Once Again with Feeling

They didn't sleep until 2:00am. that morning. The sex was good. Esperanza couldn't deny that. It wasn't a magical experience, but she enjoyed it. Florentin was a skilled lover and brought her pleasure. This was something, at least. And when she factored in everything else, she didn't envisage a life of dissatisfaction.

Their honeymoon week in Punta Mujeres passed without incident. Before July was over, they were back in Cádiz; on the vineyard to gear up for the coming harvest.

He remained with her at the cortijo until harvest was over. When winter came, they went north to spend a few months at his family home in Madrid. It was a fine house in a well-maintained neighborhood of the capital, near the homes of other bourjois families of 'Rich Spain.' Their plan was to stay there until spring when they would return to Andalucía for Holy Week.

Their married life found its rhythm. Sometimes in the capital, sometimes on the vineyard. They were together much of the time, but it wasn't uncommon for her to go down to Cádiz a few weeks before he did. Or for him to return to Madrid earlier than she did, leaving her to join him there whenever she was ready. He also took extended business trips to Zürich every year.

She got pregnant in June 1969, about a year after the wedding. On February 22nd 1970, she gave birth to her first child. A boy. He was named for his father; Florentin San Roman y Torrejón.

1970 was also the most difficult year for the vineyard. A humid wave came at the worst possible time--while the harvested Pedro Ximénez grapes were sun-drying.

Palomino, Pedro Ximénez and Moscatel were the three main white grape varietals in this region. Palomino was the noble grape. It was usually used by itself to produce dry fino wines. Pedro Ximénez and Moscatel were sweeter and heftier, so they could be added to medium-dry amontillados and sweet olorosos. Sometimes they were used by themselves to produce dessert wines.

As soon as Pedro Ximénez grapes were harvested, they had to be sun-dried on esparto mats before being pressed into grape-must. This wasn't so easy here in Jerez. It was easy in a place like Montilla-Moriles, which was inland with drier air and hotter summers. But here in Jerez near the sea, the humidity rotted some of the grapes during the drying period. This was why Jerez bodegas often saved themselves the headache and just purchased Pedro-Ximénez grape-must from Montilla-Moriles vineyards.

Not them, though. Casa Torrejón was a single-estate producer. Their amontillado was a blend of 87.5% Palomino and 12.5% Pedro Ximénez. They grew and pressed their own Pedro Ximénez, and to hell with the humidity.

A small portion of their Pedro Ximénez rotted every year. They accepted that and factored in the loss, because the local climate made it inevitable.

But this year, the humid wave rotted pretty much all of it. There was no shrugging off this loss. Added to the existing economic difficulties, it was by far their worst year on record. They needed a bailout to recoup the loss and pay the jornaleros their usual wage.

Esperanza discussed strategy with her father. Even as she breastfed her baby son, she and Don Cipriano balanced sheets and crunched numbers.

Armed with this data, she went to her husband.

As always, Florentin proved himself a gentleman. With the same strict code of honor that had made him and his father Don Luis sign away all legal claims to the Torrejón estate, he came to her financial rescue. No sooner did she finish making her case than he wrote a check for the amount she needed.

And so, despite the loss, 1970 ended on a bright note.

*****

Five years later

*

To those who cursed Franco's name, whether they admitted it or not, 1975 ended on an even brighter note. The regime ended with his death in October of that year. A month later, Juan Carlos de Borbón was crowned King, and first steps to democracy began.

For the first time in decades, there was an exodus into Spain rather than out of it. The politicians, intellectuals and business magnates who'd been exiled for left-wing leanings, now returned. They flooded back from Switzerland, Germany and France to re-settle in Madrid and Barcelona.

There was hope for the economy despite slow improvement, and the vineyard was on even ground; funding itself and making profit.

Now that Esperanza had been married to Florentin for seven years, a migratory cycle had formed--during the harvest period from early August to late October, they were at the cortijo. At the end of October, he returned to Madrid alone. She stayed behind in Cádiz, joining him in Madrid mid-November, where they remained until a few weeks before Holy Week. They spent Holy Week and Easter at the cortijo, then he went alone to Zürich for 3 weeks on business. She and their son remained at the cortijo. When he returned from Zürich, he went to Madrid where she and their son met him at the house. There, they spent the intervening months until August, when the cycle began again.

