Searching for Dylan 

 2

  

 Wine and Gossip

 

 

 

Jorge Braña

Well, there we were again, sitting informally in the kitchen of your house, this time carving out large slices of Emental Grand Cru, “directly from La Ferme Saint-Aubin,” you assured us, explaining that it must have a red label, “which is a kind of guarantee of its quality”.  It was a rather large half cylinder, much too large for what anybody would expect for this type of cheese, made from raw cow’s milk and pressed pâté.  Except from you, of course.  We looked up to the upper shelf, knowing your next move would be to present us with the wine.  The two bottles were there, as usual, the one in the left already opened, the wine already aired and slightly below room temperature.  “Vin de Savoie”, you said, triumphantly, grabbing the bottle and pouring its content carefully into our glasses.  You fixed your stare on me for a couple of seconds, a penetrating glance that caught me off guard.  I knew there was something wrong, but there was no time to ask, the ritual could not be broken, and personal matters could not be discussed in front of Jimmy and Kai anyway.

“So, Carl” –said Jimmy – “tell us about this wine,” knowing perfectly well that it was opening the door to your usual lecture, inescapable part of our Friday evening ritual, sometimes boring, but generally fun.  “Apellation Chignin”, you started, “the very best of the region…” Your mouth was moving as usual, and the usual faint smile was there, but there was an air of gravity in the background, and I don’t know if it was me or what, but it seemed that you kept on clearing your throat.

The idea crossed my mind for the first time then, for a second or two, but I discarded it quickly.  “…a very limited production of reds…” I heard, just before Kai touched me gently on the elbow, his face dressed with a “something wrong?” gesture.  “Me?” I said, inanely, pointing to myself, all the time thinking it was you who looked strange.  Kai nodded.  “No, I’m ok” I told him, and in a whisper, “I’m actually more than ok, I’m quite in high spirits, I’ll tell you later”.  What a mistake, I should have known better, Friday evening curiosity cannot be 

Jorge Braña

 

left unsatisfied, not among long time friends.  When you started with something about roots in the XI-th century, Kai, who had already betrayed my secret to Jimmy, could not stand the novelty any more and interrupted: “Hey, it looks like Dylan has something to tell us”.  “Me? Oh, no guys, let him finish, it was just getting interesting.  Go on Carl, there are not many vineyards that go back to the XI-th century”. It was too late, Jimmy was just as curious as Kai, and laughing, forced the interruption.  “Carl, let us learn more about it in a little while, I think Dylan has something to tell us.  Comm’on, Dylan, don’t be shy, if you are in such good spirits as Kai says you are, there must be a reason.”  “Iron strong friendship”, added Kai, looking at me as if there could be no secret in my soul I shouldn’t divulge on a Friday evening.  Before I started you tried to stop me, though: “Wait, leave him alone, maybe he doesn’t want to tell us.”  But then I fell for it, like an idiot, inattentive to your tone of consternation.

“Well, eh, I mean - I have a girlfriend,” I started.  Kai and Jimmy applauded and waved, asking for more.  “You mean a lover”, said Kai, laughing, “and?...” “Uh, well, yeah, we’d already had an encounter or two a couple of weeks back”, I responded, trying to sound casual, “but they were sort of no commitment stuff, you know”.  “We know? - we know! So?”  “But it’s different now, she and I, it’s, well, like magic”. 

Glasses clashing, give me fives, oohs Dylan… nobody paid attention to you, silently staring at the wall.  “What’s her name”, asked Kai.  “Catherine”.  “Ah, Catarina…”.  Then Jimmy blasted out, “hey Carl, wasn’t that your girlfriend’s name, too; what a coincidence”.  

 

 

 Searching for Dylan 

 

 And you, still staring at the wall, softly answered: “Yes, it was.  But no more.”  We all looked at you, the truth dawning on me like a cold shower, then you went on: “Yesterday she told me she was in love with another guy.  A, hmm - how did she put it? – 'a quiet, gentle soul, who makes me feel contained, in harmony'.  She talked about finding the lyricism that was missing in her life.  A younger guy, she said.  A painter.”  I wished I could have disappeared from the room then, but I was stuck there, just like you were, in the hideous silence that followed, where the dripping from the faucet all of a sudden seemed like a series of bongs banging on the sink.  “Shit-I…” my mouth managed to say, but you stopped me.  “No hard feelings”, you said, “just do me a favor, eh?  Please give this to her; a good-bye gift.  I won’t call her again.  Will you?” And you handed me the ceramic flower from the right shelf.  Then you said you had a headache, couldn’t we continue next Friday, and we all understood, of course. 

Next Friday never was, nor any other Friday.  I suspected it then, leaving your house.  But how could have I known, you kept your life mostly to yourself; you of all were the one who was less caught up on our gossip.  Ah, fuck, I thought, why is it that happiness always comes with a stroke of pain, always a bit of sour on top of the sugar.  I will miss these evenings, I said to myself, if they ever stop.  And of course they did.  But outside, life went on, and with the breeze I started to anticipate Catherine’s arms waiting for me.  It is all that matters, now, really.