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making vinegar wine. But Padre didn’t leave the land entirely to you so you could sell it. As you know. As you well know. As you absolutely and positively, know , Donat.”
    They glared at one another, and it was his brother who looked away.
    “So the rule must apply: two-thirds to the eldest son, one-third to the younger son. I will pay you a good price, a better price than Angel Casals. From that sum we will deduct one-third, because I won’t buy what I already own.”
    “And where will you get the money?” Donat asked too quietly.
    “I’ll sell my grapes, as Padre always did. I’ll make payment to you every three months, until the entire sales price is paid.”
    The three sat silently, looking at one another.
    “I saved most of my wages, four years of hard work in France. I can give you the first payment at once. You’ll get extra money every three months for a long time. On top of what the two of you earn, it will make things easier for you. And the land will stay in the Alvarez family.”
    Donat looked at Rosa, who shrugged. “You must sign a paper,” she said to Josep.
    “Why a paper? This is a thing between brothers.”
    “Still, there is a proper way to do it,” she said, sounding determined.
    “Since when do brothers need a paper?” Josep asked Donat. He allowed himself to become very annoyed. “Why should brothers give good money to a law merchant?”
    Donat was silent.
    “It is the way to do such a thing,” Rosa insisted. “My cousin Carles is a lawyer, he will provide the legal paper for us for very little money.”
    They gazed at him stubbornly, and now it was Josep who looked away and shrugged.
    “Very well. Bring me the God-damned paper,” he said.
    They were back the following Sunday. The document was crisp and white, important looking. Donat held it as if it were a snake and handed it over to Josep with relief.
    He tried to read it, but he was too nervous and irritated; the words on the two pages swam before his eyes, and he knew what he must do.
    “Wait here,” he said curtly, and he left them sitting at what he still thought of as his father’s table.
    Nivaldo was in his apartment above the grocery, his newspaper, El Cascabel , spread out before him. On Sundays he didn’t open the grocery until the church service let out, when the worshipers came in to buy staples to last them for the week. His bad eye was closed, and he squinted fiercely at the newspaper with his good eye, the way he read anything. He always reminded Josep of a hawk.
    Nivaldo was the smartest man Josep had ever met. Josep felt he could have been or done anything. He had once told Josep he couldn’t remember ever having been in a schoolroom. In the same week in 1812 in which the British had forced Joseph Bonaparte to flee from Madrid, Nivaldo had fled the sugar fields of his native Cuba. Twelve years old, he stowed away on a boat bound for Maracaibo. He had been a gaucho in Argentinaand a soldier in the Spanish army—from which, Padre once revealed, Nivaldo had deserted. He had served on sailing ships. From enigmatic things he had said from time to time, Josep felt sure he had been a privateer before settling down as a storekeeper in Catalonia. Josep didn’t know where Nivaldo had learned to read and write, but he did both well enough to teach Josep and Donat when they were young, giving lessons at his little table, which were interrupted anytime someone came into the shop for a hunk of chorizo or a few slices of cheese.
    “What is happening, Nivaldo?”
    Nivaldo sighed and folded El Cascabel. “This is a bad time for the government’s army, one of its worst defeats, two thousand troops taken prisoner by the Carlists after a battle in the north. And there’s trouble in Cuba. The Americans are giving weapons and supplies to the rebels. The Americans can practically piss on Cuba from Florida, and they won’t be happy until they own it. They can’t stand to see a jewel like Cuba being run by a country as far