But now, in the caves, it is a different story. Many years ago, when Madame Jeanne Pommery was left a widow, she decided to extend these caves, first carved by the Romans as they excavated stone to build their cities. She transformed giant chalk pits and quarries by uniting them with graceful galleries and niches, tunnels and passages, to age her bottles of champagne.
But that wasn’t enough; she also added art.
There are sculptures engraved on the cellar walls, and bas-reliefs of Bacchus sculpted in the soft chalk. The soldiers and cellar workers sometimes carve their initials or graffiti into the walls; I enjoy trying to read the messages, though some are in English, which I don’t understand. I have begun my own small gallery in my little cave within a cave, carving creatures imagined from the Grimms’ fairy tales and other mythology, especially sirens. I’ve always wanted to visit the sea. The idea of sailing away is enticing; perhaps I could find a land of peace.
Now a tall rabbit is engraved in the wall, standing right at the mouth of my little refuge; he wears a vest and is checking his pocket watch for the time.
Now I see. Art is our sanctuary, our momentary escape from a world in which the bombs rain down, the injured arrive, and even the petits enfants are killed and maimed.
But one can gaze at the bacchanalian scene—which my mother deemed inappropriate—and imagine lolling in the peaceful forests, drunk and dancing and gay for all time.
One can spend the day scraping and spewing dust, thoughts lost in the attempt to bring forth a rabbit from the chalk walls.
My mother says there is beauty in necessity.
I say there is a necessity of beauty.
Chapter Twenty-two
That afternoon Rosalyn had planned on visiting a producer in the village of Le Mesnil-sur-Oger, but gray storm clouds were rolling in and she was loath to give up her warm, dry room. Instead, she checked her e-mail and found an invitation to a “Gathering of Vintners” to be held in the caves under the House of Vranken Pommery. The invitation reminded guests to dress appropriately for the chill of the caves.
Even with her stomach quailing at the thought of attending a party, Rosalyn was excited by the prospect of seeing Lucie’s underground refuge.
Outside, the storm seemed to be building. Rosalyn fixed a cup of hot tea, sat down at the table in her room, and sorted through more of Émile’s letters. The missives now littered her room, spread out over every horizontal surface—the table, the cabinet, and even the floor.
June 17, 1916
Dear Mrs. Whittaker,
There is a famous sculpture on the Cathedral of Reims. Do you happen to know it? It is an angel with a sweet smile, a relic of a long-ago sculptor who had lost patience with the stoic bishops and angels of his commission. There she has stood for centuries, looking down upon royalty, upon brides and grooms, upon cardinals and bishops, upon the peasants and farmers, artisans and workers, who have streamed through the church’s doors in search of salvation and beauty and peace.
She is called the Smiling Angel, or sometimes simply the Smile of Reims.
She was decapitated in a German attack on the cathedral, her smiling visage rolling at the entrance and cracking into pieces. Lucie says the pieces were collected by the Abbot Thinot the day after the cathedral fire, and squirreled away for safekeeping. With the grace of God, she will be restored after this cursed war is over.
I have seen friends fall at my side. I have carried in baskets the torsos of men who have lost all their limbs. I was once buried alive by a collapsing trench, and am regularly doused with poison gas. These are hellish things to experience.
So why is it that the destruction of our Smile of Reims seems to me the most barbarous act of all?
At the roar of an engine outside, Rosalyn went to the window to see pulling into the parking lot a large truck towing a trailer loaded with four Jet Skis. A man in his sixties climbed down from the cab. He was handsome in the way of some rugged outdoorsmen, with a tanned face and an air of self-assurance.
Her genial host, Gaspard Blé, she presumed.
Rosalyn ran a comb through her hair, pulled on her coat, gloves, and scarf, and went out to meet him.
“What do you think?” he said without preamble. “I can sell these for a nice profit.”
“Very nice. But . . . is there a big demand for Jet Skis in Champagne?” Rosalyn asked, racking her brain for bodies of water in the area. As far as she knew, Jet Skis were used on the ocean, and the ocean was a long way from landlocked Champagne.
The rain had died down but the wind was picking up, and the afternoon sky was an ominous slate gray. Rosalyn was clad in three layers of clothes under her parka, but still shivered. Gaspard, in contrast, wore a flannel shirt over a T-shirt, jeans, and boots, and didn’t seem to notice the cold.
“Not so much, no. But also absolutely no supply, so I’m golden on that score.” He leapt off the trailer and kissed her once on each cheek. He smelled of tobacco. “You must be the lovely Rosalyn Acosta. I am Gaspard Blé, at your service.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Rosalyn. “I appreciate being able to stay in your gîte. It’s very comfortable.”
