A lime-green Trabant with a battered fender and a dilapidated bumper was waiting for them in front of the inn. Zoltán was showboating at the wheel. His cousin Pavel was sitting next to him, laughing. Evidently Vilmos was a no-show. Perhaps he had stayed behind in the vineyards? At this time of year there was plenty of work to do.
Above the River Tisza, the sun had given way to thick charcoal-gray clouds driven by winds from the Russian plains. The air was more breathable now, much to Elisabeth’s delight. She unbuttoned the collar of her silk blouse.
The backseat clearly didn’t have enough room for both couples. But as it happened, Consuela was tired. More to the point, she was drunk and therefore excused from any visit. Benjamin wouldn’t have minded taking a nap himself. There wasn’t enough time, though, and Zoltán made it clear that he had arranged everything with his relatives.
Pavel didn’t look much older than his cousin, but they hardly resembled each other. Pavel had coal-gray eyes, cropped chestnut hair, a handshake that could reduce a person’s fingers to crushed grapes, and rather crude mannerisms. While Zoltán was hardy and cheerful, his cousin seemed clumsy and nondescript, even simpleminded.
The Cookers and Claude packed themselves into the backseat of the Trabant, which had most likely come off the assembly line when Leonid Brezhnev ruled with an iron fist. Benjamin wondered if that was being too generous. For all he knew, the car had been put together during the Khrushchev era. The winemaker had to give credit to the person who was keeping this jalopy on the road.
They were heading toward Mád. Vilmos was waiting for them there. So said Zoltán and Pavel.
When they arrived, a wrought-iron gate designed to go up and down like the entrance to a castle barred their access to the cellar. A gate as impressive as the wines themselves, Benjamin mused, thinking about the five hundred years of winemaking in this region.
Vilmos was holding the keys. A well-built man with thick eyebrows and darting light-colored eyes, Vilmos didn’t resemble either his brother or Zoltán. It was hard to read into his gestures and intermittent smiles. He exuded something that could be interpreted as either distrust or deviousness.
“If these guys are cousins, I’ll eat my hat,” Claude said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
The wine cellar was built into a hillside and was almost undetectable from a distance. The visitors had to climb a steep path to reach the entrance. It resembled that of a chapel, with climbing roses clinging to the frame of the Romanesque door. Benjamin saluted the work of the builders of old. It was part of a huge subterranean labyrinth originally dug out to defend against Turkish invaders.
Elisabeth stopped in her tracks after Vilmos gave two turns of the key and opened the way into the dark tomb.
“What’s wrong, darling?”
“Benjamin, I can’t go in. I’m feeling claustrophobic.” Elisabeth’s breathing had changed, and she was leaning against the entrance.
“You have nothing to worry about, sweetheart. It’s all well ventilated, and for the most part, the tunnels are wide. Remember the cellars in Champagne? It’s the same idea.”
“I have a bad feeling about this. Maybe I should have stayed behind, like Consuela. My head’s spinning.”
“Take a few deep breaths,” Claude said.
“Let’s just go on in. The coolness will do you good.” Benjamin’s words came out sharper than he had intended. Unlike his wife, he was eager to see the cellars.
Elisabeth closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said, opening her eyes again. “Let’s go.”
When everyone had descended the stairway leading to the dirt floor, Pavel turned on a string of bulbs that threw puddles of bluish light on rows of 140-liter casks lining the walls. The glass bungs atop each cask gleamed in the light.
The cellar was actually a tunnel cut right through the volcanic rock, with passageways on either side. Dark fungus carpeted the walls. Elisabeth reached out and touched it.
“Feel it, Benjamin. It’s as soft as a rabbit’s ears.”
“It’s like the Baudoinia compniacensis black mold in the Cognac wine warehouses, dear. The wine feeds the fungus as it evaporates. That’s the angel’s share. But first, before the wine ever gets here, the grapes are crushed into a syrupy aszú paste and mixed with a base wine that has already fermented in steel vats. The idea is to extract the natural sugars and aromas. Only then does it come here for a second fermentation, which could last years. Isn’t that right?”
Benjamin turned to Vilmos and Pavel for an answer. They said nothing and just looked at Zoltán.
“Yes, yes. Aszú wine must age at least three years.”
Zoltán pointed out that the humidity was nearly ninety percent, and the temperature was no higher than eleven degrees Celsius.
“Tell me, Zoltán, why are these wine casks called göncs?” Benjamin asked as he surveyed the walnut-stained barrels arranged in neat rows. The vintage and parcel were chalked on each one.
“Actually, they’re called Gönci.” Zoltán responded. “Gönc is a town in the Zemplén Mountains that’s famous for its coopers. Even casks that don’t come from there get the name now.”
Benjamin lifted one of the glass bungs and listened to the Tokaji. It was fermenting. He invited Claude to lend an ear.
“Listen to the wine sing,” he said. “It’s always the same refrain, but I never get tired of it.”
Vilmos picked up a glass pipette. He dipped the tool into the cask and inhaled until the pipette took on an amber color. Then he filled three glasses, the first of which he handed to Elisabeth.
Elisabeth shook her head, and Benjamin saw that she was shivering.
“Just a sip, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s not every day that we can have an experience like this.”
She acquiesced and took the glass. But no sooner had she lifted it to her lips than she fell to the floor, dropping the glass and spilling the wine.