Warren’s steps suddenly came to a halt as he was descending the airplane stairs after arriving at Napa Airport. From behind, as he looked down at the BlackBerry in his hand, he seemed strangely uneasy.
“Sir?”
At my call, Warren slowly turned his head. In his eyes lay an indescribable sense of loss.
“Robert... They say my teacher has passed away.”
Robert Mondavi had died. The news that he had closed his eyes at the age of ninety-four already weighed heavily over the entire airport. In May of 2008, the great tree who had rewritten the history of American wine had at last come to rest in the earth.
“Let’s get ready before we go.”
“Yes, let’s.”
Chloe and I arrived at Redwood first and changed clothes, while Warren headed separately to his own home. Then I got back in the car, stopped by Warren’s house, picked him up after he had changed into black clothing, and headed for Yountville.
Highway 29, which would normally have been bustling with tourists, was already subdued. As if by prior agreement, the wineries along the road had all lowered the Stars and Stripes to half-mast. Only the sound of the flags flapping in the wind broke the silence.
Black ribbons were draped over the arched entrance that symbolized Mondavi Winery. Beneath that arch, black sedans belonging to the magnates who held sway over the world of wine continued to stream in endlessly.
“If we’d been even a day late, we might have missed it.”
“Thank heavens.”
Warren stroked his chest in relief. After all, he had nearly failed to attend even his teacher’s funeral. But the atmosphere inside the funeral hall was somewhat strange. For some reason, there was a sense that tension was hanging thick in the air.
“It’s like looking at the funeral hall after my own death.”
Warren murmured quietly, leaning on his cane. Where his gaze fell stood the deceased’s two sons, Michael Mondavi and Timothy Mondavi. What was odd was that, judging by the atmosphere, they seemed less like brothers than strangers.
Standing there without even meeting each other’s eyes, each looking in a different direction, their figures seemed to symbolize the tragic conclusion of a family inheritance that had been handed over to the giant corporation Constellation Brands after a struggle for control of the company.
“It reminds me of when the winery was taken over in a hostile acquisition. It was the day the greatest wine family collapsed in the most miserable way. Everyone was deeply shocked.”
“Is that why you disposed of your winery too, sir? Because you were afraid the same thing might happen?”
“...I can’t say it wasn’t. I thought it would be better to settle things cleanly and divide it while I was still alive, rather than have those two fight over it after I’m gone.”
At that moment, a man neatly dressed in a black suit approached us. It was Mark Harrington, the head of a large corporate winery group in Sonoma Valley. With a sorrowful smile, he gave Warren a slight bow.
“Warren, you must be deeply grieved. You and Robert were especially close.”
“He lived a life that knew when it was time to leave, so it isn’t only something to mourn. He lived a long life, did he not?”
Robert Mondavi had accepted death at the age of ninety-four. Death was a sorrowful thing, but it was not something impossible to accept.
Just then, Mark Harrington quietly approached my side and spoke to me.
“It’s been a while. Sienna tells me how you’re doing from time to time... I hear you don’t come to school much?”
“Sienna seems to know a lot about what’s happening at school even after graduating.”
“That girl is always absorbed in research at UC Davis.”
“Ah... She’s diligent.”
“She’s better than I am. Last year, you gave Napa Valley quite a shock with Astra Vale, but personally, Quiet Hill was even more shocking to me.
To think it came from the same Russian River Valley, and yet felt so different from Sylphid... It felt as though I were seeing the skill of a top-class winemaker.”
Since this was America, there was no particular need to be humble, so I wanted to say, “Well, that much is nothing... Ah, I suppose if it’s Harrington Winery, you would be surprised,” but unfortunately, the other party was a winery that specialized in selling Pinot Noir, so I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“You flatter me.”
Because if I really said that, I was afraid he might be so furious he’d cough up blood or come back with a shotgun.
“By the way, I heard a rumor that you went to France this time. Why did you go there?”
To him, brimming with curiosity, I showed a bitter smile.
“I went briefly for business.”
For an instant, Mark’s temple twitched. From his perspective, it was undoubtedly an infuriating answer. Of course it was business—if not that, it wasn’t as though he would be wondering whether I had gone on a honeymoon with Chloe.
Even though he obviously knew that, my deliberately answering “business” meant I didn’t want to answer. So he glared at me with a meaningful look, then turned away. Then, putting on a sorrowful expression, he approached Michael Mondavi’s side.
Watching him, Warren clicked his tongue beside me.
“Tsk, tsk... All sorts of vermin will be swarming.”
“It can’t be helped.”
At my cold conclusion, Warren shook his head, then looked at Mark’s back and said,
“Robert Mondavi’s greatest legacy was taken from him, and now all that remains to the two brothers are two small wineries. Their locations aren’t bad either, so the seasoned big shots of Sonoma and Napa will approach them and whisper the devil’s temptations.”
“Still, they must have learned something from Robert Mondavi. Would they hand them over so easily?”
“Who knows? There’s no way to tell. Mark is a man who has reigned like an aristocrat in Sonoma for decades. His methods won’t be ordinary.”
“Everyone must know that, and yet no one seems to be thinking of helping them.”
“It’s not just that they aren’t helping. They’re probably all lying in wait for an opportunity. Perhaps they’re curious to see how the brothers react to Mark’s schemes.”
“They’re all like hyenas.”
“That’s right. This place is a kingdom of beasts too.”
I turned my head. The funeral was about to begin.
Beside Michael, who had his head bowed low, the voice of a middle-aged man could be heard.
