Chapter 24 in the R.M. Dolin novel, "What Is to Be Done"
Read companion poem
There’s something about Sundays in Northern New Mexico that defines a closeness to God devoid of description. In reverence to the moment, birds delay waking the world a little longer. Rather than shoot over the Sangre’s jolting the high mesa desert into brilliant bursts of light and energy, the sun on Sundays, hovers just below the peaks waiting for the infinite night and petulant day to collide with enough momentum to push it past Sunday’s extra measure of gravity. Even wind minds it manners. In a recent survey, most New Mexicans couldn’t recall it ever being windy on a Sunday morning.
Emelia’s phone is muted per French National Musician’s Union regulations. “Sunday’s not a rest day,” Jake often points out. “It’s a slow day.” If he rides his bike, it’s not until late afternoon because an essential part of Sunday morning is huevos smothered in red chili, “for those of us serious about breakfast.”
Jake prepares his huevos the old school way without regard to health or diet. The base is a heated flour tortilla lathered with butter. While Texans prefer corn tortillas, food artists never compromise. Layered atop Jake’s tortilla is a pile of crispy hash browns on one side and refried beans on the other. Centered above that are two gently basted eggs, all of which is then dusted with shredded cheese and striped with bacon. Then for the piece de la resistance, the entire plate is smothered in piping hot red chili made by sauteing chili powder in bacon grease. The reason Jake moves slow on Sundays and doesn’t ride his bike until late afternoon, if at all, is because it takes all day to work off the consequence of breakfast.
Following huevos, perfect Sunday continues with piñon coffee in the courtyard, usually while perusing current events on a laptop or immersed in either a technical book or novel. What Jake reads is secondary to the relaxing effect of cowboy coffee complementing the world as it wakes. Dario occasionally drops by, and they seamlessly sit for hours chatting and plotting some new adventure. Dario apparently doesn’t like piñon coffee because he always arrives with convenience store crap knowing Jake has a full pot on the stove. “How the hell does a homie not like piñon coffee?” Jake constantly teases, Dario, to his credit, never responds.
As truly wonderful as Sunday mornings are, today’s schedule is slightly askew. After distilling late into last night, Jake went to bed exceedingly committed to sleeping in, which is why he’s so damned annoyed when something cold, wet, and unsympathetic presses against his naked back. “What the hell!” he shouts while instinctively rolling over to confront his attacker only to find himself face to face with Quando, who’s head rests on the rumpled covers with big brown eyes staring in a playful plead. “What do you want?” Jake groans as he scratches Quando behind his ears resisting the impulse to fully awaken. Quando enjoys getting scratched for as long as his sense of duty allows, he then sits back, tilts his head just enough to betray enjoyment, and barks. “No damn it,” Jake pleads, “I don’t want to get up.” He rolls over and scoots to the middle of the bed with his naked body now fully exposed.
It doesn’t take Quando long to figure out what needs to be done, he puts his front paws on the edge of the bed, leans way in, and sticks his cold nose into the small of Jake’s back. In determined frustration, Jake scoots to the far end of the bed using the covers bunched up along the front of his body to preemptively thwart another attack. Unfortunately, this defensive posture leaves his backside fully exposed. Not to be outsmarted, Quando trots to the other side of the bed. At first, he tries staring Jake awake, tiling his head one way then another. When that doesn’t work, he ratchets up a notch by pressing his cold nose smack on Jake’s lips. Jake’s eyes bolt open in surprise causing Quando to let out a loud bark that sounds an awful lot like taunting laughter. “Alright already,” Jake shouts, “what’s so damn important you need to wake me up?”
“It’s time for church,” Sympatico simply answers.
In that instant Jake’s simultaneously aware of two things; Sympatico’s in his room and he’s buck-ass naked with his backside fully exposed. He scrambles to cover himself, which causes Sympatico to giggle and Quando to bark in taunting laughter. “Church,” Jake yells while wrestling with uncooperative sheets. “I don’t go to church on Sundays.”
“We went last week, and today, Padre, expects you.”
“You can’t know that.”
Sympatico steps to the side of the bed doing what she can to avoid looking at her naked benefactor. She hands Jake a note written on distillery stationary. “Theresa talked to Padre yesterday. He asks that you bring Angelica to Mass. I hope it is okay, if I come too?” Jake takes the note. “Unless going with Angelica is something you wish to do together.”
Jake hurriedly reads Theresa’s note to get to the bottom of this abhorrent misunderstanding.
Jake,
Bring Angelica to Mass tomorrow.
Gracious, peace, and all that other Franciscan stuff,
Paul
“Well, that answers that.” Jake crumples the note and tosses it over the side of bed, then returns to sleep.
