Let Me Drink You In

Sophie’s text read: “Midnight Cellars is hosting a wine tasting tonight. It’s their annual Red Event. Semi-formal. Temple Boulevard, across from the theater. This is a private event, so let them know you’re my guest.”

I had barely had a chance to read this before she added: “You may be asked for a password…”

“A password?” I texted back. It never gets too weird… I thought to myself.

She responded with a wink emoji: “It’s a private wine tasting, mio caro. Very exclusive, certo? The sponsors want to keep the gathering as intimate as possible.” I was still digesting this when she added: “So, the password is pronounced “abbet (like ‘rabbit’) twa (‘t+wah’)= “abbetwa.” 9 p.m. Think you can manage that, signor americano?” She was egging me on. She knew darn well that I didn’t speak a word of Italian.

Sophie was born and raised in Italy. She constantly shifted between the two languages — never bothering to translate. She just expected people to keep up. It was charming at first, but it was starting to grate on my nerves. I only understood about half of what she said most of the time. But, I reminded myself, where Sophie was concerned, I wasn’t really interested in conversation.

We’d met on EliteDating.com about six weeks ago. Her avatar was this strange angular art deco portrait, all severe lines and angles, but it piqued my interest. I found it a refreshing change from the never-ending array of roses and bunny avatars that filled my inbox. I suppose it was the originality of it that caught my eye. It looked like a custom piece, a scan of a larger work, reduced to a thumbnail… but even then, the avatar’s green eyes fixated me.

As it turned out, it was an actual portrait of Sophie. I clicked through her message to her profile (which was marked “private”), and there, I found the woman behind the avatar. Sophie had supermodel good looks: long blonde hair, green eyes, full sensuous lips — way out of my league, at least, if the photos she’d posted were actually her. One thing that online dating had taught me: pictures lie. They could’ve been taken years before, or even stolen off of someone else’s profile. There were filters and Photoshop touch-ups that erased a host of sins. And although I hated to admit it, I’d been cat-fished more than once. When dating online, one learned to be leery.

To be completely honest, I wasn’t thrilled about attending a wine tasting on a first date. I am more of a beer and brats kinda guy, you see? You couldn’t fill a thimble with what I knew about wine. I didn’t know the difference between a Syrah and a Chardonnay, and had gotten along just fine. These sorts of shin-digs always struck me as a little pretentious, but I’ll be damned if I was going to pass up the opportunity to finally meet the mysterious and beautiful Sophie.

I arrived a half hour early — my M.O. for first dates, especially ones from EliteDating.com. I’d met some real loo-loos in the past couple of months, and I’d had to make some hasty exits. I found that it’s always best to arrive early, scout the location, and find a place where you can check out your date before she sees you.

Before you judge me for this sort of clandestine behavior, keep in mind, I got that tip from a woman.

I arrived earlier than I expected, but already the sun had dipped below the horizon. The Midnight Cellars’ storefront was dark but there was a sign on the door that directed event goers to the “postern door.” Crickets began their evening serenades while I made my way down a cobblestone sidewalk that ran along the side of the building. Toward the back, there was a freestanding marquee beneath a dimly-lit canopy, adorned with a full moon rising over a glass of red wine bearing a single line: “The Red Event.”

An archaic, heavy wooden door with a Judas window loomed behind the marquee. I detected the hint of something hanging in the air… something cloying and sharp, but not something I could readily identify. I drew back the knocker, a heavy brass affair with a lion’s head. The window opened, and the heady scent of cigar smoke and cologne poured out.

“Oui?” someone uttered gruffly from the other side.

“Uh… I am here for the Red Event… I am Sophie Moncada’s guest.”

“Authentication?”

I assumed he meant the password. I reached into my jacket and consulted my phone. “Abeett-twah.” I tried to sound sophisticated, but ended up sounding like a jerk. For the first time, I wondered what the password meant.

The tiny window closed and I could hear several bolts being drawn aside. The crickets suddenly quieted. In the distance, I heard the steady buzz of a cicada. “Please, sir, do come in…” I could tell by the doorman’s accent that English wasn’t his native tongue. Russian, maybe? Slavic definitely, by the way he brutalized his consonants. He was a silhouette in the doorway, a shadow cut from the darkness beyond.

“Your coat, sir.” It wasn’t a question.

“Uh… sure.” I shrugged off my jacket and handed it to the man. He took it and issued me a claim ticket almost in the one continuous gesture. “You will find the festivities down the hall and to your right,” he said quietly. It was odd… it looked like his eyes flashed silver for a moment. They were oddly reflective in the dim light… like a wolf’s.

“Thank you.” My eyes were starting to adjust. The doorman stepped back into the shadows beside the door, resting his considerable bulk behind a turn of the century mahogany podium. The brass fixtures finials gleamed in the low light.

Sophie and I had been texting for well over a month now — a considerable amount of time in my opinion — but an investment I was willing to make. And, to be honest, Sophie wasn’t the only woman I was pursuing. I had profiles on a half dozen different dating sites these days. Admittedly, I had gone a little feral after my divorce and jumped into the dating pool with both feet. This had been both good and bad… the dating world had changed considerably while I was married, and I wasn’t prepared for all of the strange pitfalls and scams out there. But now, after more than three years since my divorce, I felt like I had my sea legs. While I didn’t consider myself to be a predator posing as a house pet, I felt more experienced and knowledgeable now than I did when I posted my first post-divorce profile on the now defunct HappyDates.com

The hallway was tastefully appointed. A few genuine oil paintings hung on the walls (nobody famous, as far as I could tell, but then, I knew less about art than I did wine). The hum of conversation and muted laughter spilled out from an arched doorway near the end of the hall. I noticed a barred window at the end of the hallway, with a faded security company sticker peeling away from it. Kudzu had almost covered it entirely.

