The Vineyards of Champagne

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Are they still together?”

  She shook her head. “It is very sad. His love was killed in the Algerian war.”

  “But the priest stayed here, in Cochet?”

  She nodded. “The garage belonged to his love’s family. I don’t think he makes much money, but the shop is part of his house. And even though he’s very old, Monsieur Bonnet is still good with cars. He served in the military as well.”

  Blondine then switched subjects and told Rosalyn she had come to Dominique’s store this morning because she had forgotten the vanilla for the crème anglaise, which her mother had promised to teach her to make tonight. Her parents had separated when she was a teen, she said, though they were not divorced. She had two brothers and one half sister, but none of them showed any aptitude for wine. Blondine sold wine for her father’s vineyard, but what she really wanted to do was to become an independent agent and, above all, to visit the wine-producing regions of the United States.

  “But to get a work visa? Impossible . . .” She trailed off with a shake of her head. “It is impossible. The United States is worse than France, and we’re terrible. Tell me, what are the men like where you are from?”

  Rosalyn’s first thought, as always, was of Dash, but that wasn’t fair. Dash was one of a kind. More typical were the boys she had known in college, often sweet but unfocused and unsophisticated, or the surfer dudes, who acted as if there was sand between their ears as well as between their toes. The Silicon Valley sorts were young and ambitious, and though often bright and hardworking, many were socially immature, as though their parents had never taught them how to do their own laundry.

  And yet to a Frenchwoman raised in a small town by a farmer, perhaps hipsters who couldn’t cook but were willing, if not eager, to spend hundreds of dollars on fancy cocktails and meals in farm-to-table restaurants would seem glamorous.

  “Why don’t you come to Napa and see for yourself?” Rosalyn said, having given up on describing American men.

  “Really? I would love that!” Blondine said, then added, deflated, “But I don’t know if my father would allow it.”

  Rosalyn opened her mouth to ask why a grown woman needed her father’s permission, but refrained.

  Blondine gave her a sidelong glance. “I know. It sounds strange, does it not? My father is very demanding. Anyway, here we are, chez vous. How do you like the gîte?”

  “It’s lovely,” said Rosalyn.

  “But you ran out of toilet paper,” Blondine said, peeking into Rosalyn’s bag of groceries, as if taking notes. “I must stock more. We haven’t rented the room out yet, so you are the first. Please, tell us if you need anything different. I have heard that Americans are very particular about their bathrooms. We made the shower after an American design.”

  “It’s really quite nice,” Rosalyn assured her, wondering if she had somehow been too free with the toilet paper.

  “But you Americans always say that, and then you don’t return or you leave a terrible review on the Internet. I have been warned this is how you are. Why are you afraid to tell us to our face? I’m not sure I like this.”

  Again, Rosalyn felt odd speaking on behalf of all Americans. There are more than three hundred million of us, she felt like saying. We’re a diverse lot. But perhaps Blondine was right about the strange politeness face-to-face, with an Internet bomb lobbed afterward. It wasn’t the sort of thing Rosalyn would do, but she could imagine others might.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes, I asked you already.”

  “Okay . . . I could use more towels, and a hair dryer would be great. Maybe a hot pot and tea or coffee service so a guest doesn’t have to go to the kitchen just for a hot drink? And the lights aren’t very convenient—you have to switch them off at the door rather than from the bed. Also, I can’t figure out how to make the shutters go up and down very well.” Rosalyn was glad she had looked up the word for “shutters,” thinking to ask Pietro how to operate them: les volets. “In fact, some curtains would be nice.”

  “This is a lot.” Blondine frowned. “I thought you said everything was fine.”

  Rosalyn let out a startled chuckle. “And I meant it—but you asked me to tell you everything that wasn’t perfect, so I did.”

  Blondine shrugged. “Show me.”

  They went into the gîte. Rosalyn cringed when she realized she had left the bed a tangled mess of sheets; there was a damp towel hanging on the back of a chair and yesterday’s clothes were in a pile on the floor.

  Blondine didn’t say a word, crossing to the shutters and showing her how to work the controls. “You don’t have shutters like these in America?”

  “Not really. Some businesses have them, but not homes. Is it . . . Is theft a big problem here?”

  “No. Why?”

  “They look like high-security shutters.”

  “Huh.” Blondine brought the shutters all the way down so that it was completely dark inside. “This way you can sleep. You see?”

  “But it’s so disorienting not to know what time it is because it’s always dark. Especially when you have jet lag. If you added some curtains, a visitor could choose how much light they wanted. It’s just a suggestion. But since you asked: Americans like choices, especially when they’re on vacation.”

  Blondine nodded, and seemed to make a mental note. “What else?”

  “Maybe some art on the walls? Something to remind guests that they’re in France.”

  “I keep meaning to get to that. Oh, these are nice,” Blondine said, moving over to the table, where a few of Rosalyn’s drawings were propped up against the wall.

  “Those are just sketches. . . .”

  “Of the grapevines, yes? We should put up art that shows grapes and things, I think. If I leave it to my father, he’ll put up photographs of muddy tractors.”

