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away as Spain.” He folded El Cascabel . “So what’s on your mind?” he asked, somewhat grumpily, and Josep held out the lawyer’s paper.
    Nivaldo read it through in silence. “…Ah, you’re buying the vineyard. That’s very good.” He started anew at the beginning and studied it again. Then he sighed. “You have read this?”
    “Not really.”
    “Jesús.” He handed it back to Josep. “Read it carefully. And then read it a second time.”
    He waited patiently until Josep had done so, and then he took the paper. “Here.” His splayed forefinger pointed out the paragraph. “Their lawyer says if you miss a single payment, the land and the masia revert to Donat.”
    Josep grunted.
    “You must tell them this part has to be changed. If they must squeeze you, it should at least say that you won’t forfeit the land unless you’ve missed three payments in succession.”
    “To hell with them. I’ll sign the damned thing as it is. It makes me feel dirty to bargain and squabble with my brother over our family land.”
    Nivaldo leaned over and grasped Josep’s wrist hard, and looked into his eyes. “Listen to me, Tigre,” he said gently. “You aren’t a child. You are not a fool. You must protect yourself.”
    Josep felt like a child. “What if they won’t accept a change?” he asked sullenly.
    “They surely will not. They expect you to haggle. Tell them if ever you are late with a payment, you agree to add ten percent to the sum of the next payment.”
    “You think they will accept that?”
    Nivaldo nodded. “I believe they will.”
    Josep thanked him and got up to leave.
    “You must write in that change, and you and Donat must sign your name next to the changed part. Wait.” Nivaldo got the wine and two glasses. He took Josep’s hand and shook it. “I give you my blessing. May you have only good fortune, Josep.”
    Josep thanked him. He downed the wine quickly, the way wine never should be drunk, then he returned to the masia.
    Donat guessed that Josep had consulted Nivaldo, whom he respected as much as his brother did, and he was not inclined to argue with the requested change. But, as Josep expected, Rosa objected at once. “You have to know that you must pay without fail,” she said severely.
    “I do know,” he growled. When he countered with the offer of the ten percent penalty, she thought for a long and painful moment before she nodded.
    They watched while he laboriously wrote out the changes and then signed both copies of the agreement twice.
    “My cousin Carles the lawyer told us that if there were changes, he must read them before Donat signs,” Rosa said. “Will you come to Barcelona to collect your paper?”
    To pay us our money , Josep knew that she meant. He had no desire to go to Barcelona. “I have just walked home from France,” he said coldly.
    Donat looked embarrassed. He clearly wished to mollify his brother. “I’ll return to the village every three months to collect your payments. But why don’t you come to visit us next Saturday night?” he said to Josep. “You can pick up your signed copy of the paper, give us the first payment, and we will have a real party. We will show you how to celebrate in Barcelona!”
    Josep was fed up. He wanted only to have them out of his sight, and he agreed that he would come to see them at the end of the week.
    When they were gone, he continued to sit at the table in the silent casa, as if stunned.
    Finally he got up and went outside and began to walk the vineyard.
    It was as if suddenly he had been transformed into the eldest son. He knew he should feel excitement and joy, but instead he was made leaden by doubt.
    He walked up and down the plantings of vines, studying them. The rows were not as carefully spaced as the immaculate rows at the Mendes vineyard, and they were curved and contorted like snakes instead of bring reasonably straight. They had been planted carelessly, a jumble of varieties—his eyes picked out small and