It amazed Rosalyn that she still had friends at all. Those few patient souls who waited for her to come back, to return to her old self. She wondered how long they would wait, and suspected they should not make the effort. Rosalyn was beginning to doubt it would ever happen; her old self had died, had disappeared just as surely as Dash.
One foot in front of the other.
Literally, in this case. Feeling overstuffed and unwieldy in the unaccustomed layers, she left the building and stepped carefully, fearful of slipping on patches of ice. If I fall, I might start rolling and never stop, she thought wryly. I’ll become the subject of a limerick: There was a young woman from Napa . . .
Her snow boots crunched as they set down on the cold, hard earth. Otherwise, the silence was broken only by the occasional barking of a dog or the distant rumble of a car engine. Fog transformed the landscape into countless gradations of gray. Her breath came out in clouds, joining the mist.
The village was still silent, still shuttered. A few homes glowed gold from within, but there wasn’t a soul on the street. Pity there was no boulangerie in town. Didn’t bakers start work at four in the morning?
In the center of the village was a tiny plaza dominated by a stone monument inscribed, “Mort pour la France,” and dedicated to villagers who had died in the two world wars as well as in the Algerian war. Rosalyn took a moment to read through the long list of names, most young men, most in their late teens and early twenties. A statue of an eternally serene and vigilant Mary, her palms facing out, watched over the plaque. Overhead, a holiday garland sagged, defeated by the rain, and one shiny red Christmas ornament lay cracked on the cobblestones.
Pinpricks of sleet stung her cheeks. She shrank into her coat, breathing through her scarf, reveling in the warmth of her own breath. The ground was spotted with patches of snow—not the pretty white powder of greeting cards, but dirty, hard, and crusted over. The weather felt strangely fitting, reflecting as it did her bleak interior world. The typically sunny, mild climate of Napa, topped by cartoonishly blue skies and puffy white clouds, often felt like a cruel jab, mocking her pain.
A hand-lettered sign in the window of the town’s lone grocery store stated that the shop was closed for the holidays and would reopen on January 2.
The tour of the village didn’t take long. Emma hadn’t been kidding when she said there wasn’t much to Cochet. Aside from the main square with its monument, there was an old stone church, the store, an auto repair shop in the garage of an ancient-looking house, and an elementary school. Otherwise it was simply a clutch of small homes, surrounded by fields of grapevines.
On the outskirts of the village there were no streetlights, and though the sky was lightening, it was still dark out. Rosalyn had always liked long winter nights, even when Dash was alive. She reveled in the mystery and possibilities of the dark.
At the moment, though, she wondered whether she was foolish to walk along the highway in the predawn duskiness. There was no shoulder to speak of, much less a proper sidewalk, just the pavement with deep ditches on either side. The fog sank into an otherworldly mist, hanging low to the ground. Maybe it was the jet lag, but Rosalyn started to feel entirely isolated from the world: not a soul knew where she was or what she was doing. She could disappear into the fog, let it swallow her whole, obliterate her physical presence just as the life she had dreamed of had been erased.
The sound of an approaching engine awoke her from her trance.
Startled, Rosalyn escaped the road by leaping across the ditch, landing on a narrow footpath that ran along the rows of staked grapevines. Only then did she realize the sound was coming not from the highway but from within the vineyard. A very old truck slowly made its way down a rutted, muddy lane that ran along the vines, its headlights illuminating the area just in front of it. It came to a halt with a rattle of the engine and the squeak of old brakes.
A tall man climbed out of the cab, leaving the truck’s headlights shining. He wore a wool knit cap, fingerless gloves, and a heavy parka over jeans. His big rubber boots sank into the mud. Unheeding, he strode into the vines and crouched down, as though inspecting the plants.
One side of the man was lit by the harsh light of the headlights, the other by the mellow glow of the sun, which was just beginning to rise. Clouds of mist eddied and flowed in the glow of the headlights, hovering above the earth like a swirling ephemeral blanket.
Suddenly the man stilled, then looked around, still crouching. When he spotted Rosalyn, he slowly straightened.
Belatedly, Rosalyn realized that she might be trespassing by standing to the left of the roadside ditch, on the edge of the vineyard itself. She was too far away to see the expression on the man’s face.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.
“Bonjour, madame.”
“Bonjour, monsieur,” she replied.
“Ça va? Est-ce que je vous peux aider?” He asked her if everything was all right, if she needed help. His voice was deep, resonant.
“Oui, ça va. Pardonnez-moi.” Yes, it’s fine. Excuse me, Rosalyn answered, trying to remember how to say, “I’m taking a walk.” After a moment, she blurted out: “Je suis au promenade.” I am on a promenade. That probably wasn’t the proper way to say it, but she hoped it made sense.
Rosalyn thought the man frowned, but she couldn’t be sure from this distance. She doubted he encountered many strangers strolling along the highway in the predawn hours. In Napa, some of the homeless tramped up and down the highways for days and weeks and months at a time. Was that the case here in Champagne as well? And if so, did this farmer imagine Rosalyn was a wanderer making her way along the vines? She liked that idea, somehow. Playing a part that wasn’t her, catching a glimmer of a life she didn’t lead.
