The Hidden Art

That time, when I arrived at Loureiro’s workshop ,  the shoemaker who loved philosophy books and red wine ,  I found him on the sidewalk, getting ready to leave. Upon seeing me, he leaned his bike back against the post and greeted me with a bright smile. As usual, he was impeccably elegant. His thick white hair was combed back, framed by a light blue linen dress shirt, neatly tucked into a pair of fine black tailored trousers. His shoes were of his own making. He gave me a tight hug, a sincere show of joy at that unexpected meeting. I never warned him when I was coming to visit. But I usually arrived at dawn. The flight delay had made me miss the first train of the day. He was heading to lunch. He asked if I’d like to join him. I accepted the invitation immediately, and we went to a cozy bistro just a few blocks away, in front of the city park. We sat near the window to enjoy the leaves and the thousand-coloured flowers of spring. While we waited for the food, we ordered a bottle of wine. There was a label that had become a tradition in our lunches, but that day it was out of stock. The friendly waiter recommended another, from a small local vineyard that had recently won an international award. This had surprised everyone, since it had never produced high-quality wines before. Since the restaurant owner had bought a few cases before the award ,  at a lower price ,  he was able to resell it at an affordable rate. We liked the suggestion. When the bottle arrived, Loureiro noticed it came from the vineyard owned by Charles, his youngest brother. “And misunderstood by the family,” added the shoemaker once the waiter had left. The wine was spectacular.

During lunch, he told me that this brother had always been treated by almost everyone in the family as if he were an outcast. Nefelibata ,  meaning one who lives in the clouds ,  was how those closest to Charles referred to him, and how he named the wine he produced. Despite all the hardships, he had never lost his sense of humour. The nickname had come from the fact that, since youth, he had devoted himself entirely to his vineyard, located in a region of the Pyrenees that experts considered unsuitable for grapes. His wines had always been mediocre. He faced many serious financial difficulties. When his children came of age to enter university, they left. His wife followed shortly after. The rest of the family distanced themselves almost entirely. Resigned, Charles never argued with them or felt entitled to any resentment. Accepting that each person has the full right to live their life as they see fit is an act of the highest respect ,  both to oneself and to others. Still, everyone felt entitled to comment on Charles’s life, something common when someone struggles to find professional or financial stability, as if that were an unmistakable sign of incompetence. “Success isn’t always about fame or fortune,” Loureiro emphasized, and added, “Contrary to what many believe, success is about inner achievements, like dignity, peace, happiness, love, and freedom”.

The criticism of Charles’s lifestyle worsened when, at the peak of his financial struggles, he turned down a generous offer from a famous hotel chain that wanted to buy his land and build a luxury resort, due to the region’s breathtaking natural beauty. Since the deal didn’t go through, the hotel was built elsewhere. Many said he had wasted the greatest opportunity of his life. No doubt, a nefelibata, they mocked ,  especially because, due to the altitude, the vineyard often sat literally among the clouds.

Near the end of lunch ,  and the bottle of wonderful wine ,  we were surprised by Charles walking into the restaurant. The shoemaker lit up upon seeing his brother. After a few hugs, he joined us. When he noticed the wine we were drinking, he smiled with satisfaction. Then he said he had been at Loureiro’s workshop just minutes earlier. Since it was closed, he had taken a chance on finding him at the bistro, he explained, pleased. After the inevitable and honest compliments about the award-winning wine, Charles held his brother’s hand affectionately, turned to me and said, “He was the only one who never denied me support for more than three decades. In the hardest times, even if he was physically far, I felt him by my side”. He turned to the shoemaker and added with gratitude, “He not only lent me money, even when he had little himself, but also offered words of hope and encouragement through this long, difficult, yet beautiful journey. Once, when all the signs seemed to indicate I had made the wrong choice, he told me: never be committed to either error or fear. If at some point I realized I was wrong, I should change course. But as long as I believed there was meaning in the dream, I should fear nothing. It was up to me to face the difficulties and stay the course. Some dreams take time to ripen; others are just illusions. The difference is the connection they have to our soul. Inside me pulsed the certainty that kept me from giving up”. He wiped away a rogue tear and said, “I missed everyone deeply, but there was never time or space for holding grudges. I preferred to cultivate grapes. I understand why others walked away. The dream was mine, not theirs. Each one went in search of their own dream. No one was at fault. Not me, not them”.

