Noon in the village

The father woke up late, around noon. It seemed that the afternoon shadows could envelop even the elders, as the uncle suddenly transformed, aligning with the version the boy remembered.

“Let’s have one,” he commanded his guests.

“I just woke up,” the father attempted to decline.

“That’s… how can I put it,” the uncle mused, “your problem.”

And he burst into laughter, causing his hands to tremble, spilling some brandy clumsily over the glass onto the wooden table.

“Is it good?” the uncle asked.

“Excellent,” replied the father.

“Excellent,” echoed the son. Uncle poured again. Father glanced at his brother, as if passing judgment, then downed the drink in one go, the boy followed suit.

“Is it good?” the uncle inquired.

“Excellent,” affirmed the father.

“Excellent,” echoed the son. Uncle poured again.

Is it good? Excellent. Excellent. Again. Is it good? Excellent. Packs a punch. Is it good? Excellent. Strong. Is it good? Excellent. Is it good? Yes.

“Is it good?” the uncle asked.

“That’s enough,” said the father, glancing at the boy, whose head rested on the wooden table like on the comfiest feather pillow.

“Well, if it’s enough, my dear peasant, turn the glass upside down,” instructed the brother. “You head to the city and forget it all. Come on, get the boy up, let’s go to the vineyard.”

The vineyards were never the uncle’s to begin with. They were akin to the church they were linked to – forsaken and modest. Nonetheless, the uncle chose to tend to both the church and the vineyards. Right behind the little stone church, a small graveyard rested. The older graves bore crosses carved from the same stone as the church. The newer ones were mostly marble or wooden, like Oleg’s.

“Here’s the vineyard,” the uncle said sourly.

Before them, only withered grapevines, not a single fruit in sight.