A Very Old Man with Cataracts
In 1984 I attended the Karl Marx University of Economics in Budapest, Hungary. No lie. I was part of an exchange program with DePaul University where DePaul students went to KMU and no one from Hungary came to DePaul for fear they’d never go back. One day in early spring we were on one of those tedious outings to examine the glorious wine-making prowess of the proletariat when I felt the sickening presence of the KGB watching our group. There was this one fellow who hovered over us with long, dank, lanky, black hair swept straight back over his forehead exposing a Widow’s Peak that almost reached to his bushy eyebrows, a walrus moustache that looked like a taut hunting bow draped over his lip and a dark, filthy trenchcoat with the belt sliding out of its loopholes and almost touching the ground. Central casting couldn’t have picked a better KGB spy. We were warned by the US Embassy we’d be watched, but, man, this was too wierd.
We were gathered around a chipped and worn Formica tasting table drinking some of the lightest, awfulest white wine it has ever been my displeasure to choke down when one of our Hungarian chaperons leaned over me and told me that the president of the University of which I was a guest would like to speak with me. I was brought to an office just off the tasting floor and sat across from Lazlo Mozes, the President of KMU and the same fellow I had assumed was KGB.
The first thing I noticed about Lazlo Mozes was how drunk he was. He motioned for me to sit and poured another glass of the insipid wine we were drinking in the tasting room. He asked in an inappropriately loud voice, “Tell me, what do you think of our wines, Mr. Child. I heard you speaking with your friends. Clearly, you know wine. What do you think of our fine Hungarian wines?” And he slugged down a full glass of the awful juice for himself and smiled at me. I muttered something non-committal and Lazlo Mozes leaned over the desk and whispered, “Don’t worry. I know it’s garbage, but we’re being watched you see.” And he nodded in the direction of the busdriver, a warty workman in thick boots, who was making time with the wine matrons in their white aprons and stealing a glance in every direction. “KGB,” he whispered. “If you want to taste true Hungarian wines you have to go to where the forgotten ones live - old men tending their own bits of land - unafraid of the mongrel bureaucrats - making wine worthy of your stomach.”
And so it was soon arranged that I was to go to Badasconytomaj, a little wine town on the old slopes of an extinct volcano that drifted down to the northwestern shore of Lake Balaton, with Lazlo Mozes, the president of the university of which I was a guest.
Two months later I am walking in tiny vineyards meeting the forgotten ones, survivors of WWII, of the pogroms of 1956, bachelor farmers in their 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. “These men,” Lazlo told me, “are simply to tough to die.”
We visit politely. I have brought gifts, trinkets I’d bought at O’Hare for just this purpose: Chicago skyline shot glasses, keychains, playing cards. Finally, we slip and slide our way down an earthen tunnel tipping into an underground cellar. One of the old men we’d met earlier, Tibor, was waiting for us with glasses already filled with his wine: an amber colored thing that must have been as old he was.
Tibor stood no higher that five feet tall with a face that looked like a crushed pumpkin: at some point his nose and cheekbones had been broken and had settled where ever they pleased. His eyes were milky with cataracts and a lattice work of busted capillaries covered his face. He smiled and said through our translator, “Please, drink. This is my best wine.”
It was fiery and deep, that is all I remember. I made a point to nurse my glass. I did not want to get into a drinking contest with Lazlo or Tibor. After a few minutes Tibor asked, “Please ask the young American if there is something wrong with my wine. He’s not drinking it.”
Who knew an old man could be so passive aggressive?
I assured him all was well and I started pounding the wine. This makes pumpkin-faced Tibor very happy and he offers a toast to my health. I am now half-moon over and I want to offer a toast to Tibor, and I say,”Here’s to your casket. May its lining be of the finest silk spun in the Orient. May its handles be made of the finest gold mined in South Africa. May its wood be made of the finest 100 year old Hungarian oak…”
Wait for it. Wait for it, here’s the kicker, “…and may they plant that tree tomorrow.”
Bang. Boom. Zowie. Score one for the home team. I had ‘em near tears. I had ‘em eating out of my inebriated hand. Tibor said this back through our sloshed translator:
“Tell the young American I will have no casket when I finally die. During the war my family, my neighbors, the village,” and here he swept a beefy hand in a half circle, “we were all forced from our homes one night in the middle of winter. They marched us from place to place for days and days and days. We were in our nightshirts. Most died from the cold and were left where they lay - open to the sky, the birds, the hungry dogs that followed us. I am the only one from my family who lived. When I die I will be left where I fall, just as my mother, father, grandfather and two sisters were.” Here he paused and looked through the opaque lenses of his decrepitude at the dozen or so barrels quietly percolating in the suddenly too quiet cellar and continued. “I work these vines because they were my grandfather’s vines. When I found my way back home I couldn’t think of anything else to do except work these vines. When I see my grandfather again I want to be able to tell him his vines are doing well. I want to be able to tell him I kept the vintage alive. I hid what was best so I could share it with him. The wine in your glass is from my first vintage.”
Bang. Boom. Zowie. Indeed.
Wine reflects the gaze of our most fervent desires. It shows us who we have been, who we hope to become. For me, wine is an expression of love for my family, my children. It is how I try to earn my keep, but more importantly, there is nothing more precious to me than to celebrate and exalt in the company of those I love. Wine binds us to one another - past and present. It comforts our sorrows and dances in our joy. Not the alcohol, but the still surface of remembrance that is cast upon it. My dear Tibor, a forgotten one, a bachelor farmer whose eyes could finally bear to see no more taught me this lesson over twenty years ago. He teaches me still.
Work your vines. Keep the vintage alive.