My Grape Year: (The Grape Series #1)

by Laura Bradbury

  “I’ll leave you to rest now,” he said. “Can I get you anything before I go?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “Merci.”

  After he closed the door behind him, I wandered over to the window. I peered out to the tile rooftops beyond. I heard a soft cooing and spied two pigeons perched on the roof outside.

  “Hello,” I said to them. “I mean, bonjour.” I was way more used to crows, seagulls, oystercatchers, and the occasional raven. The pigeons seemed well-behaved compared to the West Coast birds with their constant cawing and squawking.

  There I was. In my room in Burgundy. Part of me still couldn’t believe it.

  My heart ached, an ache I knew well. It had nothing to do with missing my family or my home in Canada, which would have been the most logical explanation. No, it was the same familiar feeling I’d experienced at random intervals since early adolescence.

  It was difficult and embarrassing to try to express—my heart ached for someone I hadn’t met yet.

  It made no sense, and I’d never contemplated attempting to explain it to anybody else. They would have said, surely, that it was just another manifestation of my overactive imagination. Sometimes, I tended to agree. I often tried to conjure up an image of the person I missed so acutely, but he remained elusive. Still, I couldn’t help but be aware of his absence, any more than I could help but be aware of a missing limb. Sometimes I’d wondered if we met in a previous life and were trying to find each other in this one.

  It was all so fanciful that I often tried to reason myself out of my feelings. It never worked. The need for that missing person remained, as solid and tangible as a mountain.

  My body, exhausted as it was, tingled with questions. Could he be someone that I had already met but hadn’t recognized right away? The idea that maybe he and I could miss each other entirely in this life, or worse yet, that we would cross paths but somehow not recognize each other, fanned panic in my throat. It was possible he was in France. Somewhere nearby. My heart started to beat faster at the thought.

  CHAPTER 5

  An hour later, and after some more daydreaming on my new bed and a bit of desultory unpacking, I ventured back downstairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs, there was a little den-like room with two puffy chintz couches and a TV positioned on a polished antique table opposite them. Julien was stretched out on one couch, his eyes glued to the screen.

  The house had a far more dignified feel than my Canadian home, which was a 1970s creation with drop ceilings and a surfeit of brown shag carpet. I was a bit shocked to find Julien there—my sisters and I were never allowed to watch TV during the day, especially a gloriously sunny, summer day.

  I glanced at the television briefly, then did a double take, my eyes wide. Across the screen strutted twelve or so bare-breasted and gorgeous ladies dressed in elaborate confections that consisted mainly of feathers and sequins. Was Julien watching porn? I’d heard the French were more liberal about nudity and sex, but… I began to slink away before Julien noticed me.

  Just then Madame walked in, and rather than hurriedly turning the TV to another channel, Julien pointed to the screen and said something in an admiring tone of voice to his mother.

  “Elles sont magnifiques!” Madame agreed, then turned to me and rattled off a question in French.

  “I didn’t catch that,” I said to Julien, hoping he would rescue me, but at the same time wondering how I could escape this awkward situation.

  “She wants to know if you have cabaret dancers like at the Crazy Horse and the Lido in Canada too.”

  I nodded at the screen. “Is that what those women are doing?”

  “Yes. They are a cultural institution in France, the showgirls. Look at their figures! Look how they dance! It is magic. They are magnificent.”

  “No, they don’t have that in Canada,” I said, briefly imagining a Canadian version with the women in snowshoes and toques. “Definitely not.”

  Julien translated this piece of information to his mother.

  She clicked her tongue. “Quelle dommage.”

  “What a shame,” Julien translated off-handedly. “That’s what she said.” His attention was again riveted on the TV.

  It made me feel unnerved to watch these women and their multiple pairs of bare boobs bounce across the screen with my host family, so I gratefully followed Madame into the kitchen. I could only handle so many cultural differences at once, after all.

  I had already looked up the translation for “can I help?” in my pocket dictionary before coming downstairs.