  Rosalyn smiled. “I think you’re right. The average tourist would prefer looking at grapevines rather than tractors. But it should be something colorful, not black-and-white like these pencil drawings. Maybe some champagne glasses, bottles, that sort of thing? You could keep with the theme. Have fun with it.”

  “Do you want to paint the walls with things like that while you’re here?”

  “Oh, I don’t . . . I don’t know.”

  “These are good suggestions. Thank you,” Blondine said, apparently done with the conversation. “Your decoration is broken,” she said, gesturing to the broken ornament. “I’ll get you a new one.”

  “Oh no, thank you. I picked it up like that. I like it that way.”

  Blondine raised one eyebrow, made that little tsking sound again. “This evening, you must come with me and my mother to dinner at my aunt’s house.”

  “Oh, that is so kind of you, really, but . . .” As much as she had looked forward to the opening of Dominique’s market, socializing with strangers—and stumbling along in French—had tired her out. She couldn’t imagine sitting through a French family dinner, most likely falling asleep over her escargots. All she wanted at the moment was to hide away for a bit, maybe watch something on her computer, get a little work done, and not have to talk to anyone.

  Maybe she truly was becoming a hermit.

  “You do not want to come?” Blondine demanded in English.

  “Thank you, but I have some work to do, and I bought some things for dinner. . . .”

  “You will eat alone?” Blondine cast a doubtful eye at the potato chips that were peeking out of the orange tote bag Rosalyn had placed on the table.

  Self-conscious, Rosalyn stood up straighter and tried to pull in her stomach.

  “Truly, Blondine, I am so appreciative of your generous hospitality, but I am very tired. Also, the office in California is still open, and because of the time difference, I need to spend the evening making phone calls and answering e-mails for work.”

&nbs
p; Blondine pursed her lips, and then nodded, reverting to French as she led the way back out into the courtyard.

  “All right, but at least let me make you something to eat now. It is early—have you eaten yet? I know you Americans are accustomed to big breakfasts.”

  “Oh no, there’s no need.”

  “Please, you will be doing me a favor. My father will kill me if I don’t take care of you.”

  They both looked up as the sound of crunching gravel signaled the arrival of a car in the drive. It was a large, shiny black vehicle with tinted windows. As it pulled up, one of the windows rolled down with a smooth hum, and a head popped out.

  Emma Kinsley.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lucie

  Every day the explosions—and the path of destruction—come nearer. I suppose it is human nature to become accustomed, and some even lay bets on which neighborhood has been hit as we listen to the racket.

  A curfew was imposed, from six in the morning to six at night. Six in the morning was usually when the shelling began, since the people walked out into the streets to try to work or find food or simply interact with other humans. But it was the nights that were unbearable. After six in the afternoon, it was dark, as we had no gas or electricity, and our pipes shattered from the cold. There was no firewood, and all the trains that used to bring supplies are now used to transport troops and munitions. We could not light candles or oil lamps after dark, for fear the lights would attract a sniper’s attention, and we blacked out windows so the enemy couldn’t determine which areas of the city were still inhabited. We were so cold and damp that many dropped from illness.

  Still and all, there were few complaints. If anyone laments the situation, someone always says, “Just imagine the poor poilus in the trenches!”

  We passed a few miserable weeks in our borrowed home. One day I was standing in line for bread, hoping the wretched Boches would hold off on the shelling for another twenty minutes at least, when a boy who used to garden for us told me people were seeking refuge in the caves under the House of Pommery. He said some shops were moving underground as well, and many accepted barter instead of proper francs.

  Father had taught me that long before housing bottles of champagne, the crayères had been a sanctuary for Christians hiding from the Romans; it made a certain kind of sense that now they offered a haven to the Rémois escaping the bombardment.

  The prospect of finding refuge belowground, where one could ignite a lamp without fear and the temperature never fell below that of a chilly evening, was like turning on a light within me. Warmth flowed through my veins, reaching even to my fingers, which were numb with cold as I ran through the streets, staying close to the walls so as not to present an easy target, the precious baguette tucked under my arm.

  My mother at first was appalled by the idea of sheltering underground “like vermin.” But as she was saying this, the ground shook, and Henri rushed in, barely escaping a renewed round of shelling that took down a neighboring house. We gathered the few things we had managed to save when we fled Villa Traverne—my mother’s knitting needles, some photos, a few books—and presented ourselves at the top of the steps leading down to the Pommery caves.

  The Pommery champagne house had been a fine, proud mansion built in the style of an Elizabethan manor. But now most of the buildings had been damaged by the shelling; some were now nothing but smoking piles of rubble. Many employees already had been killed.

  As I descended those hundred sixteen steps into the Pommery cellars for the first time, the chill entered my bones. But it was the sour smell that most impressed itself upon me. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of women and children, a few elderly or infirm men, were crowded into the tunnels. They had the blank, staring-into-space visages I had come to know from those who had experienced the bombs, had seen bloody limbs left in the street, had witnessed the wholesale destruction of Reims. They shared the otherworldly sensation that the world was no longer what we knew.

