“So tell me, Harry. How are you doing with the break up and all?” David asked, smiling. “Got yourself back on track? All that stuff is always good for writing, no?”
“Break up?” Thomas asked.
“Oh, didn’t Harry tell you? He broke up with his girlfriend some months back,” David declared.
“The Italian girl from the Zurich office?” Thomas looked at me.
“Maria is her name,” I said. “And you must be misinformed as we are very much back together.”
“What?” he cried out. “How is that possible?” David sat up and straightened himself and I felt a heavy breeze come sharply and the rough familiarity of his ways.
“What do you mean how is that possible?” I asked in a stern, almost surprised, tone. “Just because you worked with her David, doesn’t mean you know anything about her.”
“I know things,” he said, quickly nodding his head. “Me and Maria share a lot.”
“Well, I guess in this situation, that’s clearly not the case is it?” I said.
I could feel his jealousy and hatred for me as he searched for something to say.
“When was all this decided?” he asked.
“With respect David, it’s really none of your business,” I said to him with a smile.
Thomas could now feel the tension and sat back with clenched teeth not knowing what really to say.
“So will she be coming back to Zurich?” David asked, still sat up rigidly.
“Yes, in some weeks, but we are now talking about moving to Paris.”
“You can’t possibly just up and leave to Paris!” he said.
“Excuse me?” I said in surprise.
“I don’t think it’s really any of our business where Harry chooses to live,” said Thomas quietly.
“Thank you, Thomas,” I said.
David drank his espresso down in one go. He took a napkin and wiped his mouth and looked around the room and then looked carefully at me. It was sordid how he was behaving now.
“Paris will be wonderful for you to write,” Thomas said in his gentle diplomatic way. “I personally think it’s a splendid idea, Harry.”
I smiled at Thomas, grateful for his support, and he smiled back under his thick white and yellow discolored moustache.
Just then, Mme Bonnet came outside on the terrace and asked if we were ready to start the tour.
“Actually, I’m not feeling so well,” David declared. “I need to lie down for an hour or two. I will join you both later.”
I completely froze and my heart took a sudden leap.
“What?” I cried, louder than I meant it to sound. “David. Please. You have to join,” I said in a hasty manner.
“Yes,” said Thomas, frowning. “We have come all this way. You must join.”
“I’m sorry. I just need a moment,” he said, throwing down his napkin. “I’ll join you on the tour later.”
“Okay, please, when you are ready, speak with Maurice and he will bring you to wherever we are,” said Mme Bonnet.
We all stood up and David hurried quickly off back inside. My guess was that he wanted to place a long-distance call to Maria and find out if there was any truth in all this.
“Please gentlemen, this way.”
It was hot and we stood there watching and wondering. I couldn’t believe he had left. Why did I have to open my mouth about Maria?
We started with a walk through the vines and the country around felt big and warm and the land was green and had fine and healthy looking vine trees and the grape berries were green and hard to the touch and in the distance, past the rolling hills of the vineyard, were big trees and small Swiss-style cottages, which bordered the lake on both sides.
As we walked she explained the different types of grapes and how and when they are harvested and it was all very interesting and I tried to concentrate, but I could not and it was almost two o’clock now and there was still no sign of David and soon we would be done here and walking toward the winery and I had to stall the tour somehow.
“Madame Bonnet,” I called out. “It’s such a lovely day, do you think we could go up to that high point and perhaps open a bottle and take a moment? I imagine the views from there are spectacular?” I suggested, pointing to a ridge high above where we stood.
“What a wonderful idea,” Thomas said instantly. “You are full of good ideas, Harry old boy.”
“Well, I hadn’t planned on it,” said the vineyard owner. “But yes, I guess it would be okay.”
“Great,” I said “I tell you what, I will run back for my camera and a chilled bottle of wine and come straight back.”
“Jolly good,” said Thomas.
I walked away, hearing Thomas in the distance start up a conversation as he always does “You know, during the war….” I was happy he was here, but sad I must put him through all this. It won’t be easy on him.
I walked back as slow as I could, figuring that I had at least bought us an extra hour. I moved through the rows of vines, my feet kicking up puffs of dust. The soil was thin and dry, marked by a network of fissures, but the vines looked healthy enough, with bunches of grapes beginning to form in pale clusters. Bending down, I picked a couple of grapes and tasted them: bitter, and filled with pits. It would be weeks before they would be juicy and swollen with sunshine, and probably years before they would become drinkable wine.
As I entered the hotel, I asked Maurice if he had seen David. He just shook his head, so I proceeded to ask for a chilled bottle and a bucket of ice.
Knowing damn well I hadn’t brought a camera with me, I went straight to David’s room and knocked on the door. No answer. I then proceeded to try the handle and it creaked open. I walked in.
“David? It’s Harry.” I called out but he wasn’t there.
Walking around the room, I looked through the contents of his open suitcase sprawled across the bed. Messy slob, I thought. The smell of cheap yet potent cologne still lingered in the air. I went into the bathroom, searching for the light and then BANG! I jumped around and the door had closed with the wind. I walked quickly toward the door and stopped when I noticed a picture of Maria on his bedside cabinet. Pausing, I shook my head in disgust.
