“This is very thoughtful of you, uh…”
“Nat,” said Nat, handing the gift bottle of pink zinfandel-all wrapped up in red and gold from the wine store, the thickest, shiniest wrapping paper he’d ever seen-to Mr. Zorn.
“Nat what, again?” said Mr. Zorn.
Nat repeated his last name. He and Mr. Zorn shook hands for the second time. Mr. Zorn: whose hand felt small in Nat’s; who didn’t look particularly distinguished-nothing as impressive as Albert, Mrs. Zorn’s personal assistant, or Anton, her personal trainer; who stood shorter than Nat by a few inches, perhaps the same height as Grace and Izzie, but not lean like them, not fair like them; who did have their blue-green eyes, but without the gold flecks that changed the whole effect.
“Nat’s the hero du jour,” said Grace.
“Yesterday’s hero du jour,” said Izzie.
“The hero d’hier, then,” said Mr. Zorn; a minor witticism, if one at all, and not spoken loudly, but Nat heard laughter from all parts of the room.
Christmas Eve, five o’clock, party in the library. The Zorns’ library, on yet another floor, above the bedroom level, wasn’t dark-paneled and musty, like the library in an Agatha Christie mystery, but all glass and blond wood, with tall windows and northern views. By now Nat knew that the apartment had 360-degree views of the city, but its size and structure remained unclear to him. The party was not exactly a party, although a waiter was serving drinks and everyone but Nat and the girls was dressed up; it was just a gathering before people-there were about fifteen or twenty in the room, one of whom, a TV network newswoman, Nat recognized-went off for the evening.
Mr. Zorn showed no interest in whatever heroic feat Nat had performed, but peered at the gift bottle, as though attempting to see through the wrapper, and said: “Interested in wine, Nat?”
Wary of a minefield of wine questions, Nat said: “I’m underage.”
Mr. Zorn looked up; a quick look, but careful. Then he smiled at him, not warm, not cold, not emotional at all, but an intelligent smile, if that made sense-Nat had never seen one quite like it. “But quick-witted,” said Mr. Zorn.
“Very,” said Grace.
“Very what?” said Mrs. Zorn, coming up. She wore something black and low-cut that exposed most of her breasts; a huge pear-shaped diamond-had to be a diamond, Nat thought-hung between them. The effort to keep his eyes off the spectacle almost made his head hurt, although no else seemed to be taking any notice.
“Quick-witted,” said Izzie.
“Who are we talking about?” said Mrs. Zorn.
“Nat,” said Grace.
Mrs. Zorn looked blank for a moment, then turned to him: “Really?” she said.
Grace and Izzie both frowned in annoyance, their foreheads furrowing identically.
“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.
