A Death In Tuscany

The Way It Was
“Another?”
The single word was all I heard, but I awoke from my daydream at the sound. A waiter was standing next to the table, expressionless, but ready to take my order for another drink. The first Campari and soda had gone down well, and my thoughts at the moment seemed to beg for another glass of the soothing elixir.
“Yes,” was all I said. I wasn't in the mood for conversation, but neither was the waiter. He walked away and let me return to my reminiscences.
I turned my attention to the blackness beyond the window of the airport snack bar. It was all a bit surreal now, recalling the years I'd spent working the vines and making the wines at Castello dei Trantini with my grandfather. He was dead now, the victim of a foolish accident at our family winery in Tuscany, and I was waiting for a plane that would take me home to Italy, to his funeral, to the empty rooms that once were filled with his laughter.
Although I had not lived at the Castello dei Trantini since I was a boy, my memories of it were clear. I could easily conjure up the morning mist over the vines, the blustery breezes that danced across the rolling hills of the estate, even the smell of the rosemary and sagebrush that lined the roads leading up to the Castello. But if, as some people say, the aromas of youth are with us always, I will always be able to imagine the scents of the vineyard and winery that occupied my early years.
It had always been so peaceful at our winery, the sort of peace that reminds you of how pure life can be in this world. My parents were living in one wing of the Castello when I was born, and even after taking up housekeeping in our own home nearby, my days were still filled with activities at Nonno Filippo's side. At the Castello life was adorned with long, lingering meals, weekly tastings, vineyard talk, and animated discourses about food and wine, all taking place under the medieval tapestries with scenes of grape trodding and winemaking that hung from the stone walls embracing the roaring fireplace.
In the flicker of candlelight, Nonno Filippo would wax poetic about this or that vintage. My father would argue about his choice of wines, others would take sides, or just be satisfied with devouring the wondrous meals that were served every night. Arms would wave, toasts would be made to settle a point, and by the end of the repast, everyone would be sure he had won the argument. Each would go off to bed, simply happy at the closeness of the family, the comfort to be had from eating and drinking well, and the inscrutable pleasures of life in Tuscany.
For us, wine was life. It was the substance of our being, and I expected to grow into the business and take over operation of Castello dei Trantini when I was of age.
Blinking away the memories, I came back to the present and saw that a figure had appeared in the window's reflection. When I turned, I saw that the waiter had approached. He could have just left the drink, but this time he seemed like he wanted to say something. Perhaps he noticed my melancholy mood. But I still didn't want to have a chat with a perfect stranger, so I just took the drink and turned back toward the window.
Sipping lightly at the rim of the glass, I let the sweet bitterness of the Campari coat my throat. It was the signature drink of Italy, and at that moment, I understood better than ever why Italian working men often quaffed just such an aperitif to fortify their spirits when sad, mad, or confused.
Settling back into my reverie, my thoughts focused on the days in the vineyard. I lived at the Castello dei Trantini until I was twelve and I remember well the return trips I made with my parents after our emigration to America, how I always looked forward to running between the long rows of grapevines and playing hide and seek in the winery. Even the aromas that waft up from the neck of a newly opened bottle of wine remind me of the childhood pleasures of growing up in so idyllic an environment. I'm older now, but the serenity of those times makes it hard to picture my grandfather being pushed out a window that overlooked the estate.
But, wait, I said it was an accident, didn't I? Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
The vineyards and winery at the Castello dei Trantini have been in my family for generations. My nonno, Filippo Trantino, inherited them from his nonno forty-five years ago, and he continued to produce fine wines in the quiet tradition of his ancestors. The estate represented an entire world to him and his extended family, but I had always felt a strong, personal connection to the vines and wines, and this bonded me even more closely to Nonno Filippo.
In fact, I had always considered him my best friend. When I was young, I would follow him about the winery all day, mimicking his actions — and cut a distinguished figure for doing so. When chastising an employee for a particular mistake in the winemaking process, he had a habit of standing with his hands clasped behind his back. S,o I assumed the same posture, standing at his side during the scolding, and would always elicit grins or outright chuckles from the worker being admonished. This would inevitably draw Nonno Filippo's attention, and his own amusement at the mimicry would terminate the session or have it degenerate into one of laughter and much joking about who was really the boss.