of where this story might be taking him. He saw no cause for concern. There were no dragons in the glass.

“One night, we were out in the field after a long, horrible day. We’d engaged the enemy that afternoon and lost a lot of guys.

“Me and Bobbo were in a foxhole. Hot as hell but at least it was dry.

There was lots of noise around us even though the fighting wasn’t too close. But it was hard to sleep.

“So, Bobbo’s real religious. We talked some about it but not much. He knew I wasn’t interested in that stuff. But he always had this little New Testament with him, a real little one in his back pocket, and the Psalms were in it. After a few weeks in the jungle, it was a mess. It had dirt and mud and grease all over it. It looked like it’d been through the valley of the shadow of death, just like the rest of us .

“Anyway, when we were in the hole that night, things sort of calmed down, and Bobbo pulled out his New Testament and started reading. I asked him what he was reading, and we started talking about it. He told me what he believed. And Theo, you’ll love this. He said he believed in heaven, the real place, and in Jesus dying on the cross and rising from the dead. And like an idiot, I did my disrespectful smartass routine and told him all that stuff sounded crazy to me.

“And then you know what he said? Get this. He agreed with me. He said it sounded crazy to him too, but he still believed it. He didn’t get mad at me.

“But this is the part I really wanted to tell you. He opened his mess kit and had this little bottle — it was made out of blue glass, like a pill bottle or something. He’d filled it with wine back at base before we went out to the jungle. And he had a little piece of white bread too. And he was going to take Communion out of it, right there in the hole. All by himself. I didn’t even know that was permitted, to take Communion all by yourself in a foxhole. I thought you had to be in a church with a preacher or somebody like that.

“But there’s Bobbo in a damn foxhole, in the middle of a war, getting ready to do the Lord’s Supper. And then, get this, Theo.”

Tony swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. “Get this. Bobbo asked me if I wanted to join him. And he told me a little bit about it, about forgiveness and faith and all that, and I said yes. So, I had my first Communion, and my last, right there. I didn’t really know what I was doing, and I hoped it didn’t get him in trouble with God, but I’ll never forget it. ‘The blood of Christ, shed for you.’ That’s what he said.”

A moment of silence descended. Tony took a deep breath.

“A week later, we were on a patrol and Bobbo was about ten yards in front of me. We got ambushed, and all hell broke loose. He got hit real bad. Real bad. But he was still conscious. I stayed right beside him in the middle of the fighting till the medic got there .

“He couldn’t talk — he was in shock ‘cause he was losing so much blood — but he kept looking right at me, right into my eyes. And when we put him on the stretcher to be airlifted out, he reached up to me. His hand was shaking real bad, but he reached up and gave me his little book.

“That was the last time I ever saw him. He died the next day. I guess y’all would say he went to heaven. I hope so. God, I want to believe that. It just felt like the end of Bobbo to me.”

A long silence followed. Then Theo finally spoke. “In one sense, yes, it was an end. A terrible end. But maybe not the end. Maybe an end with a future.”

Tony mulled over the curious phrase, “end with a future.” After a few seconds, he straightened up in his chair and held his small goblet of port shoulder high. “So, Theo, this glass of vintage is probably the finest wine I’ll ever drink. But that little pill bottle was pretty special too.”

Theo raised his glass. “To Bobbo and his book.”

Tony lifted his arm and nodded. “To Bobbo . . . and his book.”