  The air was stale and smoky from oil lamps and candles, vinegary from too many unwashed people and too little fresh air. One old blind woman had brought her bird in a cage, and it sang, still; there were a few potted plants and some colorful bits of bric-a-brac salvaged from the ruins. But those were the only bits of cheer.

  The malaise, the dispiritedness, hit me like the concussion of a bomb: ours was a last-ditch effort to survive. To live.

  It was a shadowy, surreal hell. But it was a refuge from the shells and sniper fire.

  As we advanced deeper into the caves, my mother whispered: The world has turned upside down.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emma! What are you doing here?” Rosalyn went over to the car to greet her friend.

  “You mentioned Gaspard Blé, and I realized it had been ages since I stopped by. Also, because of this busted leg of mine, I need a place to stay without stairs and with an accessible shower. I thought his new gîte might be just the thing.”

  “But you said there was nothing to do in Cochet.”

  “There really isn’t! But I have a car and a driver after all. This is the estimable André, by the way. My irreplaceable assistant. Heaven only knows where I’d be without him.”

  A tall, attractive man climbed out of the driver’s seat. He looked like a model, with jet-black hair dyed platinum blond at the tips.

  “Bonjour, mesdames,” he said to Rosalyn and Blondine with a nod, and opened the car door to help Emma out. She hopped on one foot, and André steadied her with one hand while passing her a pair of crutches.

  “Blondine! My love! How are you!” effused Emma.

  Blondine did not look pleased to see Emma. “What do you do here?” she demanded in English.

  “Just stopped by to say hello, and thought I’d stay a spell. Rosalyn and I met on the plane, if you can believe that luck.”

  “My father is in Spain.”

  “Oh good! Even better. I already called and talked with Pietro, and he told me I could have the Pinot Meunier room, gave me the codes for the doors and everything. André will stay upstairs in Pinot Noir.”

  Blondine muttered under her breath.

  “Don’t let her fool you.” Emma caught Rosalyn’s eye. “She adores me. This is just the way the French are. They show their love with gruffness. They try to be an aloof culture, but they don’t quite pull it off. Am I right, Blondine?”

  Blondine shot her a look, then turned back to Rosalyn. “Come. I will make you an omelet.”

  “Honestly, please don’t trouble yourself,” said Rosalyn.

  “Nonsense.” Blondine punched the code on the keypad next to the door leading to the kitchen/tasting room, and went inside. Rosalyn held the door for Emma, who instructed André to stow their luggage in their rooms and then go relax.

  “Isn’t your man hungry, too?” asked Blondine.

  “André isn’t ‘my man,’ sad to say. And he does his own thing—he’ll be fine,” said Emma.

  “As opposed to you,” said Blondine, leading the way into the kitchen. She turned to Rosalyn. “Anywhere there’s food, this one will show up. We can’t get rid of her.”

  Unsure whether she understood the French, Rosalyn asked: “You’re trying to get rid of Emma?”

  “Of course. She comes and eats our food and drinks our wine and doesn’t think about it.”

  Emma grinned as she leaned her crutches up against the counter and hoisted herself up onto a stool. “I’m going to put this place on the map. Just wait and see. Hey, please make this old woman’s heart happy and tell me you have a chilled bottle of bubbly in that little frigo of yours.” She gestured to the small refrigerator.

  “You are going to put Champagne on the map?” Blondine demanded. Though she sounded annoyed, Blondine did as Emma wished, taking a bottle from the fridge and setting it on the counter. “We are already world famous for our sparkling wine.”

&n
bsp; “That’s true of champagne in general, but decidedly not true of Blé Champagne in particular.” Emma turned to Rosalyn. “You should see their pamphlets, and the website. Someone’s English is not up to snuff.”

  “I would be happy to look over things while I’m here,” Rosalyn offered, taking a stool beside Emma. “If I can do anything to help . . .”

  “I speak very well the English,” insisted Blondine. “I study this for many years.” She reverted to French with a sullen shrug. “But it is difficult to understand the differences between English spoken in England, in Australia, and in America. Also, there are other countries where they speak your language, too. It is very complicated. Good thing champagne is a universal language, eh?”

  “Indeed it is. To champagne,” Emma said, easing the cork out of the bottle with a soft sigh, and pouring the pale golden liquid into a flute. “Just a bit to start the day. Would you like some?”

  “Isn’t it a little early for champagne?” Rosalyn said, glancing at the clock.

  “See what I mean about the puritanical outlook of Americans?” said Emma.

  “It’s not that. It’s just . . .” Rosalyn looked toward Blondine. “Is it customary to drink champagne with breakfast?”

  Blondine rose one eyebrow. “Only for the old folks, like my father and Emma.”

  “I am impervious to insults, dear girl,” Emma said. “When the great Noël Coward was asked why he drank champagne for breakfast, he answered: ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ And he was a freaking genius.”

  The room filled with the aroma of fresh baked goods as Blondine took several plump croissants out of a bag and placed them on a large platter. Their flaky layers glistened with butter. Despite her earlier protestations that she wasn’t hungry, Rosalyn’s mouth watered.