“So can I come?”
Jake rubs sleep from his eyes then instinctively slides his hand down to scratch a familiar itch, stopping just shy of embarrassment. “Okay,” he sighs, recognizing the futility of resistance. He checks the clock to confirm he has an hour to get ready. “But you have to make me huevos tomorrow.”
“Si,” Sympatico gleefully answers before bouncing off to her room.
The door she left open creates something of a dilemma, how does he get out of bed without being seen? Luckily, he has help. “Quando,” Jake commands while gesturing wildly. “Close the door.” Quando looks mournfully at his master before walking part way to the door, he looks back dejected, uncertain why he’s being punished. “Good boy,” Jake encourages, again gesturing wildly. Quando looks at the door, at his beloved master, then back to the door before sadly slinking off to serve his banishment. “Man’s best friend my ass,” Jake yells as Quando crosses the hallway on his way to Sympatico’s room. Jake stammers out of bed no longer caring if Sympatico sees him naked. “I may not get huevos,” he mumbles throwing on a robe and heading to the kitchen. “But I’m damn sure gonna get coffee.”
By the time he’s done showering, the inviting aroma of piñon has lofted into the bedroom softening his mood, it’s not possible to stay sour when smelling Sunday morning coffee. Half an hour before they have to leave Jake’s in the courtyard finishing his first cup. He walks into the kitchen to refill. “Sympatico,” he shouts down the hallway. “Twenty minutes till departure.”
“Si,” she shouts back.
Jake chuckles as he heads outside. It doesn’t matter if he’s dealing with his French wife, American daughter, or Bolivian house guest; women are women. He could have told her the true departure time, but he long ago learned to hold ten minutes in reserve and to start demonstrating impatience early. That’s the only hope a reasonable man has of getting a woman out of the house on time. He sets his cup on a courtyard table walking to his pickup. He drives to the wine room, loads four cases along with a dolly, then returns to patiently wait until it’s time to again demonstrate impatience. To his surprise, Sympatico walks through the tasting room five minutes before the early deadline, which means Jake’s fifteen minutes ahead of schedule and that’s a solid for the win column.
Sympatico stops in the doorway taking in her first contact with morning, immediately captivated by the fresh potential of a world waking to the possibilities of was, until just a few days ago, unimaginable.
“Wow!” Jake loudly announces stammering to his feet. “You look- incredible.” He stares through his misplaced sense of appropriateness. “I mean wow!” And he’s right, Sympatico has somehow found items from Emelia’s closet Jake can’t remember ever seeing, at least not in this ensemble. She’s sporting a southwest style white skirt with red and green embroidery. A silver gaucho belt interlaced with turquoise is complimented by sky blue cowboy boots. Between the boot top and skirt bottom is five inches of bare skin that strikes Jake as provocative from a going to church perspective. Her pink pastel blouse is open enough to reveal a silver turquoise necklace that’s distinctively different than her belt. Complimenting that is a bracelet revealing itself in stolen glances through long sleeves. Her black hair is pulled back and held in place by some sort of silver and turquoise device that gathers hair at the base of her neck before allowing it to freely flow down her back.
“Gracias.” Sympatico graciously answers. She’s embarrassed but finds it surprisingly comfortable to allow herself to enjoy feeling pretty. What her stylish outfit doesn’t reveal and what took so long to create, is the careful way she’s crafted things to hide each bruise and bandage. Each wardrobe item carefully chosen more for what it conceals than style or effect; that the ensemble has both is an unintended consequence. Well, perhaps not entirely unintended. On some level, Sympatico’s competing to be as pretty as Angelica, if perhaps even not more.
“We have a few minutes.” Jake slides out a chair. “Coffee?”
“No,” Sympatico abruptly answers. “Perhaps later,” she quickly adds as conciliation.
Jake helps her into her chair. “Perhaps some water or juice?”
“I’m fine.” She answers trying to conceal just how nervous she is. ‘What will Angelica think about me staying here?’ she wonders, ‘No woman’s going to like learning another woman’s moved into her boyfriend’s house.’
Jake relaxes back in his chair taking in the magic of the moment with a satisfaction only Sunday can support. If it wasn’t for missing out on huevos, this would be a perfect morning. “Isn’t it glorious, watching the world awaken?”
“Si.” To say she’s perplexed would be an understatement. ‘How can he not be nervous?’ She wonders. ‘He probably told Angelica I’m ugly and fat to keep her from being jealous. Poor Jake, when Angelica sees me, she’ll know you lied.’ Sympatico stares at him. ‘How can you just sit there like nothing matters? I should withdraw but that only postpones the inevitable. She’ll be upset, which will end in a scene, do all men lack conscience? At least Angelica will be comforted knowing I go to church.’
