Ripe grapes flock the vinyard, their ruby heads glazed by the sun.  Masina can scarce find a vine not decked by a cluster of the great, gemlike fruit.<br/><br/>Great they are.  Each is a swollen sphere, glassy with stretched fecundity.  They are heavy and universally round; their skins a taut blood red sown with a tracery of livid veins spreading in bright voltage from their juncture with the stem.  The resemblance to human organs is unmistakable.<br/><br/>And all around their pleasant flat scent planes the river air into a dry, earthy fragrance.