Where the hell was he, I wondered as I rushed down the stairwell and walked into the bar and picked up the bucket and headed out through the terrace doors. I should have checked the payphone in the lobby, I thought. He was probably talking to Maria at that very moment. I was so infuriated at the idea of this, my blood started to boil. How the hell would he have her number in anyway? That son-of-a-bitch, I thought, cursing under my breath.
Thinking all this and walking back with my head down, I could feel myself starting to lose it. I could not stop thinking about that picture in his room. That son-of-a-bitch, I thought once more.
I headed down a hill and up toward the meeting point, although I wasn’t quite sure if I had taken the right path and was beginning to sweat and the dry heat of the day was heavy and I took my hat off and wafted it over my face and looked around, searching for some way to try to catch my breath. Just then an old bearded man with a long, sunburned face and clothes that looked like they were patched together from old potato sacks came over. He was carrying a long stick and he looked tired. His head was hanging down.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
“Bonjour,” he muttered back.
I tried to explain in French that I was lost and was looking for my friends, using hand gestures. He seemed to understand as he then pointed to my left and up onto the plateau.
“Ah. Okay. Merci, monsieur,” I said, realizing that I was slightly off course.
Climbing up the hill the heat with a heavy bucket of ice was painful. I stopped and took out a handful of ice and cooled down my face and neck and it was at that moment, as I approached the top when I could hear David’s voice. I asked myself if it was really him, or just my mind playing tricks and I got to the top and he was stood there next to Thomas.
Thomas appla
uded as I approached.
“You made it old sport! But look at you, you’re soaking wet. Take off that jacket and sit down.”
I walked over to David and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Feeling better?” I asked, almost out of breath.
“Much better, thanks,” he said, and smiled like he knew something I didn’t.
I took of my jacket and felt the breeze hit my wet shirt and it cooled me and I stood for a moment looking back on the château and its surrounding land with the wind to my back.
Out toward the lake there were flat green fields with cattle grazing beside nice farmhouses and low roofs and the land looked fine and rich and green and the houses and villages looked small, well off and clean.
Thomas opened the wine and poured us all a glass, including Mme Bonnet, who refused, and then explained more about the surrounding land and the wine we were drinking.
We stood there, high up on the hillside, surrounded by small, waist-high vine trees sat on a rocky lime stone floor. The valley below and the hills stretched off back toward the lake, which was glistening in the sunlight and you could almost see the boats on the water, but it was too far away and we finished the wine and crossed back down the hill and up toward the house and I told Mme Bonnet that I had bumped into an old bearded man, and she told me that he works the land here and has done for many years.
We finished the wine and walked down and out and around the house and to the entrance of the winery, and my heart beat faster and my palms were getting sweaty, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the heat or from the nerves.
We entered the tasting room and it was cool, so cool that I could feel the sweat on my forehead turning instantly cold and uncomfortable and the room was dark and the only light was from the outside door. It was small and dim, dominated by a long mahogany table. Arranged along its polished length were shining rows of glasses, silver candlesticks with lighted candles, and a trio of open, unlabeled bottles, each identified by a hieroglyphic scrawled in white chalk. Ornate copper crachoirs had been placed at either end of the table in readiness for the ceremonial spitting that would take place later on, in the course of the tasting.
“It will take a moment for your eyes to adjust, let me find the light,” said Mme Bonnet.
The lights came on with a large click and hiss and then she placed six different bottles on the counter along with a large wooden spit bowl. She then commenced to explain the wines and we started tasting them one by one, but drinking it down and never spitting it out. My body was tense and I said very little. I wished I could snap out of it. I needed to start playing the role of a happy, fun and playful writer. I readjusted myself and began.
“I’d like to say a few words, if you gentlemen don’t mind?” I said and raised my glass.
“Oh, how splendid!” Thomas said cheerfully.
“I’ll start by saying thank you to you both for taking the time to come here, it means a lot and I know you’re away from your families on a weekend. I do really appreciate that, along with all the work you do for me.”
I took a pause, reflecting on what to say.
“Thomas,” I began, raising my glass to him. “You’re a funny chap and without your keen eye for detail and your valuable, insightful feedback and suggestions, my work wouldn’t be half of what it is. I consider you a great colleague and a true friend.” He smiled and tilted his glass.
“And to you, David!”
“Go easy there, old boy,” Thomas shouted with a smile and swaying a little side to side.
“To David,” I laughed at Thomas. “For listening to Thomas! For publishing my first novel and taking a chance on an unknown and unproven writer,” I paused and felt false and swallowed hard. “Thank you for giving the books your full attention, and marketing them on their merits. I hope YOU enjoy the tour,” I felt sick.
“To colleagues and friends,” Thomas quickly jumped in, and we all touched glasses.
Before drinking David now inspected the color against the flame of a candle. He gave a slow nod of satisfaction, then lowered his head, swirled the glass, and brought it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled. ‘Quel bouquet,’ he murmured, just loud enough to be heard.
“Okay, gentlemen, if you would finish up and follow me to the next part of our tour,” she said and slid open a big green door that I had seen some weeks back and turned on the lights. I took a deep breath and looked over at David, his eyes were bloodshot from sun and wine.