Finally, Rosalyn waved an awkward good-bye, leapt back across the ditch, and hurried back toward town.
Chapter Eleven
The sun rose higher in the sky with each step. On impulse, Rosalyn stopped by the central square and picked up the cracked Christmas ornament, then pinched off a few small sprigs from an evergreen tree.
Back in her room at Blé’s place, she arranged the evergreen branches on the table and placed the ornament in the center, like a Christmassy bird’s nest.
In Napa, she had done her best to ignore the holidays, spending her nonworking hours roaming the vineyards, eating dinners of microwaved egg rolls and streaming show after depressing show from Netflix. Her mother had invited her to join her and her new husband in Palm Desert for Christmas, but Rosalyn had declined, citing the need to prepare for her trip to France. It wasn’t the holiday itself she wanted to avoid but the holiday spirit—the ever-present reminder of the joy of loved ones reunited, the pressure to pretend that she was enjoying herself, too.
It was agony, sometimes, donning that mask.
After making herself a cup of tea, she sat at the table and took out the big leather-bound journal she had brought with her. A grief counselor had urged her to get the journal, to write to Dash, to allow her thoughts and feelings to spill out onto its smooth white paper. Rosalyn abandoned the project after filling only ten pages. Writing her feelings hadn’t helped; nothing did. Still, Rosalyn had brought the journal with her to France, partly from a sense of obligation and partly from the hope, scarcely recognized, that perhaps here the feelings would be easier to access.
Instead, she brought out a regular number two pencil—it was the best she could do without any true artist implements—and scrawled a quick sketch, smudging and crosshatching and erasing until she got the effect she wanted on the paper. She drew the stark black of tree branches against the slowly brightening sky, the man crouched down inspecting his twisty vines bathed in the old truck’s headlights, the light streaming through the parallel lines of barren-looking stalks, the mist hovering low to the ground like an otherworldly presence.
Lost in her sketch, Ros
alyn was startled at the sound of a car pulling up outside.
She crossed over to the window—having finally figured out how to open the shutter, she was now unable to close it—and saw a man in his fifties climb out of a pickup truck. He was short and dark featured, his face tanned and lined from years of working outdoors.
Rosalyn lifted a hand in greeting. He reared back, as though shocked to see her. She passed through the entryway and out the main door.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” she said, already trying to formulate a few sentences in her mind. “Je m’appelle—”
“Bonjour! You must be the American? I’m so sorry. I thought you were arriving tomorrow.” He spoke French with a strong Italian accent, giving the melodious language a charming singsong quality. “I am Pietro Santini.”
“I arrived early,” said Rosalyn, searching for the words in French. “I was originally scheduled to spend some time in Paris but changed my plans. I had the code for the door, so I made myself at home. I hope that’s all right—I should have called.”
“Not at all. It is fine. You are most welcome. I am just sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. No one is in the office over the holidays, either. Look here. I bring you some baked things from my wife.” Pietro spoke slowly, but his scarred hands gesticulated energetically. “And she sends some eggs from our chickens, and homemade pâté, and jam.”
“That is so kind. Thank you,” Rosalyn said, accepting the gifts of food. “It all looks wonderful.”
“You find everything okay in the apartment? My wife, she make the bed and clean. You are the first guest!”
“Everything is lovely. Thank you.”
“This is a nice house, not like the old places here, made of cold stone. This is new and nice, eh?”
She smiled and nodded. “It’s very nice.”
“We are very small here in Cochet, not even a boulangerie. There is one in Salpot, my wife likes the best. Others prefer the boulangerie in Foucrault. Also there is a butcher there, and also a pharmacy—people get sick on flights, eh? And with this cold . . . Does the heat work all right?”
“Yes, thank you. It’s very comfortable.”
“Please, would you like to join my wife and me for dinner tonight?”
“Oh, I . . . Thank you so much for the invitation, but I’m still suffering from jet lag. I’d rather rest for a few days.”
“What will you eat?”
“You just brought me such lovely food.”
Pietro looked troubled. “But that is not a proper dinner. . . .”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
“All right, but if you need anything else,” he continued in his singsong French, “you call me, eh? You have my number?”
Rosalyn nodded. “I do. Thank you.”
“It is a quiet time now in the village, but soon will be New Year’s, and then Epiphany, and then the festival of Saint Vincent, and all will change,” Pietro said, returning to his truck and starting the engine. “You will see. Good thing you are staying awhile. But for now I hope you enjoy the peace. Maybe you relax a bit, eh?”
“Yes, thank you. I think I’ll do exactly that.”
After nabbing a fresh-smelling poppy seed muffin from the basket and stowing the rest of the food in the kitchen next door, Rosalyn returned to her room, and finally located Emma’s business card. She sent her an e-mail:
Dear Emma,
It was a pleasure meeting you on the plane. I hope you’re doing well, and that the jet lag has waned. I am writing you because somehow I ended up with one of your historic letters. My apologies; I am not sure how that happened. I will be happy to return it to you if you will send me an address. I translated it—it was a good workout for my French! I’m attaching a copy of the translation to this e-mail, in case you’re interested.
