Page 32 of Before We Say Goodbye
Otis couldn’t even kick-start his facial muscles. All of him drooped.
“You’re not the first guy to screw up his virgin batch.”
“It was going fine. We went to Montana for a few days. I should have been here.”
Paul shook his head. “If it were easy, everybody would—”
“Don’t patronize me. What do you think went wrong?”
“Probably not enough air, man. You have to find that perfect balance of protecting it without suffocating it.” Paul stepped forward and put a hand on Otis’s shoulder. “We’ll get ’em next year.”
Otis didn’t have years. They were broke. This would have earned them some money, something off which to build. He wasn’t dumb enough to think he could have made a wine worthy of Carmine Coraggio, but he at least wanted to pull off a wine that he could sharewith his family and friends, something to show them that he could make his dream reality.
What it felt like, what this winetastedlike, was an omen, his last chance to get out while he still could.
Fear rushed in, his father’s voice the bugle call for an army of doubt, but he pressed his eyes closed and shut it down. He wasn’t going back to Berkeley. He wasn’t giving up.
Rotten eggs still on his tongue, he drove through the valley to the only man who he thought might save him.
Shortly after first tasting the wines of Carmine Coraggio, Otis had learned that Carmine’s farm wasn’t too far away. Only a few miles south.
Several times in the last two years he’d wanted to go by and talk to the man, to ask if he might study under him. Paul Murphy was a great winemaker, but Otis wanted to expand his knowledge. Every time he thought he’d found the courage to go introduce himself, though, that courage would die a fast death. Once he’d even gotten close to the legend’s house before turning around. He couldn’t follow through, terrified of the rumors he’d heard, terrified that he wasn’t worthy of even breathing the same air as such a great man.
From what he’d heard from Lloyd and Paul and other natives of the area, Carmine Coraggio didn’t like people—especially after losing his wife—and wasn’t fond of visitors. He had no phone. No tasting room. Signs warning off visitors supposedly hung on the gates.
Desperation could either kill you or break down barriers. Today, it broke down barriers. Otis didn’t turn back and wound his way through the hills of Glen Ellen with unwavering determination. The drive was stunning, despite the season. Though many of the trees were bare and the flora had paused its growth till the spring, this land projected poetic majesty. The sun shot through the canopy of the forest, splashing light through the lingering mist. A deer raised his head from the grass andthen shot off into the distance. On occasion, a farmer’s tiny vineyard revealed itself. Otis could already see why Carmine’s wines were special.
If it weren’t for the lack of signs, the severely eroded gravel roads, and its overall remote nature, this part of Sonoma would have been inundated with wineries, but the business-minded winery owners knew that tourists spent their time and money on the Sonoma Highway, so that was where they planted their grapes.
Rounding one last bend, Otis knew he’d arrived. Over a wooden fence coiled with barbwire stood a farm beyond description, a winter oasis bursting with vibrant energy. Twisty ancient vines wrapped gnarly canes around their trellises. Random oak trees poked out of the earth. Black sheep like Otis had never seen wandered the rows with their heads in the grass. Birds cut through the sky in search of prey. A small wooden house hid at the end of a long drive. A plume of smoke rose from the brick chimney. Another building, presumably a winery, stood next to it and called to Otis as if with open arms.
After he’d parked, a steady whisper filled the air, a constant note as if God were holding down a low key on an organ with his left hand. This buzz crept into Otis and caused a stillness within him. He’d been chasing around the idea of how wine was art, that it was the ultimate expression of man working with nature, but only now did he truly grasp the spiritual element of wine, how a true farmer didn’t only work with nature; he broke bread with it, sharing communion, cracking into the utter core of what mattered.
“Hello,” he called out.
The black sheep lifted their heads to view the intruder. A dog barked. Off in the distance, compost piles gave off steam.
Otis found the latch on the gate, deciding that this would be an okay way to die if Carmine came rushing out with a gun. He locked the gate behind him and started down the gravel drive with his eyes on the vines, soaking up more in this moment than he had in all the years leading up to it.
A gruff voice shot across the farm. “Can I help you?” A man marched his way.
Otis put up his hands in surrender. “Mr. Coraggio?”
Carmine looked like the pictures in the articles Otis had read, a former navy man who’d seen his share of battle ... or a Hells Angel who had grown weary of the road. His scars reinforced that idea. He was scrawny in places but muscular in others. Big biceps, a disheveled beard. His long gray hair hung in two braids. It looked like he’d lived in the woods for years, uncontacted by the outside world.
“Who’s asking?” he asked with an Italian accent, plucking a cigarette from his mouth. Parts of his beard stained yellow from tobacco.
A nobody,Otis thought.No one that deserves to speak to you.
“Don’t worry, I’m not selling anything. I just came to ...” This could be the most important moment of his life. Here he stood in the presence of greatness, a man who’d flipped San Francisco upside down with his wines. A man who made wine like Picasso painted.
“Sir, I’m a fan. Not that I’ve had tons of your wine—I can’t afford them—but I’ve been blessed with a few sips.”
Carmine looked at Otis like he was about to shoot him.
Otis had nothing left to lose. “I’ve been working with wine for almost three years and have been reading and studying, doing everything I can, but I need guidance.” Otis raised his head and met the man’s gaze. There were songs in Carmine’s eyes, ballads of angst and sadness, a life imprisoned behind the twelve bars of the blues.
“I came by to see if I could study under you. If you might have some work for me.”
