The Night Harvest – Part 1: Picking by Lamp

"It's a joke," said Julian.

"It's the forecast," said Mateo. "Forty degrees tomorrow. If we wait, the grapes cook on the vine."

It was two in the morning and the vineyard lay under a huge sky, the Andes a dark wall in the distance. Julian had flown from London three days earlier to buy wine for a restaurant group. He had expected tastings and a nice lunch. Instead he stood between two rows of Malbec in borrowed boots, a headlamp strapped to his forehead and a pair of shears in his hand.

"You're a guest," said Mateo. "You can say no."

"I'd like to learn."

Mateo was thirty-three, long-legged, with a sunburned nose and his father's patient eyes. He showed Julian how to cut a bunch clean at the stem and lay it in the crate without bruising a single grape. "Gently," he said. "They're tired, but they're not stupid."

Down the row, cousins and pickers laughed and sang in the dark. The night air was cold and smelled of dust and sweet fruit. Julian's fingers turned sticky and purple.

By four the crowd had moved to the far rows. The two men were alone, working side by side, the beams of their lamps crossing. Mateo's shoulder brushed Julian's again and again.

"Sorry," said Julian, the third time.

"I'm not," said Mateo, and then looked horrified. "That came out wrong."

"Did it?"

They stood still, lamps pointed at the ground. Julian's heart was thumping like a harvest drum.

"I'm leaving Thursday," Julian said, quietly.

"I know. That's why I'm saying something." Mateo looked at him. "Would it be all right if I kissed you? Only if you want."

"Yes," said Julian. "Yes, please."

The kiss tasted of grapes and cold air. Mateo's hand cupped his jaw, warm and sticky.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Sunrise Rows.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Sunrise Rows.