“Michael, you must be deeply distressed. The whole of Napa Valley knows that neither you nor Timothy has any cash in hand right now.
There’s the matter of inheritance tax, and the equipment investment for the winery you’re starting anew. Your younger brother Timothy will probably insist on preserving that stubborn ‘craftsmanship’ of his and take out reckless loans.”
When Michael turned his head and confirmed Mark Harrington’s face, his expression hardened. Then he looked around, put a little distance between them, and spoke.
“Isn’t that rather excessive speculation?”
“Tsk, tsk. Look here. You’re still far too complacent.”
Mark looked at him pitifully, paused for a moment, and glanced toward Timothy.
“The collateral for those loans will ultimately be the key parcels your father left behind. And if Timothy can’t handle the interest and goes bankrupt? That land will go to auction, or become another vineyard for a giant corporation like Constellation.
Do you intend to watch your family’s heart pass into someone else’s hands?”
Michael’s expression stiffened in an instant. At that, as though he had been waiting for this moment, Mark played his first card.
“I’ll provide you with funds interest-free. Use as much as you need, whether for inheritance tax or equipment costs. I’m saying I’ll protect your pride. However, I’ll set just one condition.
If you or Timothy ever end up having to sell those parcels, give the ‘Harrington Group’ the right to purchase them before anyone else—even before your brother. That will be enough.”
“You’re asking me to give Mr. Harrington the first opportunity before my younger brother?”
“Think about it. Would Timothy have the money to buy your land? In the end, Timothy is certain to fail to protect the land. But if you grant me the right of first refusal, I can buy that land and lease it back to you, or guarantee your management rights.
Wouldn’t it be far more beneficial to keep me, a reliable partner, as insurance rather than have it taken by your brother?”
His proposal was cunning. By packaging distrust between brothers under the name of insurance, he was creating a legal route by which, when Mondavi land came onto the market in the future, he could exclude Timothy and be the first to snatch it up.
On top of that, an interest-free loan was bound to be a temptation more powerful than anything else for the president of a winery that had not yet found its footing. It would feel exactly like receiving a huge sum of money for free.
For a long while, Michael looked up at the bell tower of Mondavi Winery. He was already more afraid of the family’s bankruptcy than of failing to reconcile with his brother.
“...Very well. Prepare the contract with a right-of-first-refusal clause. But Timothy must not know about this.”
“Of course. This is a gentleman’s agreement between us. And with this, I’ll consider my debt of gratitude to Robert repaid. Robert was like a teacher to me.”
Mark Harrington lightly patted Michael on the shoulder with a look of pity. His gaze was warm, as though an uncle were looking at his nephew, and Michael’s eyes reddened at Mark’s generosity in helping him.
Soon, the funeral began.
The funeral hall was packed with hundreds of mourners. Not only Napa’s legendary winemakers, but also the heads of prestigious wine families from Bordeaux in France, Tuscany in Italy, and elsewhere were present in black suits.
Instead of lavish floral decorations, the altar was adorned with soil from the To Kalon vineyard, which the deceased had tended all his life, and young grapevine branches that had grown upon it.
At the center of the altar was a portrait of Robert Mondavi smiling brightly, and in front of it sat the wine glass he had cherished most in life.
With the officiant’s declaration of the opening, the funeral began solemnly. The deceased’s acquaintances went up to the podium and remembered him.
“Robert did not teach us how to sell wine, but how to love wine. He was the first person to believe that Napa Valley could become the center of the world.”
As the eulogies continued, low sobs broke out among the mourners.
In particular, the chief mourners, Michael and Timothy Mondavi, stood on either side of the altar with their heads bowed. Though the family had suffered ups and downs due to the battle for management rights, it seemed they could not hide the emptiness left after the great mountain that was their father had disappeared.
Watching them, Warren murmured softly.
“Robert was Napa’s pride until the very end. The question is how much those boys will be able to preserve it.”
The climax of the funeral was the procession bearing the deceased. The coffin containing Mondavi’s body moved slowly along the long path stretching through the vineyards he had roamed all his life.
At that moment, hundreds of mourners outside raised their appointed glasses all at once.
In their glasses was Cabernet Sauvignon, the wine in whose final blending the deceased had participated.
“To Robert!”
At someone’s call, the area around the funeral filled with a tremendous resonance. People poured wine onto the earth as they bid farewell to the deceased.
Like the fate of wine, born from the earth and returning to the earth, Robert Mondavi too was returning to the soil of To Kalon, which he had loved so dearly.
Warren also quietly poured the wine in his glass onto the ground. As the red liquid seeped into Napa’s dry soil, the scent of grapes and alcohol rose thickly from all directions. In that moment, there was no one who was not mourning sincerely.
As the funeral drew to a close, Timothy, the deceased’s son and a winemaker, went up to the podium and offered his final farewell.
“My father always said this: wine is art, and drinking it is sharing the joy of life. Today, rather than grieve, we will remember the joy he left behind.”
Thousands of mourners answered with a standing ovation. Thus, beneath the brilliant sun of Napa Valley, the funeral sent the legend of an era into history.
And after the funeral ended, someone I had never expected was waiting for me.
“Are you perhaps Mr. Brian Choi?”
An Asian man looking for me in strange English pronunciation—I was certain from his distinctly Japanese accent in English that he was Japanese.
“Why are you looking for me...?”
To me, who was bewildered, he immediately bent at the waist in a ninety-degree bow.
“Please, help me!”