  “Puis-je aider?” I asked, feeling inordinately proud of myself.

  “Aider?” she asked. “Non, ma puce.” Puce…what did that word mean? She then rattled off another sentence that I didn’t understand. My confusion must have shown on my face, because she took my hand and led me back to Julien who was still watching the showgirls.

  She repeated what she had asked me.

  “She wants to know if you’d like to go into town with her to pick up a few things for dinner.”

  “I’d love that!” I answered then remembered to speak directly in French. “Oui.Merci!” I said.

  Five minutes later, I found myself walking briskly into the main cobblestone street of Nuits-Saint-Georges alongside Madame. We stopped several times along our route, as we kept running into people she knew, and they would all stop and kiss and exchange a few words. Everyone carried one or more baguettes underneath their arms or in baskets. I was introduced and was sometimes kissed, sometimes offered a hand to shake. I understood nothing apart from “bonjour” and “au revoir” from the chattered conversations.

  We finally made it to the boucherie, as was announced by big red letters painted on the storefront. Also, an entire pig’s head in the window was somewhat of a giveaway that it was the meat shop.

  Madame was greeted warmly by a stout man in an impressively bloodied white apron. I watched the transaction as she took her time selecting a few cuts of meat that looked like some cured sausage cut into slices and several different types of paté.

  After that we went to the cheese store, the crémerie according to its sign, and bought two gooey specimens. Next we went to the green grocer and bought a head of butter lettuce and two bunches of leeks.

  Finally, we ended up in the boulangerie, where the most delectable-looking pastries filled up the display case. Each one was a work of art. Éclairs of three different colors, delicate squares of flakey puff pastry and cream and chocolate, and intricate, miniature fruit tarts with the fruit glowing and the cream underneath flecked with black dots of vanilla.

  Madame came up beside me, preceded by the enchanting scent of what smelled like expensive perfume.

  “You like?” she asked me.

  “Oui.” I nodded. How could anyone answer anything else?

  She pointed to one particularly delectable-looking confection of alternating layers of chocolate and meringue. She said, “Something-something Sophie.” I deducted that that type of pastry was Sophie’s favorite.

  “Delicious,” I agreed, with what I hoped was sort of a French accent. It worked, because Madame Beaupre nodded and ordered four of them. The shop lady placed the quartet in a beautiful box, which she tied artfully with a piece of pink ribbon. She handed it to me.

  “Merci,” I said.

  A half hour later, after I’d set the table outside, we were sitting down to dinner on the Beaupre’s outdoor patio underneath an old wisteria. Even though it was seven o’clock, the sun still beat down, and the shade was a welcome respite from the dry heat. Biscotte lay at my feet, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. He reminded me of my childhood dog Heidi, who used to station herself under the table and eat all the bits of broccoli and salmon I didn’t want.

  Monsieur Beaupre filled my wineglass with a white so chilled that it created a film of condensation on my glass. Clearly one did not have to ask for wine in Burgundy. It just appeared.

  One of the patés we had picked up at the b
utcher sat on a white china plate. I followed Julien’s example and took a slice of the fresh baguette and spread a bit of the stuff on it. I didn’t know what the paté was made with, and wasn’t sure I really wanted to find out; but I was cautiously optimistic.

  I sunk my teeth into the paté on baguette. The bread was like a soft pillow under my teeth and the paté was like silk against my tongue. It had a salty, savory taste that was perfectly balanced and deeply satisfying.

  I let out an involuntary sound of satisfaction.

  “You like?” Julien asked me. He looked cool and collected as usual…not the type to groan at the table by accident.

  I nodded.

  He pushed forward a little ceramic bowl filled with what looked like mini gherkins. “Try it with cornichons.”

  I picked a few and took a bite of the crisp, vinegary mini pickle. Then I took another bite of the paté on baguette and a sip of the crisp, cool white wine. Why weren’t the clouds parting and an angelic chorus singing? The flavors, the textures…they were a revelation.

