Vermin

It was said that the Marquis de Lornia possessed one of the finest personal estates upon the Iberian peninsula - a gorgeous holding which sprawled along Eastern Spain’s high cliffs, overlooking the vast, crashing waves of the Balearic sea.

A friend and trusted vassal of the Spanish King, the Marquis had earned his grand holdings by way of diplomatic prowess and administrative excellence, not to mention decades of fine service to the crown. In the years following his retirement, he would exert that managerial skill upon his land with such zeal that Lornia quickly grew to be the envy of the region. In the summer, the fields thronged with toiling hands, both local and foreign workers seeking labour at the host of the generous Marquis. The courtyards would hum with visiting nobles, and the manor itself lay in a state of semi-communality, its doors always open to friends of the family. In the colder months, when the fields lay fallow and the freemen returned to their homes, the Marquis made a point of keeping good cheer, and the year’s harvest would be shared in no small measure. Indeed, all those who came to know the good Marquis and his estate would sing their praise, for he was an irrefutably charming man of great merit.

This tale is not about the Marquis, as his unblemished personage would make for very poor reading. Rather, it is about an altogether unpleasant fellow named Alonso, the Marquis’ chief sommelier. A far cry from the Marquis’ genteel associates, Alonso instead bore the appearance of a beggar or thief, all greasy matted hair and sniveling nose, wiry fingers and skittering gait. Brooding, withdrawn, and nigh-misanthropic, this particular character held no friends upon the estate of Lornia; spitting at the feet of passing nobles, dancing upon the workers’ freshly-sewn crops, and snorting at the sight of the townsfolk’s respectful prostrations. Half-hidden in the shrubbery, he scowled at the cavorting trysts conducted in the estate’s courtyard, and cut the strings upon the lyres of those wailing troubadours. He loathed their pomp and their self-importance, detested their airs of superiority, and rolled his eyes at the exertions of the working class. In fact, in lieu of exile for his poor hygiene, revolting appearance, or even despicable behavior, Alonso might have packed his things and himself departed, were it not for the absolute, indescribable, and entirely unparalleled passion he possessed for fine wine.

Reds, whites, grapes, vines, that sweet-sour smell of fermented fruit, ah! He could cast his wretched nose past a hundred bottles, drinking down the savory scents in all their beauty. The velvet-like texture, the sensation of that warmth in his throat was a matter of such pleasure, such impossible complexity, that none could hope to match his great comprehension of Vin Extraordinare. Naturally, the cellar he kept upon the estate was unrivaled in Eastern Spain, home to Garnachas and Monastrellis, Verdejos and Parelladas, Sannios, Franciacortas, Toscanas, Burgundies, Bordeauxs and Corsicians. So varied was his collection and complete his palette that it was said he had sampled from each and every wine region in Europe, encompassing the flatlands of Lisbon to the shores of the Black Sea, and could tell them all apart with a mere whiff.

So it was with begrudging respect, that all those attendants of the estate tolerated Alonso’s nature, forced to hold their tongue by way of respect for a man in such esteemed employ of the Marquis.

It was early spring, and the vines had not yet borne their fruit when the Countess's carriage clattered its way along Lornia’s cobbled paths. The season was too young yet for those itinerant workers to stake their claim upon Lornia's fields, nor for the entourage of Lords and Ladies that would arrive in the summer, seeking indulgent hedonism in the court of the good Marquis. For the most part, this was Alonso’s favourite time of year, when he could hide in his cellar and indulge in the pleasures of his craft, emerging only when called to service.

Indeed, there he was that spring morning, bustling about his casks, a particularly fierce scowl plastered across his face. He spat curses under his breath as he worked, and his movements carried a frustrated urgency. Though it might not have been the time of year, it seemed he would be forced to suffer the presence of visitors early, for alas, the Marquis was entertaining one of his detestable guests, and their snotty little face had sent for a sample of his finest Bordeaux.

Finest Bordeaux. As if their unrefined palette would be able to tell. Artistry and technique was cast to ruin upon the tongues of these wastrels, years of meticulous care and consideration tossed into their gluttonous stomachs, as they cackled and cavorted and chattered with passion of the most mundane topics.

“Profligate.” he muttered. “Degenerate. Plebian.”

How he wished he could chase this vile trespasser from the estate, send them crawling back into their hive, tittering indignantly as they went. The thought was enough to bring a grin to his face, though upon Alonso it was more a frightening grimace than any expression of joy.

Crossing to the lower caskets, Alonso was momentarily distracted from his fantasy by a little rat pattering its way across the timber floor. Nose twitching, whiskers turning, its pink tail contorted as a counterweight while it sniffed the air.

“Where are you going, my friend?” he asked the innocuous rodent, to which there came no reply, for rats are very busy creatures, and have no time for idle chatter. Instead, it changed direction, scurrying along the floorboards at an altogether impressive pace, before disappearing into a little hole by the edge of the brickwork wall.

