Blackberry Wine [antikvár]

WINE TALKS. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT. LOOK AROUND YOU. ASK the oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the wedding feast; the holy fool. It talks. It ventriloquizes. It has a millión voices. It unleashes the tongue, teasing out secrets you never meant to teli, secrets you never even knew. It shouts, ránts, whispers. It speaks of great things, splendid plans, tragic loves and terrible betrayals. It screams with laughter. It chuckles softly to itself. It weeps in front of its own reflection. It opens up summers long past and memories best forgottén. Every bottle a whiff of other times, other places; every one, from the commonest Liebfraumilch to the imperious 1945 Veuve Clicquot, a humble miracle. Everyday magic, Joe called it. The trans-formation of base matter into the stuff of dreams. Layman's alchemy. Take me, for instance. Fleurie, 1962. Last survivor of a crate of twelve, bottled and laid down the year Jay was born. 'A pert, garrulous wine, cheery and a little brash, with a pungent taste of blackcurrant,' said the label. Not really a wine for keeping, but he did. For nostalgia's sake. For a special occasion. A birthday, perhaps a wedding. But his birthdays passed without celebration; drinking Argentin-ian red and watching old Westerns. Five years ago he laid me out on a table set with silver candlesticks, but nothing came of it. In spite of that he and the girl stayed together. An army of bottles came with her - Dom Pérignon, Sto-