Jake watches two hummingbirds compete for nectar oblivious to the turmoil brewing across the table. “Do you like mornings? Morning people far more interesting.”
“Si.” She answers worried and having second thoughts. ‘How could I get myself into such a predicament?’
“Better than night I say,” He senses Sympatico’s uneasiness with having to sit in the courtyard, so is talking mostly to put her at ease.
“Nothing good happens at night.” She answers
“Sorry,” Jake sheepishly offers. When Sympatico doesn’t respond, he attempts to recover. “What you went through was horrible, there’s no way a man like me can understand. The thing I’ve learned though, through personal experience, is we move on. I’m not saying we forget or pretend nothing happened. But we do move on.” Jake glances at Sympatico as she’s looks toward the mountains with a faraway sadness, her light smile from a moment ago, replaced by the solemn shadows reserved for lost souls. Clasping his coffee cup in both hands, Jake overpowers their prolonged silence. “I’ve not forgotten Emelia.” He forces himself to share torments he’d rather keep buried. “I never pretend things are the same either. I am however, finding micro moments; like riding my bike or playing poker. Pieces, that’s what I have. Random pieces devoid of expectation.”
He sips his coffee attempting to find words. “The elusive trick I suppose, is figuring out how to sew pieces into some sort of tapestry. You’ll figure it out, even though I sure as shit haven’t.” He pauses. “Pieces. I’ve no idea what comes after that, but that’s where we start.” Jake knows he should say more but has run out of words. Tears welling up in Sympatico’s eyes are proof the best thing is to sit with her in silence. He leans back facing the archway through which he can frame the sun behind him awakening Pajarito Mountain. In the time it takes to finish his coffee he considers the implications of attending church two Sundays in a row realizing he has to be on the lookout for flying pigs.
After five minutes of silence, Sympatico abruptly jumps up. “We should go.” She starts for the parking lot. “We still have to pick up Angelica, and don’t want to be late.” Jake tries to respond but she exits the courtyard too fast. He starts after her but remembers he has to lock up. By the time he gets to the truck, Sympatico’s already taken up residence in the back seat. Jake climbs in and starts the engine. “Is this some sort of Bolivian thing?”
Sympatico suddenly worries Jake’s changed his mind. “What?”
“Why are you sitting in the back?”
“So, Angelica can sit with you.” Sympatico’s abrupt answer poorly conceals a jealously she doesn’t even know she has.
“Angelica’s already here.” Sympatico looks around the parking lot for another car or some sign of this mystery girlfriend but Jake points to the back bed of the truck. “That’s Angelica, it’s Padre’s communion wine.” Sympatico stares at the four white boxes in disbelief. “If you don’t move up front,” Jake flatly states, “this all gets weird.”
It’s awkward for a person in the back seat of a two-door pickup to get out without help, so Jake hops out and scurries around the truck. He takes Sympatico’s hand and is immediately struck by how nice she smells and how oddly provocative it feels to hold a woman’s hand. “On the way to church I’ll tell you the story of Angelica,” he says in an attempt to re-channel inappropriate thoughts. He cannot make eye contact on account of feeling embarrassed for momentarily enjoying sensations meant to be forever lost. “It’s pretty fascinating. Did you know,” he says hopping into the driver’s seat, “I’m the only winemaker in the world that knows Angelica’s original recipe?”
“You make alter wine?”
“Technically yes, Angelica was invented by Monks. At least that’s the argument Padre uses to muscle in for his cut.”
“You can’t sell alter wine; you made it for God?”
“I make it sell, but once Padre found out I use the original Spanish Missionary recipe, he shamed me into supplying his parish.”
“Good for him.”
“At least his congregation’s small, takes seven years to finish a batch. I make it clear to Padre that God may get the Angelica, but the bourbon’s mine.”
“You don’t get to make deals with God.”
“Maybe, but no harm reminding the big guy I’m useful. The way I see it, as long as I’m needed, he’ll keep me around.”
“Senor Jake! You cannot talk like that.”
“I assure you, that’s tame compared to most our conversations.”
“You will get in trouble.”
“I’m already Padre’s lost cause. And God, well he knows where to find me.” Like most PhD’s, Jake can debate matters of any topic without getting emotionally invested, but as Emelia constantly points out, others cannot. Jake sees Sympatico on edge and is reminded debates like this are best left unresolved “Five hundred years ago,” he pivots. “New Mexico was a vast territory including what’s now Arizona, Colorado, and parts of Texas. While not widely known, Spaniards were the first European distillers.”