He grunted, watching its tail flicker out of sight, before moving along to the object of his search; a far crate of Bordeaux Médoc. Even a ways away, his delicate senses could pick out the flavours of that unique vintage. He sniffed at the air just as that rat upon the floor, and lowered his gaze to the bottles themselves… ah, yes. Just enough tannin and such a smooth, rolling piquancy, the deep liquid exuded an unmatchable aroma. He felt as though he might strip naked and bathe in the thick, red smoke that caressed his senses, and for a moment he allowed himself to be lost in that trancelike state. He reached out, felt his hand wrap around the cool glass and lifted, pulling it in towards himself. Without bringing the bottle to his lips he could taste it, feel it running over his tongue and slipping down his throat. He smelled the swirling scents, felt its soft touch, and became lost in it, completely and utterly. When he came back to the present he was exhausted but triumphant, as though he had endured a journey across an ocean of taste and returned bearing unimaginable riches. This… this miracle… this incredible confluence of artistry and fortune would be lost to someone who could never appreciate it. It was unbearable. Enough to drive a man to insanity.

He turned, still enveloped in the Bordeaux’s bewitching sensations and took one step, two, and suddenly there was a twinge in his stomach as his foot landed astray. A high pitched squeak and he was off-balance, falling. He hit the ground hard, the bottle shattering beneath him, and then all was still.

Alonso lay on the floor, red wine staining his front, surrounded by shards of glass, nothing but the beating of his heart in his ears. Slowly, gently, he pushed himself up from his prone position to gaze at the ruins of his beloved Bordeaux. That scent, the flavour that he had so carefully sampled was thick in the air, overbearing, an oversaturation of taste. By his foot lay the rat, its little head caved in where his boot had fallen. Brain matter oozed out of the recesses in its compromised skull, and its blood mixed with the wine upon the timber, forming a thick, red liquid that dripped ever so slowly through the floorboards. Wordlessly, Alonso rose to his feet.

His insides felt tight, as though they might come undone at any moment, and that he would cry, or wail, or bang his fists against the wall, but instead he composed himself, swallowed, and reached for another bottle of the Médoc.

Then he stopped.

As if their unrefined palette would be able to tell.

Slowly, that frightening grimace spread its way across the sommelier’s face.

-

Alonso would open the door to the dining room almost entirely silently, as was always the case. Frame hunched, eyes hollow, he moved with all the countenance of the afflicted. He ran his beady eyes across the chamber, sampling the scene as he might a split of Vin Jaune. It seemed that the guest today was one of the Marquis’ many courtships, and the two chattered with wild abandon for some time, entirely unaware of the presence that watched them from the shadows. It was only once Alonso eased himself into the light that their prattling ceased, and he seemed to warrant any attention.

“Ah! My dear friend!” the Marquis cried as Alonso crept forward, rising to beckon him towards the dining table. “Allow me to introduce La Contessa de Cartegia, come all the way from Italy.”

The lady perched opposite the Marquis was clad in a flowing blue gown, laced with intricate sequins and decorated with some of the finest lace Alonso had ever laid eyes upon. She carried herself with confidence, laying her hands one atop the other in a display of immaculate decorum. Not a speck of dust seemed to lie upon her person, pure olive skin bearing an intense vitality, and she wore a gaze that would no doubt have bewitched many a man, all charming eyes and full lips.

“Good day.” she chirped, voice light and airy. “I have heard a lot about you.”

He had never seen a more repulsive creature.

The Marquis cleared his throat, and Alonso was brought back into the moment. He scurried quickly to the table side and placed the two bottles he had brought with him upon the fine white tablecloth.

“Señor, Señorita, today I bring you two personal wines of exemplary quality. A Rioja, grown in the fields of La Rioja Alta, and a favourite of our good Marquis.” he began, as he filled a glass for his master. “and at your request, Contessa, a Merlot, from the Médoc region of Bordeaux.”

He flashed his best smile as he handed the Countess her glass, and the noblewoman too returned the expression.

All was silent as Alonso crept backward, watching the two sip at their splits. The Marquis made a noise of approval, and the Countess too nodded with satisfaction.

“Truly, you are a master of your craft, my dear Alonso.” declared the Marquis, as he placed his glass back upon the table.

The sommelier’s smile grew ever wider, and he bowed his head again.

“It pleases me to serve you both, Señor y Señorita. I will take my leave now. I hope you enjoy.”

Alonso departed as he had arrived, noiselessly slipping out of the dining room with not a glance cast his way. He skittered through the manor’s grand halls quickly, as he always did, but rather than the usual frown or grimace upon his face, there instead an all-encompassing smile had begun to spread across his visage. In fact, as he made his way towards the cellar, with no sound but the pattering of his filthy shoes upon the marble, that unusual smile did not diminish in size - quite the contrary. He began to giggle, frame bobbing with the unfamiliar experience, and he moved quicker still, giggles turning to a low cackling until finally, as he darted back into that dark refuge and the sanguine smell of wine hit his nostrils once more, he broke into explosive, raucous, laughter.