“I’m glad. You’re the first guest. I had another place, but we wanted to step up the facilities to accommodate American tourists. We want to lure them away from the big cities, into small villages like Cochet. Be sure to tell Blondine about anything you don’t like; you’ll be doing us a favor.”
“I will. Thank you.”
He started rearranging some boxes on the trailer.
“That’s nothing,” said Blondine, joining them. She looked cold in a lightweight jacket and short skirt, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “You should see his warehouse. It’s full of all sorts of crap.”
“Hey, that’s your inheritance, young lady. I’m having a sale next Saturday. Should make a pretty penny.”
“You import items for sale?” Rosalyn asked. “And here I thought you were a winemaker.”
“I am a man of many talents, and vision.”
“Did you drive straight through?” Blondine asked. “What time did you leave Tarragona?”
“This morning.”
“It’s a twelve-hour drive.”
He flashed a jaunty grin. “Very early this morning. And we were up late last night, celebrating our last night in Spain. So Epiphany had better be good! Now”—he rubbed his hands together—“when’s apéro? Kings’ dinner tonight, right? Because the king, he has arrived.”
Gaspard patted himself on the chest and gave Rosalyn a wink. Blondine rolled her eyes.
* * *
The storm arrived in earnest before evening, but though the air felt frigid, it didn’t snow. Instead, wind blew black branches into violent tangles, rattling the windowpanes, and the rain fell in sheets. André waited for Rosalyn by the door with an umbrella, which was caught by the wind and turned inside out by the time they dashed the twenty feet to the loading dock door and let themselves in, shaking off as much of the water as they could.
“Quite a storm,” said André, staring at his ruined umbrella.
“Indeed,” said Rosalyn. “Very dramatic. Sorry about your umbrella.”
“Plenty more where that came from.”
They found Blondine in the kitchen, unpacking groceries from what looked like half a dozen tote bags. Emma was seated on her usual stool, opening a bottle of champagne. The cork left the bottle with the muffled snick of a practiced hand—a connoisseur of champagne, Rosalyn had learned, never opened the bottle with the dramatic pop so common to celebrations back home. It wasted too much of the precious bubbly.
“May I help?” Rosalyn asked Blondine as she moved toward the kitchen.
“There’s a lot to do,” mumbled Blondine.
“And she’s running late, as usual,” said Emma with a smile. “No worries, Blondine. We’ll wait. W
e have champagne, after all.”
Rosalyn found an apron in the closet and tied it on over the outfit she had worn for the special occasion. Unsure how fancy Epiphany dinners were, she had upgraded from her usual jeans and sweater to a knit wrap dress and nice leather boots.
“What can I do?” she asked Blondine. “I’ve worked in restaurants for years.”
“Vraiment?” Blondine asked.
“Mostly I served cocktails. But I know my way around a kitchen well enough. I’ll be your sous chef.”
“You’ll save my life,” said Blondine. She explained the evening’s menu: it began with apéro of petite crab brioches and slivers of dried salami. Dinner was a leg of lamb—gigot d’agneau—in wine and onion sauce, bouchée à la reine, and potatoes au vapeur, followed by a green salad with mustard-shallot dressing. Dominique was bringing dessert.
The wine pairing was easy: Each course would be served with copious amounts of champagne.
Unfortunately, Blondine was not the best at delegating tasks, and tended to talk to herself instead of to Rosalyn.
“She’s feeling pressure because of her father,” Emma said to Rosalyn, before turning to Blondine. “Calme-toi, Blondine. Your father is just a man, like any other. And you’re a wonderful cook, so why don’t you have a drink of this delicious cru and relax? An unhappy chef will make unhappy food. That’s simple science.”
Blondine hesitated, then accepted the flute of champagne Emma held out to her.
“We should make a toast,” suggested Rosalyn.
“But of course we must!” said Emma. “Suggestions?”
“To the Epiphany?” suggested Blondine.
Emma snorted. “Too conventional.”
“How about to the three of us?” said Rosalyn. “We’re not all that conventional, when it comes down to it.”
Emma laughed. “Brilliant! All right, you wenches, to the three fairest flowers of France, Australia, and the United States!”
“Santé!” Blondine and Rosalyn chimed in as they touched glasses. Rosalyn took a sip, to fulfill the toast.
Blondine downed half her glass and returned to the kitchen to adjust the oven.
“Here,” said Rosalyn as she handed Emma a small chopping block, a knife, and some carrots. “Make yourself useful.”
Emma grinned and said to Blondine, “This one’s getting awfully cheeky, wouldn’t you say?”
Rosalyn smiled. Still lacking direction from Blondine, she started chopping onion and garlic on the assumption that they would be needed in one dish or another.