The tasting room was surprisingly large, given what I had seen from the outside of the building. Several long tables lined the outer walls. Above each, an embroidered banner indicated a specific region. Clockwise from the doorway these read: “South American,” “French,” “Italian,” “Australian” and “Domestic.” Manning each of the tables, stood a server, each wearing a scarlet red apron. Now what were wine servers called? Somnambulists? Sommeliers? Saunterers? The word was on the tip of my tongue. Several eyes turned my direction as I entered the room, but I didn’t see any sign of Sophie. There were several tall free standing circular tables in the center of the room, each containing a large golden bowl. In one, it appeared as though someone had poured a considerable amount of wine. In the low light, it looked unsettlingly like blood. Several attendees chatted around the table, numerous glasses scattered between them. They eyed me unabashedly.

I have never even heard of South American wine, and wasn’t particularly eager to try it. French seemed a little too intimidating, and all I knew about Italian wines was Chianti (oh, and the Reunite that my old man used to serve at Sunday dinners). Sophie would probably be able to recommend something there. That left Australian and domestic wines. The attendant at the Australian table wasn’t seeing a whole lot of action, so I made for the domestic desk.

“Hi there!” I said approaching the server (Somnambulists? Sommeliers? …Whatever these guys were called). “I’d like a Bud Light, please.” He flashed a vague smile, but didn’t respond. Clearly, the man was not amused. I cleared my throat. “Sorry… that sounded much funnier in my head.” I said under my breath. “What do you have here?”

“Good evening, sir.” The man said softly. He presented me with a sparkling huge wine glass — more goblet than wine glass really — with a long slender stem. “Tonight, we are featuring a lovely 2015 Trésor from Ferrari Carano, from their Sonoma County Vineyard. It garnered high marks in last year’s Wine Spectator, and continues to receive attention from connoisseurs throughout the industry…”

I had absolutely no idea what a Trésor was. But, I wasn’t going to take the first thing offered to me either. “No… perhaps something a little more ‘conventional’ maybe?”

“Of course, sir.” The server presented me with a second bottle. “This Petite Shirah from Ledson is a Gold Medal Winner from the prestigious Sunset International Wine Competition. A remarkable old vine varietal from one of the region’s most respected domestic wineries.”

“No… that doesn’t suit me either.” I had no idea if it did or didn’t actually. I had never even heard of a petite…whatever. Were those supposed to be made of smaller grapes or something? I should have come better prepared for this.

I picked up a bottle with an elaborate label. “What’s this? Sophonisba?”

“Yes, from California’s Central Coast Region — Santa Maria Valley. It’s a remarkable wine…” He gestured to the woman depicted on the label: a severe looking portrait of a renaissance woman, wreathed in flowers, sitting before a burning canvas. “Sophonisba was one of the premier female painters of the Italian Renaissance. She worked alongside Michelangelo…” The server kept talking but I was looking at the woman’s eyes.

They were bright green. Piercing, in fact.

I recognized them immediately. I carefully set the bottle down. I don’t like to admit it, but my hand was trembling. The server mistook my response and quickly moved on to another bottle.

“Perhaps this magnificent Merlot from Gundlach Bundschu…”

“Yes,” I said distractedly. “Yeah, that will be fine…”

Again, I received a pinched smile. He produced a glass and poured a splash into it. He looked expectantly at me. Still in shock, I picked it up and pretended to smell it, mimicking the gestures of the more sophisticated attendees, but my mind was racing. What was a portrait of Sophie doing on a wine bottle? Moreover: Sophie rendered as a Renaissance portrait? Surely, this was merely a clever bit of marketing… a modeling job that Sophie had undoubtedly been hired for. The whole portrait thing had to be a gimmick. I gulped the merlot down in a single swallow. The attendant offered me one of the thinnest breadsticks I had ever seen.

“Thanks…”

“Would you care to try something else, sir?”

I needed a second to clear my head. “Sure. Hit me with that one,” I said pointing to the Trésor.

“A wonderful choice, sir. My personal favorite, especially when paired with red meat…”

“Tell me…” I tried to find the server’s name tag, but was disappointed to find he wasn’t wearing one. “Is the um… ‘Sophonisba’ a newer wine?”

“I’m not sure that I understand you, sir…”

“I mean: is it a new type of wine or new brand?”

“Ah… yes. It is, as yet, unreviewed, but the sponsors considered it one of the finest offerings from that region.”

“And this woman…” I said pointing to the label. “Who is she again?”

The server frowned and plucked a pair of reading glasses from the pocket behind his apron. He turned the bottle over in his hands, and held the bottle at arms length, reading the back of the label. “I’m afraid, I cannot tell you anything else about the portrait, except what’s mentioned on the label, sir." He chuckled. "I’m a sommelier, not an art historian, I’m afraid." He smiled over the rim of his glasses. It was a brief and bestial smile, the kind you associate with an apex predator.

‘Sommelier’… yes… that was the term… some distant part of my mind reminded me. But that thought was quickly occluded: what was this place?

My shoe pressed into something just beneath the table cloth. Something soft and pliable. I glanced down, and saw three pale fingers there, crusted with dried blood.

The room suddenly fell silent.

I turned from the sommelier, and found the eyes of everyone in the room fixated on me. One attendee near the door wiped saliva from his chin. In the doorway stood a beautiful blonde woman: Sophie, I realized vaguely. Or “Sophonisba” I suppose. She flashed me a dazzling smile, revealing perfectly white needle-sharp incisors.

“Bevimi Dentro, handsome,” she snarled. “Let me drink you in…”