“They invented distilling?”
“The Arabs did, somewhere around 700 AD to make perfume. Along the way though, someone gets the idea to make perfume from wine. The fragrance wasn’t particularly good but, as always, some dumb ass decides to drink it. And the rest is what we in the business call, history.”
“Arabs are not allowed to have alcohol?”
“Not now, it took them fifty years after inventing the Alembic Still to update the Koran. Several hundred years later, during their third Caliphate, the Arabs bring distilling with them as they take the Iberian Peninsula. If you ask me, they introduce liquor as a way to subdue the masses. Pretty much akin to the way our government pushes pills; you know, keep everyone compliantly complacent. Governments have been screwing with people for as long as there’s been governments and people. My government’s track record is pretty sordid. They managed the Black population for generations using strategic sterilization until abortion could take over. During the forties they force ethnic soldiers in their own army to undergo chemical testing to determine the best way to kill through diversity. In the sixties, they addict soldiers to LSD just for shits and grins. They bombed entire cities after 9/11 with chemical irritants to model dispersion patterns and see how urban populations react. There’s no telling what the hell they’re doing to us now. Look at their takeover of health care and how they worked so hard to control us during their political pandemic; no way it’s not intentional.”
“You think the pandemic’s on purpose.”
“Hell ya!, I’m trained to distill observation into fact, and here’s the deal; the biggest fear any government has is grassroots unrest, like we had in the sixties. The more technology advances, the more idle time the masses have, which always leads to unrest. The cheapest and easiest fix is to keep us obese and sedated.” Jake drives in silence thinking about world history from the context of controlling the masses. “A planned pandemic is the simplest way to reassert control.”
After a long pause, he continues his tale. “Spanish monks were the wine makers during the Moorish caliphate. When Missionaries came to New Mexico in the 1500’s, they brought both wine making and distilling technology. They also brought the world’s oldest grape, the Alexandra Muscat. It was a gift from the ancient Greeks to the Romans, who planted it in Spain. Unfortunately, the grape wouldn’t grow in our harsh environment, but they were able to find a native grape thriving here they called the Mission grape. Problem was this vine produces horrible grapes, so, here’s where our story gets interesting. In addition to being master distillers, the Spanish Monks were incredible horticulturists; think about Mendel, who while dabbling in plant hybridization founded the science of genetic inheritance. You know, the whole deal about if your maternal grandfather’s bald then your mom’s first-born daughter’s, first born son, will also be bald.”
“My first-born son will be bald?” Sympatico asks in stunned worry.
“According to Mendel.”
Sympatico mulls over her tragic news assessing the implications. “South American men are seldom bald.”
“Well, your grandfather apparently was.” Jake’s in intellectual mode, which is a kind way of saying he states fact devoid of concern for personal impact. “You don’t need to worry, your kids will be strong, courageous, brave, and beautiful; just like their mom.” Sympatico hints at a smile even if embarrassed and a bit offended Jake would be so flirtatious. “It’s unlikely anyone of Mendel’s stature came to New Mexico, but there’s enough smarts in the monasteries to graft the Muscat grape to the root stock of the Mission grape and from that get a Muscat varietal that not only thrives in our harsh environment but tastes good.”
“They used this new grape to make alter wine?”
“Nothing about this period is that straight forward. All of this is going on during the Spanish Inquisition which is the worst of the three. The Church in Spain decrees that Missionaries in New Mexico have to buy alter wine from Spain. So no, the missionaries were not using their hybrid Muscat to make alter wine; at least not yet.”
“Seems silly, Spain is so far away.”
“The Spanish Oligarchs were greedy to be sure, but the practical problem their greed caused was that by the time wine from Spain crosses the Atlantic and comes up the ‘Camino Real,’ it spoils. If that weren’t bad enough, Spanish wine is so rare Friars are only allocated half a barrel a year. Things get so bad missionaries start experimenting with making alter wine from their new grape. They work in secret of course; punishment during the inquisition is particularly gruesome. Trouble is their wine keeps spoiling; they don’t have modern pharmaceuticals like today. Someone though, gets the idea to fortify the wine with brandy. They play with different ratios and eventually find that when wine gets to twenty percent alcohol it won’t spoil.
