The Oenologic Circus
by Luigi Anania, translated by Neal Rosenthal
from Issue #4 of Kitchen Work magazine
Recent developments in the world of wine have changed both its landscape and the habits of those who live there.
The Italian countryside, previously planted to a diverse mix of crops, is now devoted to intensive vinous monoculture, which affects the food sources and impacts the movements of the wild animals that for so long have inhabited these fields.
Man, too, has been changed. The life of the peasant farmer has been shattered in a way never before witnessed on the sacred Italian viticultural terrain. Over the recent past, the suave professional has appeared alongside the long-suffering farmer; among these types one finds gods and goddesses, modern-day idols of wealth and accomplishment.
This era’s gods and goddesses are fashionably dressed, with silk ties and sunglasses and smiles born of cliché and consensus; sometimes they present themselves as “flying winemakers,” deplaning to bestow words and gesture to their beseeching hosts who are otherwise preoccupied in dividing their wealth amongst their vanities — the cars and catwalks and the like.
On holidays, these characters dine on refined culinary delights and pass goblets that flash vermilion. Celebrities, enamored of wine, often join these festivities, and all chatter in the language of wine. At the end of the evening, all become a single, indistinguishable crowd; then, at dawn, each returns from their wine estates to the swarming masses in the airports jammed on the benches and then, neat and sanitized, transform themselves from elite farmer to sophisticated traveler.
The bodies of the cursing workers stink and sweat profusely in the rank humidity. But in the halls of the international hotels, this crowd gathers to exchange gossipy witticisms, asides, and smiles. At the moment of the aperitif, they gather in the bar with the oenologists and journalists, drawn together with centrifugal force, to exchange pleasantries as business requires. Then, bit by bit, as the conversation proceeds, the group, as if born from the womb, becomes a singular type so that, whether at night in London or in the bar in any piazza, the same gestures, words, and wines, all in the identical color, appear no matter where in the world.
Among them a philosopher wanders, searching for the language, the spirit of the peasant farmer hidden within the form of the professional. He wishes to discover the identity, the history, the narrative untouched by time that provides an almost religious comfort. He roams the symposia where the talk is of being a farmer today, with eyes inspired by the idea of the farmer whose life is an example of the man who has found the answer to the demands of both the body and the spirit.
In the evening, after navigating the scene and observing gestures and expressions, he speaks of a project to save the traditional farmer from extinction. Those in attendance listen in embarrassment. But why? After all this time dedicated to learning how to behave with extravagance, someone regrets the loss of the poor life of long ago.
A small man with prominent features introduces himself as Ghelisardo, his stony face marked by fluttering eyebrows. He looks around fearful that others are watching, his entire body shaking, including his head. His agitation increases as he reads a plaque from the district council praising those who have transformed the marshes into a flowering garden. When he finishes reading, his spasms worsen and his bones bang against the bystanders and onto the table. Then, suddenly, he quiets himself and finds the courage to speak to the philosopher: “My dear Doctor, I have always walked the clod-riven fields but I appear on nighttime shows where my wine is defined as holy and built with broad shoulders. I also frequent salons in the city where I maintain the rugged posture born of the harshness of my land. As my wine speaks of the composition of my land, my stride is born of the travails of my homeland and of this I am not ashamed.” As he speaks of shame, his spasms begin again and his skeleton rattles the table once more.
The philosopher, disregarding the unease of Ghelisardo, runs his fingers through his hair and responds, “So, you say your ways come from another time and you are proud of that; but I ask you if you have perhaps forgotten that you now live in a universal time that doesn’t take into account places and asks us to adjust to a new life cycle; a time in which identities and wines are tossed together in a huge washing machine from which each emerges identical to the other. An example: now, as we speak here in this ancient piazza, does it not seem as if each moment that goes by is experienced as an ephemeral instance without reference to a single identity?”
Ghelisardo waves his hands, unable to respond.
By his side, a German with gray hair and dreamy eyes says, “Certainly, it is no longer the same as it used to be when one could taste a wine and look at faces and architecture and find a distinct place, but I ask myself what use is there in wallowing in the past? I suggest today that we should admire the beauty of a mixed identity inspired by a heavenly impulse to be another. We exist today thanks to that transmigration and, even if we don’t see it in ourselves, we appreciate it in others.” Then, pouring his glass full to the brim, he adds, “It is the recognition of this fact that makes us who we are.”
Meanwhile, to the general bewilderment of the crowd, a fat man raises his voice to tell the story of Marsilia, a gentle girl who was abducted by the Moors near the coast. He tells of her turquoise eyes that match the color of the sea and how her incandescent beauty pitilessly destroyed the other women in the sultan’s palace. The voice of this obese man, carelessly cast about, becomes a song that mesmerizes the others into a state of unconsciousness in which his words are lost. The philosopher begins again his discourse about wine and identity, but confusion reigns as those around him, distracted, look at the bar, the houses on the square, the sky.
When the discussion starts again, Ghelisardo lifts his trembling arm and points to the opposite side of the piazza. In this moment, a man who moves with the grace of a field hand and an artist both, jumps onto the edges of the chairs while lowering the brim of his hat; then, leaping onto the glowing sign of the bar, he falls, shattering into scattered fragments of identity.