As we entered, we stood listening to Mme Bonnet explaining more, and I scrambled everything out and just kept looking past the wooden barrels and out onto the green door at the end of the hallway.
David started to cough, and I looked at him with wide eyes and hesitation. Surely not now, I thought. We aren’t even close. He tapped his chest.
“Are you okay?” Thomas asked.
“Fine, just the air in here is dusty,” he said.
“Do you want to get some air?” asked Mme Bonnet.
Oh God, I thought.
“No, let’s continue,” I jumped in.
She looked at David and he gave a nod. “Very well, please follow me.”
We walked down slowly and I could now feel my heart pounding against the wall of my chest and it gave me a nauseous feeling and she slid the big green door back on its sliding wheels and we walked in. The smell was overpowering.
“Oh dear, I do say! That’s quite a stench!” Thomas yelped out and held his nose, and I was standing behind them, next to the door, watching with great intensity and patience, and Mme Bonnet started to talk about the fermentation process but I didn’t listen. I just watched and waited.
The scene dissolved in swirling yellow-grayness; the color of the walls, the four of us, all started to dissolve. I saw David smiling at me, dressed in his light corduroy suit that he had worn all day but his suit was now soaking wet, the tie a dripping string. David came over at me, “Harry, wake up! I’m all right! I’m alive!” I squirmed away from his touch. Then I heard David laugh at me, his dark, deep laugh. “Harry!” The timber of the voice was deeper, richer, than I had even been able to remember it. “Harry!” David’s voice shouted, ringing and ringing in my ears as if it came through a long tunnel.
I blinked and snapped back to reality, slowly, as if I was trying to raise myself out of deep dark water. I was sweating uncontrollably now.
I looked around the room, looking for David in the yellow light under the high lamp, in the dark corner by the tanks. I felt his own eyes stretched wide, terrified, and though I knew my fear was senseless, I kept staring everywhere for David. Now you are getting confused in the head, I thought. You must keep your head clear. Keep your head clear and know how to suffer like a man.
Thomas was now curious about the faucets on each of the tanks and asked if he could turn one and see what came out, and they both walked over to the closest tank and bent down and fiddled with it, and David started to cough and looked at me and then put his head up and raised his eyes wide and started to cough again, and then he started to sway. Surely it’s not going to be that easy, I thought, and he bent over and coughed more violently, his pale brows lifted up, and looked at me. His blue eyes were wobbling.
Go down, you bastard, I thought. Go down! He reached out his hand, with his death within him, and it slipped toward me, and I knew I needed to react, but I didn’t react and just watched. In that moment, in that look, he knew. I gave him a violent smile and then he looked down, keeled over, and hit his head on one of the tanks.
The edge had cut a deep gash above his right eye, and it filled quickly with a line of blood. I stood there and watched and Thomas pushed me out of the way as David was mumbling, coughing, glowering, and losing consciousness.
Mme Bonnet reacted quickly and pulled him out along with Thomas. His body was now relaxed and limp. Everything sounded like a muffled noise to me, like when you have water in your ear. There was a patch of blood on the floor and it smeared along a line in the direction of where he lay.
“Close the door,” Mme Bonnet shouted to me. But I didn’t react. Thomas jumped up and slid the door shut.
“What’s the matter with him?” Thomas asked, panicking, desperately grabbing at David’s shoulders.
“It’s probably the CO2 from the tanks,” she said, distraught. “We just changed them this morning.” She looked in my direction. “Why wasn’t I told this man had a breathing condition?”
I looked down at David. “Is he dead?” I asked coldly.
“No,” she said. “I can still feel a pulse, but it’s faint.”
I crouched down, watching for a sign of life. I was too afraid to touch him or his wrist to feel for myself.
“We need to get this man to a hospital,” she said.
“No!” I shouted. “He’s way too fragile to make it to the hospital. Let’s get him upstairs and onto his bed and then call for a doctor.”
“Very well,” she nodded. “Let’s get him up.”
Thomas and me carried him outside side by side, letting his feet drag on the floor to relieve some of the weight. He was heavy and his sweat and odor overwhelmed my senses.
We got him into the lift and onto his bed while Mme Bonnet ran off to call the doctor. We were both pouring with sweat, and David was losing a lot of blood now from the heavy gash in his head. I got a towel and placed it on his head, putting pressure, while Thomas felt his pulse.
“How is it?” I asked.
“It’s getting stronger, Harry,” he said, nodding with relief. “I think he is going to be okay.”
“Thomas, go into my room and into my suitcase,” I said quickly. “I have an asthmatic inhaler. Go bring me that, it will help clear his lungs of the CO2.”
“What will you do?” he asked me, clearly panicked.
“Just go, damn you!” I shouted.
I suddenly knew what I had to do. As soon as Thomas had left the room, I took one of the pillows from behind his head and looked at him one last time and without a second’s hesitation I raised myself up and bent over and put it firmly over his face, hard and tight. I pushed down and put all my weight and strength into it. Sweat was pouring over the pillow.
In Another Country, and Besides Page 22