“The other thing the Monks figure out how to do is make it sweet. After all, you can’t convert heathens with bad wine.” Jake takes a moment to enjoy his lecture. “Angelica is the sweetest a wine can be without adding sugar, which I never would. So, their big breakthrough, besides creating a grape that grows in New Mexico, is developing methods to make sweet wine that don’t spoil. At that time no one in the world knew how to do either. Angelica is first made in 1628 at a Monastery just a few miles north of here. Soon afterwards, it spreads like wildfire throughout the territory, and before long, they’re exporting it to Spain, only as dessert wine. Angelic becomes such a sensation, no one wants dry Spanish wine. It decimates their wine industry so bad the government bans Angelica’s importation, which is hilariously ironic when you consider it’s their lame-ass regulation that necessitated its invention.
“Not only is Angelica the first wine ever made in America, it’s America’s first manufactured export, and best of all, the first American product ever banned in a foreign country. Not bad for a few Franciscans defying the Church during the Inquisition. Because Angelica’s one third brandy, it contains a Distiller’s spirit, which I also appreciate. George Washington and the Sons of Liberty may have personified the Distiller’s rebellious spirit in their open defiance of the British crown in Boston Harbor, but New Mexico distillers risked their lives for such freedom two hundred years earlier. And while King George had his rebels hung, the Dominicans treated their rebels to far more unspeakable ends.”
“I see why Padre wants your wine.”
“We’re not done, fifty years after missionaries began exporting their sweet, fortified wine to Spain, the Portuguese invent Port. Only they didn’t invent it, they had the same problem with wine in Brazil that the New Mexico missionaries had long ago overcome. To solve their problem the Portuguese “borrow” New Mexico’s method of fortifying wine with brandy. Coincidentally they too decide twenty percent alcohol is the sweet spot for taste and preservation. I’m the only winemaker in the world who makes Angelica using the recipe developed by the missionaries. And the only one to use New Mexico Muscat. I’m also the only one who makes the brandy in the wine.”
“That is impressive.”
“It’s the wine I’m most known for.”
“How did you find the recipe?”
“Divine intercession, just in the form of two brothers who’s family traces back over five-hundred years. They wanted me to make an heirloom whiskey for them. At first, I resist because, well it’s illegal and I’m all about doing what’s right. But they were persistent and to sweeten the deal, said if I’d agree to make their whiskey, they’d show me the original recipe for Angelica. They then proceeded to tell me the story I just told you and I was so excited to be a part of something so rich in intercontinental history spanning government, religion, and rebellion I had to do it. Because, you know, sometimes what’s right requires doing what’s wrong.”
Jake finishes his story just as they pull into the parking lot of Our Lady of Sympatico parish. “The reward simply outweighed the risk, so I made their whiskey and when they came to collect, they brought this magnificent ancient manuscript with dates inside all the way back to the fifteen hundreds. They let me examine several entries to validate its authenticity and then showed me a section containing a map of this very valley along with the recipe.” Jake looks across the parking lot to where Padre stands in the doorway welcoming Parishioners.
“So how is it made?”
“Can’t say.” He watches Padre patiently wait as two elderly men slowly make their way inside. “I don’t even tell Padre and he’s constantly hounding me.” Like most parishioners, the Quintana brothers possess a faithful dignity reserved for those unafraid of the short journey ahead. While the Santuario de Chimayo may be closer for them, for the honor of being served their family’s Angelica from a consecrated chalice, the extra distance is more than worth it. “I promised the brothers I wouldn’t share.”
“So, when you die that’s it, this essential piece of history dies with you?”
“This is why God can’t claim me, either the brothers have to release me from my promise, or I have to live forever.”
“I’m sure if you just ask, they’d say okay.”
Padre looks toward Jake. “Possibly, but then I’m no longer necessary.”
“I’m sure God has bigger plans for you.”
Padre gestures for Jake to come inside, which triggers an angst-driven trepidation. The part of his story he left out, was divulging that Emelia is the one who set up this ecumenical accommodation. Jake patiently waits, deciding to delay delivery until after Mass starts, that way he can sneak the wine into the outer foyer and leave, like he always does. Padre waits with unyielding hope until it becomes clear Jake’s playing his usual game. He turns in frustration and walks inside leaving the front door open.
“If not for promises, things would be a whole lot less complicated.” He reaches for his door handle and once out, bounces around the truck to help Sympatico; again, noticing the pleasant way she smells. It’s not a scent he remembers, which is odd since she had to have gotten it from Emelia’s things. Jake considers the possibility that the same perfume can smell differently on different people. That’s his preferred conclusion because the only other explanation is that he’s forgotten an essential piece of Emelia. He lowers the tailgate and aggressively stacks the Angelica cases onto the dolly. With angry frustration that comes from not being in control of one’s thoughts, he slams the tailgate shut and starts toward the church mumbling to himself. “How the hell do you forget a smell?”