It was rare that this cycle was disrupted, so Esperanza was surprised to find that Florentin wouldn't be going to Zürich on business this coming spring. He didn't announce it. She learned of it in a roundabout way on a December morning at breakfast.

With their son Florentin now being 5 years old, she was looking into good schools for him to attend here in Madrid, and a private tutor for supplementary lessons while they were at the cortijo.

This was why she commented to her husband over their morning coffee, "While you're in Zürich next spring, I'll spend the time picking out a good tutor for Florentin. His lessons wouldn't begin until the summer, so you'd be home to give your opinion before anything's fixed."

Florentin lowered his coffee cup. "Good idea to make sure he gets extra lessons while we're at the vineyard." He paused. "I'll give you my opinion on the spot since I won't be going to Zürich."

Esperanza frowned across the table at him. "Why not?"

"It won't be necessary this time, that's all. My father's sold off certain investments, and what we still have tied up in the Swiss banks can wait or be handled by telephone."

"You didn't mention any of this before. How long have you known?"

"About a week."

"Okay. All the better. It'll be helpful having you there those weeks. If I end up being too busy with Papa, you could just screen the tutors yourself and save me that hassle."

"I will if I'm there the whole time." He rose from his chair. "But I can't promise I will. I'll probably come back up here after Easter to get some work done."

Esperanza pushed down a spurt of irritation. Why did he always clutch at any excuse not to be at the vineyard more than absolutely necessary? "What work? You've just said the important investments were sold and the rest don't need you to be away."

"I'm talking about working at the office here, Esperanza."

"You can't put off whatever it is to remain with me and Florentin now you don't need to go abroad?"

"It might not be possible. I'm sorry." His tone was resolute. But with an apologetic smile, he leaned over her chair and pecked her lips. "We can discuss it more later. For now, I need to get to the office. I'll see you two later this evening." And he was out the door in three footsteps.

She didn't let him off so easy. She brought up the subject after dinner that night, but his response was the same--he was sorry that he couldn't commit to staying the full three weeks on the estate, but of course he'd stay as long as he could, and they would see closer to the time.

They did see. Easter fell on April 18th that year. They were at the cortijo before Holy Week as usual. On the afternoon of the 21st, Esperanza and her father went to the bodegas to inspect some new oak barrels just delivered.

She brought her son along for it. Florentin had just turned 6, but it was never too young for him to start learning. After all, this estate would eventually pass to him--and any siblings he might have. Although she was starting to doubt the possibility of other children, since she hadn't fallen pregnant again. And it wasn't for lack of sex.

They finished the inspection, oversaw the new barrels being added to the solera, then returned to the house. Don Cipriano, now slightly arthritic in his ankles, went to his salon for a short rest. Esperanza went up to her bedroom. Florentin tagged along beside her, asking a thousand questions. He was a curious child, which she approved of.

"Why are the barrels made of oak, Mama?" he was asking. "I heard one of the men say they were selling steel casks too, and they're cheaper. Why didn't we buy those?"

"Cheaper isn't better in this instance," Esperanza replied. "The oak barrels are a little porous. That means the wood has small holes that let air in without letting the wine out. After the yeast cap dies off and we add the Pedro Ximénez, we need that air to oxidize the wine."

"Why?"

"Because the oxygen gives the wine complexity."

"How?"

"It brings out all the shades of the grape and turns the wine that gold color. And some of the flavors in the oak get into the wine. That's why it tastes so good once the aging process is over."

As she was saying this, Esperanza opened the bedroom door. She broke off in surprise to find her husband with his suitcases on the bed and several clothes under his arm.

He was already packing to return to Madrid.

That familiar anger filled Esperanza.

He looked up from his packing as the door opened. Their eyes met. His held apology. Hers, irritation.

Mindful of the presence of an intelligent child beside her, Esperanza kept overt anger from her voice as she spoke to her husband. "Already? Even in a normal year, you don't usually leave until next week."

Florentin also glanced at their watching son. His gaze returned to Esperanza. "I know," he replied in a duly moderated tone. "But I have a meeting on Friday that can't wait."

