of man can make his way through this snow? I don’t know how they got here but it was not by road.”
“From the sky?”
“I don’t know. Suddenly there they were in front of us, in the grand hall, and one of the redheads asked to speak to General de Yepes, adding that he was sorry about the snow.”
He wiped his hand across his brow.
“I know, sir, when I tell it like this, it all seems so strange. But I would stake my life on it that they are not enemies.”
“Where are they now?” asked Alejandro.
“In the cellar. It’s what the redhead requested. He seems very well informed, I must say.”
They looked at each other for a moment.
“Should I have them brought up?” asked Jesús.
“No,” said Alejandro, “I’ll go down.”
And turning in a circle on himself:
“There’s something about this snow.”
“It’s not falling the way it usually does,” said Jesús.
The cellar extended beneath the entire area of the castillo. It was a gigantic place, lit by torches which the steward, back in his day, would hold aloft as he walked up and down the rows of bottles. On the floor of sand and hard dirt, Luis would trace figures with a rake, in keeping with his mood of the moment. When he walked on them the next day, they remained intact, and this was not, by a long shot, the only marvel in the place. You did not have to be an architect to realize that an entire castillo cannot stand on such a huge open space devoid of any pillars. You could walk along rows bordered by old copper chests that had been there for who knows how long, and the arrangement of the various wines was mysterious, too. Luis would lay the bottle he’d been given in a certain place, and the next day he would find it somewhere else. The only bottles that could be easily removed from their alcove were at the end of the last row at the very end of the cellar, where he had received the delivery of petrus for Alejandro’s sixteenth birthday. Finally, on certain occasions, the door to the place was kept closed, and when it was opened again everything had changed, although the beauty of it never disappointed. No matter which torch Luis lit, it would project an iridescent glow that glistened on the copper racks, and perpetuated its sparkle from one end of the cellar to the other; moving lines of luminous pearls traced a perfect, translucent architecture in the space; rows of earth and sand were interwoven, creating a feeling of peace. Luis had to show visitors the way out, otherwise they would have stayed there for the rest of their days.
That night, the cellar was even more resplendent than usual. In the tilted bottles, the wine shimmered with flashes of pale gold, and a strange glow cloaked the floor with dull silver. In one gloomy corner, they found the three men grunting like pigs beneath their dark hooded capes. The one who was laughing loudest had a few flamboyant locks of hair; the second one, who had brown hair, was so massive in appearance that the others looked like imps in comparison.
Motionless, arms crossed, six feet from the threesome, Alejandro cleared his throat. They paid no attention. The intruders had found a barrel somewhere, on which they had placed their glasses and an impressive row of fine vintages. Of course, all three were completely drunk, something Jesús summed up by exclaiming, “Oh, the bastards!”
Alejandro cleared his throat again, with no more success than the first time, while the third thief caressed a bottle of rare champagne, saying:
“What we need now is a bubble.”
At the same time, his hat slipped back to reveal a similarly flamboyant head of hair; a bright reflection from one of the racks lit up his fine, squirrel-like features; then everything went dark again. The only light came from the crystal glasses where they had poured champagne while Alejandro and Jesús looked on in silence. There was something wrong, but devil take them if they could say what it was, other than that it had to do with the liquid itself, which the second redhead was pouring cautiously. The two other men, very focused, kept an eye on the operation. Finally, they all relaxed, and Jesús and Alejandro saw that the bubbles were hastening toward the bottom of the champagne glasses, where they dissolved in a tiny hissing maelstrom.
“Santa Madre,” murmured Jesús.
A singular irony: while exclamations