I asked how he felt when he received the tempting offer to sell the land. Charles smiled and explained, “I spent nights without sleep. I was haunted by numbers and projections. I remember going to Loureiro’s workshop to talk. He asked me just one question: how do you believe your life would be if you gave up the vineyard?” He took a sip of wine and concluded, “The right question has the power to lead us to the ultimate answer. I never doubted that choice again. I turned down the offer and carried on. That was over a decade ago. Then, about two years ago, I developed a hybrid vine that adapted perfectly to the cold and soil of the Pyrenees,” making clear that the award was no accident or stroke of luck. It was the result of much study and hard work. Despite the countless and immense difficulties, the dream had become real. I remarked that people’s opinions would surely change now that he’d won the prize. Charles corrected me: “If others’ opinions had more weight than my own truth, I’d be the person they shaped ,  never who I truly am”. I agreed with him. I wondered whether the recent events could help rebuild broken relationships. “Not anymore,” said the winemaker, in a tone somewhere between mystery and farewell. He squeezed his brother’s hand, whose face couldn’t hide the deep emotion of the moment, and said, “Your support was essential for overcoming the hardest times ,  and there were many. You made a difference in my life”. He said nothing more ,  nor did he need to.

I usually visit the shoemaker whenever I head up the mountain toward the monastery, each year for another period of study ,  except when there are special events or meetings in the Order. That time, I returned just three months after that lunch. It was when I learned that Charles had departed for the Highlands a few weeks after our encounter at the bistro. Without telling anyone, he had received a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. He chose to face it alone. He refused the uncomfortable treatment, since a cure was out of the question. He withdrew to his vineyard to prepare for the great transition. According to the workers who stayed with him until the last of the endless days, he departed in peace. I learned of this while Loureiro set two steaming mugs of coffee on the wooden counter. The shoemaker added, “When we met him that day, he had come into town to register his will. True to his nature, he said nothing to anyone”. He paused before revealing the surprising news: “Charles left the vineyard to me”.

Right away, I wanted to know how he would manage the vineyard, which had reached astronomical value after the award, alongside the small shoe shop where he gave way to his gift. That’s when he told me about his children’s dissatisfaction, as well as a few other siblings, with Charles’ decision regarding his own estate. They had filed a lawsuit challenging the validity of the will. They argued that since he was ill at the time, he wasn’t mentally fit to make decisions about his assets. The hearing would be that afternoon. It would be the first of many, I thought. I couldn’t help but remember how, before the award, they mocked the vineyard; none of them wanted to help make it productive. They didn’t even believe it was possible. Charles had been abandoned by the same people who now coveted his legacy. I told him I had witnessed the last conversation between the winemaker and the shoemaker. Although I couldn’t deny the evident tone of farewell in Charles’ words, there was no sign of mental incapacity in his reasoning, his articulation of ideas, or any hint of emotional imbalance. I offered to testify. Loureiro smiled in thanks and said, “It won’t be necessary”.

I insisted on accompanying him to the hearing, even if only for moral support. That afternoon we went to the courthouse of the small and charming town. When we arrived, those who contested the legitimacy of the will were already waiting for us. Without any trace of resentment, Loureiro greeted everyone with kindness. The feeling was not mutual. Without delay, we were called into the judge’s chambers. First to speak was the attorney for the plaintiffs. He was an experienced and expensive professional. He clearly expressed the foundation of their claim. His tone of voice was trained to emphasize the conviction of the arguments presented, with a clear insinuation that the shoemaker had taken advantage of the winemaker’s emotional fragility to obtain the privileges outlined in the will. When he finished, the judge allowed Loureiro’s lawyer, a recently graduated young woman, to present the counterarguments. At that moment, the shoemaker asked to speak, which the judge allowed with a nod of the head. Without going on too long or raising his voice, the craftsman said he didn’t want to witness the attempt to dismantle his brother’s mental soundness by people who had never cared about him, maintained no relationship, or even offered any care. There was no need to remind them of the disregard they had shown for Charles’ dreams and needs. Yet now they claimed the right to inherit the estate when they hadn’t proven capable of caring for the man. To insist on that fight would be to shatter a dignified person and imprison his will in a judicial sentence, whatever the outcome. As for the accusations of opportunism, everyone there had known him forever; he had no doubt they were motivated by greed, never by fairness. So, he would renounce the estate left to him by his brother in favour of those claiming they had been wronged. He wanted nothing, for he had everything. He carried with him the memories of moments lived with Charles, some pivotal, and deeply beautiful because of the love involved. He had inherited more from his youngest brother than anyone else in the family. “It’s my stories that enrich me,” Loureiro concluded.

There was an awkward and unsettling silence. The judge suggested the shoemaker reconsider his position. Though she wasn’t allowed to prejudge the case, she believed there were many procedural elements in Loureiro’s favour. The shoemaker simply reaffirmed his firm decision to renounce his brother’s will. Thus, it was decided that Charles’ vineyard would be sold and the proceeds divided among those claiming inheritance. Nothing went to the craftsman.