"So you're going away now, Papa?" asked young Florentin.

His father smiled at him. "Not until tomorrow morning."

"But you promised that the two of us were going to ride out to the ruins on Saturday now that I've got my own horse."

"I know, son. I'm sorry. We can do that when we're all here again in the summertime. The ruins will still be there by then."

The little boy's face fell, but being the true son of his parents, he didn't plead. He was already too proud for that. He only nodded and muttered, "Okay."

Esperanza glared at her husband. This wasn't the time to reproach him for breaking a promise to their son, but she would get on his case as soon as they were alone. For now, she put a hand on the boy's shoulder to steer him out of the room again. "Come. Let's let your father finish his packing without being in his way. We'll go sit in the salon with your grandfather. He'll show you a plank from the very first barrel we used in 1896."

When they were finally alone in their bedroom after dinner, she got on his case. It was no use. His good manners wouldn't let him raise his voice or fly into a rage, but he didn't back down. He was going to Madrid tomorrow morning and that was the end of it.

After 20 minutes of pointless fighting, Esperanza had enough. She turned and lay down with her back to him.

He put his hand on her hip. "Esperanza," he said in a softer voice. The voice he used to placate her into sex after an argument. He ran his hand up her side and cupped her breast. "You know there's no need for such an angry display. I would stay if I could."

Esperanza's only urge was to break his fingers. He'd deserve it for being stupid enough to paw at her right now. "Florentin, I swear, if you don't take your hand off me..."

He took his hand off her. "If you wish," he said curtly. He shifted away, turned off the lamp, and lay down with his back to her.

The mutual frost didn't thaw by the next morning. They hardly looked at each other when they woke up, or said a word to each other across the table.

He was due to set off at 11:00am. after a late breakfast so he could arrive at Madrid around 5 o'clock. By 10:30am., when he was taking a shower in the adjoining bathroom on schedule to leave, the extension phone in their bedroom rang.

A main telephone line had been installed at the cortijo as early as 1933, but it wasn't until her marriage to Florentin in 1968 that Don Cipriano deemed it necessary to install this extension in her bedroom.

Esperanza, braiding her hair at her dresser, crossed to answer the ringing phone.

The caller was Florentin's secretary at the Madrid office. "Sorry to disturb you, Señora. I only wanted to get in touch with your husband to confirm that, per his request, his meeting's scheduled for May 3rd, so he needs to be here at the office that day."

Esperanza frowned. May 3rd? There had to be some mistake. "Florentin's meeting is tomorrow. The 22nd. He'll soon be on his way to Madrid as we speak."

"No, Señora. The meeting is May 3rd. I'm sure of that." The secretary spoke with utter certainty. "Señor San Roman expressly requested it, and he has no other meetings until that day."

Esperanza's gaze shot to the closed bathroom door. From behind that door, water was still running from her husband's shower. A chill snaked through her. There was no meeting scheduled tomorrow, and there'd be no meeting for the next twelve days. He was lying about needing to work. There was only one reason for a man to lie to his wife about needing to work--and to go as far as breaking a promise to his child. His firstborn son, no less.

"Thank you," she said into the receiver, her voice steady. "I'll give him the message."

"I'm very obliged, Señora," the secretary replied. "Goodbye."

Esperanza put the receiver down. Her braid forgotten, she stood staring at the bathroom door until the water shut off 5 minutes later. It swung open, and Florentin stepped out.

He was very handsome. These seven years hadn't changed that. There was a towel around his hips and he was rubbing his wet hair with another towel. He made to cross to his own dressing mirror but stopped when he noticed her gaze fixed on him.

"Is something else the matter?" he asked with a touch of sarcasm.

"Who is she?"

Now he frowned. "What? Who is who?"

"The woman whose bed you'll be spending the next twelve nights in. Who is she?"

Florentin didn't visibly react, but he was silent for a beat too long. Then he spoke composedly. He even had the gall to smile. "I know you're angry at my leaving early, but isn't this accusation taking things a bit too far?"

Esperanza's eyes bored into his face. She knew him and where his ego lay. Some men prided themselves on their achievements, others on their possessions. This man prided himself on his image as a respectable man.

