The Vineyard Vote

The vote took place in the kitchen, because that was where every important thing in the family had ever been decided, and because nobody had the heart to hold it anywhere else. The buyer's offer lay in the middle of the table, in a thin white envelope, between the salt and a dish of walnuts that no one touched.

Pemungutan suara berlangsung di dapur, karena di sanalah segala hal penting dalam keluarga itu selalu diputuskan, dan karena tak ada yang tega mengadakannya di tempat lain. Tawaran sang pembeli tergeletak di tengah meja, dalam amplop putih tipis, di antara garam dan sepiring kenari yang tak disentuh siapa pun.

There were three siblings, three votes, and a rule their father had once written on the back of a seed packet: no sale without a majority. Colette had driven six hours to be there and had not taken off her coat. Bruno, the youngest, sat with his chair tipped back and his arms folded, as he had at every family argument since the age of twelve. Morten sat at the end nearest the stove, in the place that had been his mother's, with soil still under his fingernails.

Ada tiga bersaudara, tiga suara, dan sebuah aturan yang pernah ditulis ayah mereka di balik bungkus benih: tidak ada penjualan tanpa suara mayoritas. Colette menyetir enam jam untuk berada di sini dan belum melepas mantelnya. Bruno, si bungsu, duduk dengan kursi dimiringkan ke belakang dan tangan terlipat, seperti dalam setiap pertengkaran keluarga sejak usianya dua belas. Morten duduk di ujung yang paling dekat dengan kompor, di tempat yang dulu milik ibunya, dengan tanah masih terselip di bawah kukunya.

Morten was the one who had stayed. While the others built lives in the cities, he had pruned the rows each winter, mended the press, and driven the grapes to the cooperative in a truck whose gearbox had to be argued with. Nobody had ever asked whether he wanted to. It had simply been assumed, the way weather is assumed, and he had never found a convenient moment to say otherwise.

Morten adalah yang tinggal. Sementara yang lain membangun hidup di kota-kota, ia memangkas barisan pohon anggur setiap musim dingin, memperbaiki alat pemeras, dan mengantar anggur ke koperasi dengan sebuah truk yang persneling-nya harus dibujuk dengan sabar. Tak seorang pun pernah bertanya apakah ia mau. Itu dianggap begitu saja, seperti cuaca dianggap begitu saja, dan ia tak pernah menemukan saat yang pas untuk mengatakan sebaliknya.

Their father had believed that people shout what they feel and write what they think, so they voted on scraps torn from the notepad by the phone. Colette's said SELL. Bruno's said KEEP. Both of them turned toward Morten, and the old refrigerator hummed into the silence.

Ayah mereka percaya bahwa orang meneriakkan apa yang mereka rasakan dan menuliskan apa yang mereka pikirkan, jadi mereka memberi suara pada secarik kertas yang disobek dari buku catatan di dekat telepon. Kertas Colette bertuliskan JUAL. Kertas Bruno bertuliskan PERTAHANKAN. Keduanya menoleh ke arah Morten, dan kulkas tua itu berdengung mengisi keheningan.

"You'll vote keep," Bruno said. "You always do what Dad would have done."

"Kamu akan memilih pertahankan," kata Bruno. "Kamu selalu melakukan apa yang akan dilakukan Ayah."

"I stayed because no one else was going to," Morten said. "That's not the same thing."

"Aku tinggal karena tak ada orang lain yang mau," kata Morten. "Itu tidak sama."

"Nobody made you."

"Tidak ada yang memaksamu."

"Nobody asked me either. Not once, in sixteen years."

"Tidak ada yang menanyaiku juga. Sekali pun tidak, selama enam belas tahun."

Colette put both palms flat on the table. "And who do you think did the accounts every January, Bruno? On the phone, from a hotel room, for sixteen years, while you were finding yourself?"

Colette meletakkan kedua telapak tangannya mendatar di meja. "Dan menurutmu siapa yang mengurus pembukuan tiap Januari, Bruno? Lewat telepon, dari kamar hotel, selama enam belas tahun, sementara kamu sibuk mencari jati diri?"

"That's not fair."

"Itu tidak adil."

"It isn't," she said. "None of it is." She looked at Morten, and her voice dropped. "I voted sell because your knees are finished and you'll never say so. Somebody had to say it for you."

"Memang tidak," katanya. "Semuanya tidak adil." Ia menatap Morten, dan suaranya merendah. "Aku memilih jual karena lututmu sudah rusak dan kamu tak akan pernah mengatakannya. Harus ada yang mengatakannya untukmu."

Never once had either of them asked about his knees. Morten had assumed that nobody had noticed the way he took the cellar steps, one at a time, with a hand on the wall. If either of them had asked him at forty, he thought, he might have answered honestly, and the whole conversation might have happened a decade earlier and in a kinder voice.

Tak sekali pun salah satu dari mereka bertanya tentang lututnya. Morten mengira tak ada yang memperhatikan cara ia menuruni tangga ruang bawah tanah, selangkah demi selangkah, dengan satu tangan di dinding. Seandainya salah satu dari mereka bertanya padanya waktu ia empat puluh tahun, pikirnya, mungkin ia akan menjawab jujur, dan seluruh percakapan ini mungkin sudah terjadi sepuluh tahun lalu dengan nada yang lebih ramah.

"And I voted keep," Bruno said, to the walnuts, "because I can't stand being the one who left and then let it go."

"Dan aku memilih pertahankan," kata Bruno, kepada kenari-kenari itu, "karena aku tak tahan menjadi orang yang pergi lalu membiarkannya lepas."

Turning his own scrap of paper over in his hands, Morten understood that it was not the vineyard he had been defending all those years but the right to have been asked. Now, at last, he was being asked, and the question was heavier than he had imagined. The pencil lay beside the dish. Outside, the last leaves on the old vines had gone the colour of rust, and the rows ran down the slope in the failing light as they had every autumn of his life.

Sambil membolak-balik kertasnya sendiri di tangan, Morten mengerti bahwa selama bertahun-tahun itu bukan kebun anggur yang ia bela, melainkan hak untuk ditanyai. Kini, akhirnya, ia ditanyai, dan pertanyaan itu lebih berat daripada yang ia bayangkan. Pensilnya tergeletak di samping piring. Di luar, daun-daun terakhir pada pohon anggur tua telah berubah warna menjadi karat, dan barisan-barisan tanaman itu menuruni lereng dalam cahaya yang memudar seperti setiap musim gugur sepanjang hidupnya.

He wrote something short and folded the paper twice. Then he stood, took the cellar key from the nail beside the door, and held it up.

Ia menulis sesuatu yang singkat dan melipat kertasnya dua kali. Lalu ia berdiri, mengambil kunci ruang bawah tanah dari paku di samping pintu, dan mengangkatnya.

"Before I read this," he said, "come and see what's in the barrels. Both of you."

"Sebelum kubaca ini," katanya, "ayo lihat apa isi tong-tong itu. Kalian berdua."

"That isn't how a vote works," Colette said.

"Pemungutan suara tidak begitu caranya," kata Colette.

"It's how this one does."

"Begitulah caranya yang satu ini."

He opened the door, and the cold breath of the cellar rose to meet him, smelling of stone and sweet fermenting must. Halfway down the steps, with one hand on the wall, he heard two chairs scrape back behind him.

Ia membuka pintu, dan embusan dingin ruang bawah tanah naik menyambutnya, berbau batu dan sari anggur yang sedang berfermentasi, manis. Di tengah tangga, dengan satu tangan di dinding, ia mendengar dua kursi bergeser ke belakang di belakangnya.