It was getting dark when we left the courthouse. The shoemaker suggested we go dine at the same bistro where we had last met with Charles. We walked to the restaurant without saying a word. We sat at the same table and ordered the award-winning wine. The waiter warned that the price had risen quite a bit. The craftsman said it didn’t matter, because the moment was unique. I couldn’t understand or agree with Loureiro’s stance at the hearing. It didn’t seem fair, I commented angrily. Moreover, the shoemaker’s decision seemed cowardly to me, fleeing the fight, and disrespectful for ignoring Charles’ wishes. We went silent as the waiter approached. We waited for him to open the bottle, pour the wine, and step away. Then Loureiro reflected on my arguments: “Genuine renunciation is not about fleeing a fight, but about understanding where the true battle lies. Continuing with the lawsuit, even though my chances of winning were significant, wouldn’t lead me to any kind of victory. Renunciation means giving up less to gain more. Even if most people don’t see it that way”. I said I didn’t understand it either. The shoemaker explained: “Renunciation is still an art whose potential and beauty are little known, and because of this, we call it the hidden art. Because they know so little about it, many associate it with fear of confrontation, cowardice in the face of a seemingly stronger opponent, or the waste of an excellent opportunity. In truth, renunciation occurs when we give up something the world greatly values in favour of another good, one of lesser value to the crowds, but of immeasurable richness to the soul”.

I asked what he had gained from that act. The craftsman clarified: “Renunciation is similar to forgiveness in the liberating aspect it provides. We leave behind resentment, pride, anger, and vanity to achieve the lightness of a heart purified by love. Forgiveness is love manifested on such a high level that it becomes sacred. It is love used as a healing ingredient. Forgiveness heals the wound caused by malice. Renunciation prevents the wound from forming. Renunciation comes before forgiveness, like a kind of existential prophylaxis. Like an avant-garde movement, renunciation anticipates forgiveness”. He tapped the table with his index finger to highlight an important point: “To be genuine, renunciation must carry all the elements of love and wisdom that forgiveness contains. Otherwise, it won’t be complete. If even a trace of resentment or any sense of loss remains, its liberating effects will be lost”.

I reminded him of the importance of fighting for our rights. Loureiro nodded in agreement and asked, “Money or peace, which is more important in your scale of values?” I asked whether it wouldn’t be possible to have both. The craftsman disagreed, at least at that moment: “I don’t want a life plagued by accusations, even if they’re baseless. I want to avoid wasting a single afternoon in meetings with lawyers and court hearings. I have more important and flavourful things to think, feel, and do”. I said that even so, some of those people would probably continue speaking badly of him. “I’m aware of that. I also know they’ll need to do it to justify their own actions to themselves. Mistakes cause discomfort. Twisting logic seems easier than admitting error. Running away feels more convenient than facing the truth. Hiding in the shadows reveals the discomfort caused by light. No good can come from evil without proper moral reconstruction. They’ll keep making speeches until they become embarrassed by the gap between who they are and who they wish to be. You can’t skip or throw away a lesson you’ve refused to learn”. He made a gesture, as if to remind himself of something important, and said: “I don’t control what people say or do, but I am responsible for the wars I choose to fight. Every battle exists for inner refinement. Everything else is secondary. Just symptoms of dodged responsibility and deep misunderstanding”.

I remembered the disregard for Charles’ final wish. He wanted the vineyard to go to the shoemaker. Loureiro reflected: “My brother is a spirit of rare quality. His evolution can be seen in how he conducted himself throughout his final life, without being shaken, saddened, or resentful of others’ choices. I believe Charles imagined such a situation might arise and, if I know him even a little, he was content with the solution found. To each will be given according to their deeds. In due time, everyone will understand their own actions. A bad road never leads to a good destination. They’ll grasp this when they have to retrace their steps. There is no lesson more effective, no inheritance more valuable”.

He curved his lips into a beautiful smile and added: “I lost money, but I kept my peace. I refused a war that would have stolen my freedom. For months, maybe years, I would’ve been imprisoned in a lawsuit born of degraded emotions and unhinged ideas driven by hatred and greed. I would’ve become entangled in that movement. It would’ve been an indignity I inflicted on myself, an act of lovelessness, and therefore, opposed to happiness”. He winked as if sharing a secret and said, “I gave up less, gained more”. He offered me another charming smile, typical of those who move lightly and gently through life’s challenges, and reassured me: “I have my workshop. I have myself. I lack nothing”.

Then he concluded: “Renunciation is not for the weak, who, though they never admit it, want everything because they believe themselves incapable of handling the impermanence of life. It is a tool permitted only to the strong; they know that facing life’s adversities depends more on who they are and the virtues they’ve already added to their journey than on the amount in their bank accounts. Renunciation is not a trait of cowards who flee the real battle; rather, it is for the brave who can face themselves and embrace life instead of attacking others and cursing the world. In the fight between gold and light, renunciation lights the soul”.

We remained silent for a while. I needed time to shelve those thoughts in the right corners of my consciousness. I knew I had just received powerful tools for dealing with situations yet to come, though not yet revealed. Life always prepares us for what lies ahead. We waste the opportunities by failing to pay proper attention. It was time to toast to the wonderful lesson on freedom made possible by the hidden art of renunciation. We drank two glasses of Nefelibata in gratitude for the love and wisdom left behind by Charles. In an unexpected and unconventional way, I became his heir.

Translated by Cazmilian Zórdic.