"On your honor, Florentin," she said steadily, knowing that his next words would be honest ones. "On your honor--who is she?"

Florentin didn't speak for a while. Then his shoulders slumped. He dropped the towel he'd been using to dry his hair. The suaveness, sarcasm and cool smile all disappeared. "I'm sorry."

Esperanza didn't repeat her question. She just waited.

"Her name is Delia de las Heras." His voice was quiet. "I've known her even longer than I've known you. Her father was a lecturer at my University. They went to Zürich in 1967, when his leftist ideas got public. They came back to Madrid last November."

Fire burned in Esperanza. In her blood. In her eyes. "So all these years you claimed to be going to Zürich on business, she was the business you were on."

He didn't deny it.

Other things fell into place in Esperanza's head. "And that's why you suddenly didn't need to go this year. Because she's already in Madrid. And that's why you were so disappointed when I refused to go to Switzerland for our honeymoon. You planned to meet with her even then." The fire charred her insides. "You have no substance, Florentin San Roman. You're nothing."

Florentin looked at her. That one was a direct hit to his ego, she knew. For one of the few times since they'd met, she saw naked pain in his eyes. There were no veneers of breeding. Just hurt.

"I'm sorry you think so," he replied hoarsely. "I'm even sorrier that I agree with you on some level. I should have cut ties with her after our wedding, but I was...weak, I suppose. You're a good wife. You've given me my heir. But you're not..." He sighed. "I've kept going back to Delia for the one thing you've never given me."

Her voice was scathing. "Do tell."

"Love." He said the word simply, holding her eyes. "I mean love, Esperanza. You've never given me that."

Esperanza found that she could smile. It had no humor, though. "Well, you're not wrong there. I've never been in love with you. But why is that suddenly a problem when you've never loved me either? We knew where we stood when we went into this."

Florentin shook his head. "That's not true. Not fully. There was a time when I loved you as much as Delia. My feelings were split between you both. Remember seven years ago? When you were 19. You'd just finished school and you stayed those weeks in Madrid so I could date you. I was in love with you then, Esperanza."

He stopped, as if expecting her to challenge that. But she didn't, and he continued.

"When I proposed to you at the end of the six weeks, you told me you'd think about it, then you left. I missed you a lot at first. I hoped you'd write soon to say yes. If you had, I really believe I'd have been able to give Delia up. But four months passed without a word from you. It was clear you weren't thinking of me, so I stopped thinking of you and focused my affection on the woman showing me love. From the day her family was exiled, a week never passed without my getting a letter from Delia."

Ah, yes. Those four months after she'd come home from Madrid to think about marrying Florentin. Four months of being under a passionate spell. Four months of secret smiles, silent messages and midnight meetings in the courtyard. Four months when her body and heart had been consumed with...

Esperanza stopped that thought cold. She kept her focus on the swine before her. "Since you were so much in love with your Delia by then, why did you go through with our wedding when I finally wrote you?"

Again, he sighed. "It was time I got married--and to the right class of woman. You were far more suitable than her. Then there was the aspect of my having no idea when she might return to Spain." He paused. "And I was attracted to you." His gaze flicked over her body. "I still am."

She snarled. "I'm flattered."

He didn't respond to that. A moment passed, then he asked: "And what do we do now?"

"Now? Now you'd better go or you'll be late."

He took a step to her. "Esperanza--"

She swung away. "I mean that, Florentin. The last thing I want is you being here another hour. Go to Madrid. Stay there. I'll remain here until I figure out how we can get a divorce."

He stopped short. "You must be joking. I understand you asking for a temporary separation until you cool down, but you can't be in your right mind to suggest a divorce. Even if we could get one, we wouldn't. Not us."

"You know me pretty well. You know I'd rid myself of any husband who placed his obligations to me and my child lower than satisfying some woman's whims. No matter how difficult it is. Or how much people will talk and disapprove."

"Including your father?"

"This time, I don't give a damn what my father might think."

"And our son? Do you still give a damn about him?"

"Do you?" she fired back, fury lacing every syllable. "Yesterday you looked him in the face and disappointed his hope of spending a little time with his Papa, all for the sake of your Delia. So don't you dare attack me with our son."