"We are the white owls,
the spectators of the immensity
of the Uco Valley.
We are the ones who guard the
stories that preceded our wines."
From the sky, the vineyards look like green villages surrounded by the deserts that rest at the foot of the Andes. Straight lines that try to tame nature’s chaotic strength. From up here, the vines create endless little alleys. At night, in these hidden corners, I catch glimpses of forbidden episodes.
This is the place I have chosen for myself; away from the estate, silent at night, overlooking the eternal Tupungato Hill.
A couple visits me every night when the stars begin to shine, when I am awake. They lay on the bark of my tree, in this quiet and lonely alley. They kiss, they embrace, and they get lost in each other’s body.
They always drink the same wine, the wine I watch them steal from a nearby underground cellar.
It would seem they were made for each other, if they had the power to write the rules. I hear stories of bordering lands and rivalling parents; of a society that dictates the alleged fate of their lives, and I understand why they need to get lost in these lonely vineyards. I share their anger, their eternal misery, but I also share the beauty of their solace. It is only in my presence that they finally portray their intertwined essence.
Everything changed on September 7th, 1965. That night, my visitors’ escape became permanent. The unceasing madness of a binary life, of an insatiable thirst, of looking for light among the shadows became unbearable. That night, taking control of their fate, they got lost in an unforgettable act.
It is whispered that the lovers ran away and found a place for their love in a distant and thriving land. But also, that they gave up their lives in a crime that liberated them, because they could not love each other freely.
I only know the result of what happened. I beat my white feathers and leave behind my lonely tree, where I return to every night to honour their story.