The Wine Is Sour

Character

个性

“The wine is sour,” said Mr Yoon.

“酒是酸的。”尹先生说。

He said it in Korean, without raising his voice, the way he said everything, and put the glass back on the white tablecloth, exactly on the damp ring it had left there. At the other end of the table, under the pergola through which the midday light fell in patches, Horacio Bianchi raised his eyebrows and looked not at him but at the woman sitting between them.

他是用韩语说的，没有提高声音，就像他平时说话那样。他把杯子放回白色的桌布上，正好落在杯子留下的湿印子上。在长桌的另一头，正午的阳光透过凉棚洒下斑驳的光影，奥拉西奥·比安奇挑起眉毛，看的不是他，而是坐在他们中间的那个女人。

Mirta Kang allowed herself half a breath. She never needed longer. “Mr Yoon says,” she said in Spanish, “that your wine has a character all of its own. He has never drunk anything like it. He thanks you for the invitation.”

米尔塔·姜稍稍停顿了半个呼吸。她从来不需要更多时间。“尹先生说，”她用西班牙语说道，“您的酒非常有特色，个性鲜明。他以前从没喝过这样的酒。他感谢您的招待。”

“Character!” Horacio slapped the table with the flat of his hand so that the forks jumped. “Did you hear that, Norma? Character. Tell him that’s the 2019, a frost year, a wine you have to understand. Tell him he knows something about wine.”

“个性！”奥拉西奥一巴掌拍在桌子上，震得叉子都跳了起来。“你听到了吗，诺尔玛？个性。告诉他，这是2019年的酒，那年遭了霜冻，得懂得品才行。告诉他，他懂酒。”

“Mr Bianchi is pleased with your judgement,” said Mirta in Korean. “He says it is a difficult vintage.”

“比安奇先生很高兴听到您的评价，”米尔塔用韩语说，“他说那是一个很难打理的年份。”

Mr Yoon nodded the way one nods at a weather report, and did not take a second glass.

尹先生像听天气预报那样点了点头，没有再喝第二杯。

She was forty-three, born in Buenos Aires, the daughter of people from Incheon, and for nineteen years she had interpreted between the two languages she had grown up in: contracts for soya beans, factory tours, two divorces, one heart operation. At the agency in Buenos Aires they said that with Kang no table had ever broken. She was prouder of that sentence than of her diploma. For this week Mr Yoon had booked her, Yoon Sang-chul from Daegu, sixty-eight, owner of a factory for industrial valves: four days, Wednesday to Saturday, flight and hotel. On Saturday his son Jun-ho was to marry Lucía Bianchi here, on the Bianchis’ small wine estate in Chacras de Coria near Mendoza.

她四十三岁，出生在布宜诺斯艾利斯，父母来自仁川。在她从小浸润的这两种语言之间，她已经做了十九年的口译：大豆贸易合同、工厂参观、两场离婚、一场心脏手术。布宜诺斯艾利斯的那家翻译社里常说，姜小姐手里从来没砸过桌子。对这句话，她比对自己的大学文凭还要自豪。这周预订她的是尹先生，来自大邱的尹相哲，六十八岁，一家工业阀门厂的老板：四天时间，从周三到周六，包机票和酒店。周六那天，他的儿子俊昊要在这里，在门多萨附近查克拉斯-德科里亚的比安奇家小酒庄里，迎娶露西亚·比安奇。

The two had met in Sydney and spoke English with each other. Their fathers spoke none. Once, Lucía had told her on the phone, she and Jun-ho had tried to translate a video call themselves; after ten minutes both fathers had hung up, and ever since each believed the other was hard of hearing. Hence Mirta.

这两个年轻人在悉尼相识，彼此说英语。他们的父亲却一句英语都不会讲。露西亚曾在电话里提起，她和俊昊有一次试过在视频通话里亲自给他们翻译；仅仅十分钟后，两位父亲就都挂断了电话，自那以后，双方都以为对方耳朵背。正因如此，他们才找来了米尔塔。

On Wednesday evening, straight after the arrival, it had begun well. Horacio had led the guests through the cellar, let them taste from two tanks and then, at dinner, without wasting a word on it, opened a bottle with no label. Mr Yoon had drunk, held the glass against the light and said: “This one is good. The others he can keep.”

周三晚上，刚抵达那会儿，一切都很顺利。奥拉西奥带着客人们参观了酒窖，让他们从两个酒罐里各尝了一点，然后在晚餐时一言不发地开了一瓶没有酒标的酒。尹先生抿了一口，举起酒杯对着光看了看，说道：“这瓶不错。剩下的他留着自己喝吧。”

“Mr Yoon says your wines are excellent,” Mirta had translated.

“尹先生说，您的每一款酒都非常出色。”米尔塔当时这样翻译道。

The lie lay in the plural, and it was so small that Mirta had forgotten it by dessert. Today, on Thursday, the 2019 stood on the table, the wine the house sold and lived on. The bottle with no label had not appeared again.

谎言藏在“每一款”这三个字里，而且是那么微不足道，以至于还没吃到甜点，米尔塔就已经把它抛在了脑后。今天，到了周四，桌上摆出的是2019年份的酒，也就是酒庄对外售卖、赖以维生的主力款。那瓶没有酒标的酒再也没有露过面。