Sincerely,
Rosalyn Acosta
She then sent a few e-mails to producers she was hoping to meet with in Champagne, and once more checked in with Hugh. Business concluded, she turned back to her drawing, trying a few more versions based on her vivid memory of the predawn scene, before going into the kitchen to fix herself two of the farm-fresh eggs Pietro had brought.
The day was cold but sunny and clear. At a loss for what to do next, Rosalyn climbed into her rental car and went for a drive, familiarizing herself with the region. She passed through several sleepy villages with boulangeries and butchers, pharmacies and greengrocers, all closed for the holidays.
Memorials for those mort pour la France studded the landscape: she noticed them in plazas, in forest copses, in cemeteries, out in the middle of nowhere. Clearly, the Champenois lived side by side with their dead. Rosalyn stopped alongside several roadside markers to read about battles that had taken place there, running her fingers over the lists of names of les morts. The dead ranged in age from seventeen to fifty-four, but most were around twenty.
Where had Rosalyn been at twenty? At college in Sonoma, majoring in marketing and design. Going to parties, dating a little, discovering a life outside of her Central Valley hometown of Fresno. By the time she was twenty-two and a senior, she had landed an internship with Dash’s company; they eventually got married, and that was that.
Imagine being so young and watching your friends and fellow soldiers dying at your side, felled by bullets and disease. Looking out across the frozen but picturesque landscape, Rosalyn tried to envision these fields crisscrossed with barbed wire and trenches dug deep into the sticky mud.
She felt an intense urge to read more of Émile’s letters. To know what it was like.
Back at the gîte, Rosalyn had nothing but time on her hands. When the sun went down, she poured herself a glass of Bordeaux and scoured the Internet for information about the Champagne region during the First World War. She studied photographs of soldiers in the trenches, searching their young faces. The old film showed everything in shades of sepia and gray, though of course in reality there must have been the light blue of the soldiers’ uniforms, the browns and greens of the mud and surviving vegetation, the pale chalk of the open ground.
The deep red of blood.
When Rosalyn researched the caves, or crayères, under the champagne houses of Reims, she found mostly tour information. There were a few references to the Rémois—the townsfolk from Reims—moving underground during the war, bringing their schools and businesses with them, as Hugh had mentioned. But the information was limited and she couldn’t find any photographs.
Finally, Rosalyn looked up Anastasia’s scissors and found a number of ugly caricatures of a bespectacled old woman wielding an enormous pair of shears. According to one article, twenty members of each army corps were assigned to open and inspect letters, and any statements deemed “subversive,” or that revealed army locations or future plans, were caviardés—blacked out by pen or cut out altogether. The censors lived under the threat of losing their relatively cushy desk jobs and being sent to the front if they allowed anything to slip past, so while some edited with a light hand, others were downright draconian.
In one song written by a patriotic soldier, a mother tried to talk her son out of going to fight on the front. He replied:
I can only live as a poilu.
If I die here I die without glory.
My country first!—My dear child!—
You are only mamma. My mother is France!
Despite the patriotic fervor of the song, it was suppressed by the censors for expressing an “unbearable appreciation of a mother’s feelings.”
An unbearable appreciation of feelings. Rosalyn deliberated on the phrase, rolling it over in her mind. What a sentiment. It was accurate, though; if people knew what it felt like to lose a beloved one, if they truly understood the agony, the unfathomable waste of a life cut short, they wouldn’t be able to support the war.
It would be, quite simply, unbearable.
; * * *
Two days after writing her, Rosalyn logged on to her e-mail and found that Emma had replied:
My favorite AirFrance seatmate! How wonderful to hear from you! I’ve been offline for a few days, but I won’t bore you with that story—especially when I have so many others!
Please don’t worry about sending the letter by mail. Too easy for it to get lost, and it’s irreplaceable. I’ll come pick it up, or I’ll send my aide-de-camp, André. Expect us when you see us!
And since we’re on the topic . . . You’re staying at Gaspard Blé’s gîte, right? It’s on the ground floor, right? No stairs? Are all the rooms occupied? Is Gaspard still out of town? So many questions, so little time . . .
Rosalyn smiled at Emma’s straightforward enthusiasm, and answered: As far as I can tell, no one else is staying here, so either the room next door is unoccupied or whoever is there is creepily quiet. Ground floor, no stairs. Yes, Gaspard is still out of town. A very nice man named Pietro Santini is watching over the place, and brought me food so I wouldn’t starve. You were right, of course; there’s not much in Cochet, and what little is there is closed for the holidays.
Rosalyn paused, surprised at how much she was enjoying the exchange with Emma, the odd closeness she felt with a near stranger. Maybe it was as Emma said: They really were on the same wavelength.
She continued: In fact, nothing’s open in the surrounding towns, either, which makes me wonder where the locals shop. Or do they spend the holidays churning butter at home? Probably they plan ahead, unlike some of us. The whole area is shuttered and quiet. It’s been very restful. I like it.
Her fingers hovered over the keys for a moment. Finally, she typed, I’ve been putting one foot in front of the other, and hit SEND.
The Vineyards of Champagne Page 7
