She disappears behind the curtain. The men are uneasy. Motionless in the clammy heat, they’re waiting like children, exchanging worried and insolent glances. They slowly get back to work. The Gypsy tries to challenge Manuel with his eyes before buckling down but it’s too late, the moment’s gone, Manuel’s already forgotten about him.

They work for an hour or two, until the surrounding hills lose some of their glare and start to turn golden. The owner reappears, dressed this time, with sunglasses on her head and holding a handbag. She doesn’t smile or say hello to anyone. She just walks up to Manuel and hands him the house keys, a bundle held together by a horseshoe that weighs heavily in his palm.

“Two days. I’m trusting you.”

Her exasperated tone suggests the contrary, but she doesn’t really have a choice. Nobody would take over halfway through the job if she sacks this team. Besides, the new ones wouldn’t be any better, she knows that, God, they’re so slow; after all, it’s not rocket science to finish a job in a timely manner. These southerners, it’s as though everything goes over their heads: priorities, delays, respect. She gets into the grey Audi, tired. She rummages through her bag and finds her codeine tablets, swallows one dry while waiting for the automatic gates to let her out.

The men all straighten up to see the car vanish at the top of the path, between the vineyards.

*