  “Try one of these.” Julien pushed another, slightly larger bowl filled with paper-thin slices of dried sausage towards me. I copied Monsieur Beaupre, who peeled off the powdery skin around the meat.

  “What is it?” So many things could be hidden in a sausage.

  “Sausiccon sec.”

  That didn’t help at all, but I decided to take a leap of faith and bit into one. It was salty, dry, and perfectly spiced with garlic and oregano. I took anther sip of white wine. Perfection.

  “This is so good.” That, I realized, was a vast understatement.

  “Do you want to know how to say that in French?” Julien asked.

  “It’s ‘c’est bien’, right?”

  He shook his head. “C’est bon,” he said. “Not ‘c’est bien,’ like you’ve been saying. ‘Bon’ is for food and wine other things in life that give pleasure.”

  So, would “bon” be used for, say, diving into cool water on a hot day, or a kiss? I might need to know these things, I thought hopefully. Still, I wasn’t quite comfortable enough with Julien to ask.

  “What would you call food that doesn’t taste good?” I asked instead. I thought of boiled cauliflower, diet health shakes, low-fat yoghurt, skim milk…

  Julien frowned at me. “Why would you eat anything that didn’t taste good?” he said. “The whole point of food and wine is pleasure. It has to be ‘bon,’ otherwise, what’s the point?”

  My whole worldview turned on its head. Food had been a boring necessity when I was younger, and then as my body became curvy during my teens, food became a source of guilt and shame. It was something I either resisted or binged on, but it wasn’t something I’d ever viewed as a source of unmitigated pleasure. Things either tasted good and were bad for me, or tasted bad and were good for me. The idea that food should always taste good, no matter what, and that guilt had no role to play in eating sparked a mini revolution in my mind.

  The rest of the meal was equally delicious. After the paté, cornichons, and sausccison sec came thin veal cutlets in what Julien explained was one of the simplest sauces that all French people knew how to make—a dollop of Dijon mustard with a bit of thick cream called crème fraiche, mixed directly in the pan along with the meat juices. There was fresh tagliatelle pasta and baguette to sop up the delectable sauce and a little pot of spicy Dijon mustard to eat with the meat. A beautiful green salad with homemade vinaigrette came next, followed by the gooey and smelly cheeses we had purchased in town.

  I slathered my slice of baguette with the soft cheese as the family looked on in approval. Monsieur Beaupre filled my glass with some red wine. Madame said something, but unfortunately I didn’t understand a single word.

  “That one is my mother’s favorite,” Julien translated. “It is not a well-known cheese and it is made locally. It’s called l’Ami du Chambertin. She’s surprised you like it, as it is quite strong.”

  The cheese was indeed redolent of old socks, but in a strangely appealing way that I couldn’t quite explain. I took a bite. The flavor was both pungent and mild, and the texture on the outside creamy, with a more solid, milder middle. I sipped my wine, which matched the cheese in strength and complexity.

  “C’est trés bon,” I said.

  They all nodded, pleased.

  Next came the delectable little pastries that made Madame Beaupre a bit teary as she told me she always bought one for Sophie to cheer her up. I bit into one. The crumbly layers of meringue were the perfect foil for dense, creamy layers of chocolate ganache. I thought about Sophie, who I sincerely hoped wasn’t eating at McDonald’s or Kentucky Fried Chicken for her first American meal. I sent thanks out to the Universe that I had been sent to France at the last minute. I couldn’t, at that particular moment, see why any other country in the world would have any appeal whatsoever.

  CHAPTER 6

  That night, and the several nights that followed, I had bizarre dreams where people talked French all around me and I just kept answering oui, oui, oui, oui until my mouth ached. I helped around the house, reveled in the delicious meals and wandered around Nuits-Saint-Georges. School would start in a few days, so I was for the most part content to have free time to explore.

