Valencia. Night of wines

She came in with dark glasses and a white handkerchief that confused her face among any other woman’s, holding a cup of rotten-wood-tasting tempranillo, worthing as much as some sort of vinegar. Despite the discomfort, as she stepped silently forward like an invisible spectrum to the outside of the crowd and approached the booth of the cave, he saw Jacinto talking to the cameras of the local television. Unable to turn over faster than the flounces of her white dress, she swallowed her cologne-flavoured tempranillo in just one drink better than to have to bite her own tongue.

Elisabeth Garmendia had inherited 60 acres of vineyards beyond where her eyes imagined from her attic in the outskirts of the Spanish city of Alicante. Beyond the Carrasqueta pass, one world, and even beyond, what she considered a deceptive advertising called the Valencian Tuscany. It was her grandfather who, having emigrated to Mendoza in Argentina after two years in the guerrilla ambushed in the Cantabrian mountains of Pas, said goodbye to his wife and his only son to embark himself on the one of the vessels parting from the port of Alicante, sheltering Republicans who had lost all hope of democracy, to go towards the American exile. How many times did her grandfather told her how tough it was to cross from one end to the other a country torn in two by war?

She had dark eyes, with purple reflections, so intense, with this dense purple coat and gloss that gives a fresh and sweet interior and, each time his grandfather Manuel, whom the family called the Pampa grandfather, picked her chin up right to see them from his overflowing-eyelids eyes, he said:

-My little darling, what your father felt when he gave you that name? If you only need to look at these eyes to realize you deserved a more beautiful one, my little Cabernet.

And he gave her a kiss on the swirl of curls on his forehead.

When she entered the cellar wringing in her hands the deed, trying to contain her excitation, she realized her grandfather had been commissioned to make her feel at home:
- Are you Mrs Cabernet Garmendia? Nice to meet you, we were expecting you.

Jacinto said riding on the backs of a white horse.

For a moment she felt tempted to correct his error, but she realized that there, between those four walls of vineyards, pines and sky, no one would take into account the past that he had been forced to flee, and perhaps could start once again ...

- Cabernet! Cabernet! he shouted from afar Jacinto. She could no longer flee.
- Jacinto...

- You hold an empty cup, not possible! Come with me, we introduce the new wine tonight and you're perfect, you even give them a name.

-Jacinto, I do not know if I can, I do not know...

But it was late. That evening it was introduced at the Botanical Garden of Valencia the new wine without sulfites making her coming out in Spanish wine society.