Grown in the oldest winery region of the Americas, it tastes of sun-baked earth and dried herbs, like the parched Comala itself. Structured, a little sombre, and rooted in the same soil.
Dusty tannins and old-leather notes suit a novel built from fading voices. Its slow, earthy finish lingers like an echo.
A son travels to his dead mother's village and finds it populated entirely by murmuring ghosts. A short, hallucinatory landmark of Latin American fiction.
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