  I always took my camera with me to capture photos of mossy, old stone walls, French cats lazing on windowsills, worn French shutters, and the lovely clock tower, which was the pride of the town that was built in 1610. I spent a lot of time standing at the base of the clock tower, peering up at its face and trying to let its age penetrate my mind. It was difficult to fathom for me, as my hometown in Canada didn’t possess any buildings that dated before 1900. I also sneakily tried to take photos of locals sitting in cafés, so picture-perfect French wearing their berets and puffing on their Gauloise cigarettes that I sometimes wondered if they were not, in fact, employed by the Tourism syndicate.

  I’d been there almost a week when, one night, Monsieur Beaupre flew in the door from work and announced he was taking us all to dinner at a favorite restaurant in a hilly area above town.

  “It’s très rustique,” he said, loosening his tie.

  I wasn’t certain what constituted “rustic” in this land of ancient and beautifully worn buildings, but I was curious to find out.

  I put on an ankle-length denim skirt and a large leather belt, as well as a cotton top that was cool in the sultry air, which was so different from the constant ocean breeze I was used to. In the warm evenings, a scent filled the air that reminded me of the delectable smell of baking bread. I wasn’t sure where it had come from, but it was a completely different smell from the air redolent of seaweed and salt water at home.

  We hopped into Monsieur’s Beaupre’s sporty little Renault and shot out of the driveway. He seemed to have only two speeds when he was behind the wheel—either Formula 1 racer or parked.

  “Slow down Robert,” Madame said. “You’re going to scare Laura.” It dawned on me several seconds later that she had spoken, like she always did, in French and that I had actually understood.

  “Non, non, c’est bon,” I said.

  “Bien,” corrected Julien. “Being in the backseat of the car when my father is driving is certainly not a pleasure.”

  “Bien,” I repeated. In fact, Monsieur Beaupre’s driving wasn’t bon or bien. I was merely being polite. I was also desperate for them to like me. Hurtling along the narrow streets without seatbelts was terrifying.

  We quickly—trés quickly—wove out of Nuits-Saint-Georges and began driving up a series of switchbacks through the vineyards.

  “Robert! Slow down!” Madame clutched his arm.

  He did not slow down. Instead, he sped up. The road, I noticed as we climbed ever higher, was narrowing. It became too tight for even two small French cars to pass each other. It must be one way, I reasoned, ignoring the panic growing behind my sternum. This must be the way up and there must be another road down.

  I looked out the window to distract myself. Vineyards whizzed b
y in their row upon perfect row of greenness. Luscious, tight bunches of grapes, so deeply purple they actually looked black from a distance, dotted the vineyard leaves. I glanced back at the road just in time to see a small, white van hurtling towards us.

  “Robert!” Madame hid her eyes.

  My whole body braced for the collision. Dead after only five days in France; and entirely my fault—I should have spoken up and demanded he slow down. Ursus had been wrong to send me to this lawless country.

  There was the grinding sound of metal against metal. I winced. We sped onwards. I grasped my thigh, mainly to make sure it was still there. I was alive!

  Monsieur peered out his window where his rear view mirror was now hanging off the side of his car by only a few exposed wires. “Merde alors,” he exclaimed, sounding more annoyed than alarmed.

  Madame subjected him to a rapid-fire diatribe that made me wish once again I understood French better. Even in my shocked state, I could tell that it sounded highly entertaining.

  Julien chuckled beside me in the back seat. “That is not the first rear view mirror my father has broken that way.”

  My hands shook from the burst of adrenaline, so I trapped them between my denim skirt and the leather of the car seat. The road had leveled off, and we seemed to be driving along gently undulating hills covered with vineyards. We passed through a little stone village clustered around its church, and I saw another village in the evening haze in the distance, nestled into a little valley between a large hill and a rise on the other side. I focused on it and took a few deep breaths to try and slow my racing heart. It was a tranquil sight. Like most Burgundian villages, it looked freshly plucked from the pages of a fairy tale.

  “What is that village?” I asked Julien, freeing a hand to point ahead of us.

  “It’s called Villers-la-Faye. We’re in an area called the Hautes-Côtes now,” he said. “In English I think that means ‘the high coast.’”