Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

“I guess not, since I don’t know what to say to that,” Nat said.

Everyone laughed-Mr. Zorn the loudest-except Mrs. Zorn.

Yes, this is fun. Creme de la creme and I’m having fun.

Mr. Zorn raised the gift bottle. “Nat’s brought us a little something.”

“How thoughtful,” said Mrs. Zorn.

“In fact…,” said Mr. Zorn, glancing at a nearby door.

“Not now,” said Grace.

“Pay no attention to Grace,” Mr. Zorn said. “She likes to give me a hard time. That’s how I tell them apart.”

Grace and Izzie exchanged a glance, beyond Nat’s interpretive power. Izzie looked away.

“Not now what?” said Mrs. Zorn. “What is everyone talking about?”

“Too late,” said Izzie.

Mr. Zorn had already taken Nat’s hand, drawn him away. Nat followed him through the doorway, down a dark corridor, into a vaulted stone room. It had a heavy door, studded, creaking, the kind found in fairy-tale castles. Mr. Zorn closed it. Nat looked around.

“Do you like oxymorons, Nat?” said Mr. Zorn.

“Like a cellar on the seventieth floor?” said Nat.

“Seventy-first.”

A wine cellar. Wine in racks, wine in bins, wine in cases on the floor: thousands and thousands of bottles, receding into the shadows. Something of a hobby with Mr. Zorn.

“Bordeaux and Burgundy, respectively, along that wall,” said Mr. Zorn. “Italian, Spanish, Portuguese-including port and Madeira-at the back, Australian in the corner, and finally domestic. Plus odds and ends, here and there. Someone’s coming in from Paris to reorganize the whole shebang. What would you like?”

“What would I like?”

“A little sample. It’s to drink. People forget that.”

“Burgundy,” Nat said; the word was in the air and it was also the team color of Clear Creek High.

“Perfect,” said Mr. Zorn. “Especially at Christmas.” He set Nat’s gift bottle on a dark table as heavy and ancient as the door, and moved down the row of bins. Nat realized he did like oxymorons, liked, too, wine cellars on the seventy-first floor. The thought arose-and he banished it at once, untrue-that he was living for the first time.

Mr. Zorn returned, blowing dust off a bottle. “How about this?” he said, holding it so Nat could read the label.

Romanee-Conti. The name meant nothing to Nat. “Looks good,” he said. Then he noticed the date: 1962.

“Crack ’er open,” said Mr. Zorn.

“I’m sorry?”

Mr. Zorn handed him a corkscrew. “Do the honors,” he said. “We can try some of yours, too.”

They both eyed the gift bottle. Suddenly the bright wrapping paper seemed a little too bright to Nat. “What the hell, right?” said Mr. Zorn. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

Nat glanced at the corkscrew. The first problem was that he’d never used one. The second problem was harder to put into words, but had to do with the contrast between the two labels: the simple black on white of the Romanee-Conti, with no illustration, versus the red, orange, and yellow of Mr. Beaman’s wine, Blind River Blush, with its picture of a fish leaping high over a bunch of grapes. The third problem was that Blind River Blush had a screw top.

Nat took the bottle of Romanee-Conti from Mr. Zorn. He noticed a tiny price sticker on the back: $2,500. For a moment his fingers went numb; he could see they were holding the bottle, but had no idea how. The problems all compounded. He actually thought of saying he had to go to the bathroom. But no: he was good at solving problems, wasn’t he? He tried to think of some light remark, failed, and went to work.

First, the burgundy-colored foil around the top: he dug his thumbnail under it, stripped it off, exposing the cork. Second, the corkscrew. A strange corkscrew, nothing simple about it. It had at least two moving parts, one the screw itself, which probably wouldn’t function until he swung this other, flanged one open. He swung it open, moved the screw to a right angle with the… handle, yes, must be the handle, stuck the point of the screw into the cork.

“Tried them all,” said Mr. Zorn. “This is the best.”

“The wine, you mean?” said Nat, looking up; he felt sweat on his upper lip.

Mr. Zorn laughed. “Some think so,” he said. “But I was talking about the corkscrew-these simple Parisian waiter’s corkscrews work better than any of the fancy gizmos out there, don’t you think?”

A perfect chance to say, I’ve never actually used this kind before, and hand the whole affair over to Mr. Zorn. But Nat let it go by. He could do it. Twisting the screw deep into the cork, he said, “Really goes in there.” A light remark, perhaps, but idiotic. He felt his ears reddening, a new sensation. But at the same time, he realized what the flanged part was for-had grasped the underlying mechanics-got it in place, applied pressure, levering pressure. The cork began sliding out. Triumph.

“How’s your father, by the way?” said Mr. Zorn.

Nat’s arm jerked convulsively, as though he’d lost all control of it. The cork popped free but his arm continued its wild gesture, striking the gift bottle on the table, knocking it over; the bottle rolled, fell, crashed on the stone floor. A muffled crash, the broken glass held inside the thick wrapping paper. Only the wine leaked out, forming a pink pool at Mr. Zorn’s feet.

“Looks interesting,” he said. “Too bad.”

Or some other observation that Nat, staring at Mr. Zorn across the table, barely heard. “My father?” he said.

“Is he still with those Silicon Valley people?”

“I don’t have a father.”

“You don’t?” Mr. Zorn stared back at him. “Weren’t you on Grace’s floor at Choate?”

“No.”

“Not the captain of the soccer team?”

“No. I… I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.”

Mr. Zorn’s gaze went to the spilled wine, then to the Romanee-Conti and the corkscrew with the impaled cork, still in Nat’s hands. He laughed. Nat laid the wine and the corkscrew on the table.

Mr. Zorn picked up the corkscrew. “A happy misunderstanding, then,” he said, unscrewing the cork, “since we got to have this nice little visit. Shall we rejoin the others?” He stuck the cork firmly back in the bottle of Romanee-Conti.

The door opened and Grace came in. “Time to go, Nat,” she said. “Paolo’s here.”

“Paolo?”

“Izzie’s boyfriend.”

“You don’t know Paolo?” said Mr. Zorn.

Nat lost his concentration for a few moments and somehow managed to track pink zinfandel on the oriental rug in the library. No one noticed; the colors were similar.

Paolo had a car with a driver and diplomatic plates. He sat in the back between the girls, his arm over Izzie’s shoulders; Nat sat in front.

“Paolo’s a count,” Grace said.

“That’s very silly,” said Paolo, opening a bottle of champagne. He had a slight accent that somehow made English sound better.

“But true, isn’t it?” said Grace.

“Grace,” said Izzie.

A difference right there: some character difference, but everything was happening fast, and Nat couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Come on, Paolo,” said Grace. “Show us some count ID.”

“Count ID?” said Paolo, drinking from the bottle and passing it to Izzie. “Have you ever in life heard such a concept, Nate?”

“It’s Nat,” said Nat.

“Not Nate?” said Paolo. “I am familiar with Nate as a typical American name, but not Nat.”

Izzie, glancing at Paolo, drank some champagne and passed the bottle to Grace.

“And kings have scepters,” Nat said, “so maybe the concept of count ID isn’t so crazy after all.”

Grace and Izzie both burst out laughing, spraying little jets of champagne.