“Hey, André!” Emma called out, and he immediately appeared from the direction of the office.
“Oui, madame?”
“Do be a doll and put some music on for us, will you? Something French and atmospheric. None of that Europop crap.”
“Oui, madame.” He slipped back into the other room, and within seconds, French music came on over the sound system: Jacques Brel, then Lara Fabian.
“How much do you pay him to stand around, waiting for orders, like that?” Blondine asked Emma the question that had been on Rosalyn’s mind.
“A lot,” Emma said. “And he’s worth every euro. He runs my office in Épernay, but when I come to France, he’s on call pretty much twenty-four seven—more so this trip, since he has to drive me everywhere.”
“Must be nice to be rich,” grumbled Blondine.
“Oh, it is. It certainly is,” said Emma. “Much better than the alternative, I always say.”
“Rosalyn, help yourself to more champagne,” Blondine said.
“Oh, um . . .”
“Save your breath,” said Emma. “Rosalyn doesn’t like champagne.”
Blondine whipped around to gape at Rosalyn. “What do you mean, she doesn’t like champagne?”
“Ask her yourself,” said Emma.
“Rosalyn, is this true?” Blondine was clearly scandalized.
“It’s not that I dislike it, as much as I just . . . prefer red.”
“You prefer red.”
Rosalyn nodded.
“Huh. Champagne is famous the world over.”
“I realize that.”
“But the bubbles . . . It is lively and effervescent. . . . It is liquid gold.”
“Champagne is very beautiful,” Rosalyn agreed, blushing and wishing Emma had kept her big mouth shut. “It’s celebratory and all that. I’m just more of a red wine fan.”
Blondine let out a long, loud sigh and turned back to rolling out dough on the counter. “There is a rack in the pantry with some Bordeaux, if you prefer.”
Rosalyn widened her eyes at Emma in a what the hell? look, to which Emma responded with a shrug.
“We like what we like, right? Nothing wrong with that,” said Emma, “though it’s a good idea to stay open to new things. You never know when your tastes might change.”
“That’s true. So,” Rosalyn said in a blatant bid to change the subject, “have you tracked down any descendants of Émile or Lucie?”
“Not so far. I’ve been making phone calls, and found two Legrands outside of Épernay, but neither of them knew of an Émile from that era. No nibbles on Lucie Maréchal yet, though it’s tougher because women change their names with marriage.” She poured herself more champagne and downed a couple of pills, then gave Rosalyn a wink. “I always take my vitamins with champagne.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Rosalyn with a smile.
Emma held her glass up in yet another toast. “Here’s to locating the descendants!”
Rosalyn and Blondine joined in the toast, and for the next half hour, the women focused on preparing the evening’s meal, accompanied by the strains of classic French ballads, the tattoo of rain on the roof, and the occasional rumble of thunder. Emma recounted a funny story of a standoff with a cranky kangaroo during an ill-advised foray into Australia’s outback, and Blondine waxed poetic describing her recent trip to Mallorca. Rosalyn mostly listened. She didn’t want to talk about Napa, and certainly not about Dash. She felt buoyed at the chance to set aside the burden of grief for a few hours, like an ant dislodging a load several times her weight.
For the moment Rosalyn was living in a parallel world where she was nothing more than a run-of-the-mill wine rep cooking an Epiphany feast with friends.
“Forgive my ignorance, but I wasn’t raised Catholic,” Rosalyn said when there was a lull in the conversation. “What does the Epiphany celebrate, exactly?”
“It is the day the wise men came to find Jesus and offer him presents,” said Blondine. “Traditionally this was when children were given gifts, though now most people celebrate on Christmas morning or eve. But we still like to mark the day with the galette des Rois.”
“I saw those in the store the other day,” said Rosalyn.
“Dominique will bring one tonight, but not one of those from her store. She should have made it herself. It is tradition, but she’s no baker. She’ll buy the cake from the Boulangerie Julien. I insisted. It is a wafer cake, with frangipane inside, very good.”
“She’s leaving out the best part,” said Emma. “When the cake is served it is customary to tirer les rois—decide who is king for the day. A porcelain charm called la fève is baked into the cake, and whoever gets the slice with la fève is declared king—or queen, in our case—and guaranteed a good year.”
“Also they have to bring the galette des Rois the following year,” said Blondine.
“Well, that seems like a good system,” said Rosalyn.
Blondine pulled the hot crab brioches out of the oven just as Gaspard arrived accompanied by two men, a father and son from Spain, whom he introduced as Raúl and Augustín Santiago. The Spaniards were cork makers in town selling their bouchons. From Blondine’s startled reaction, Rosalyn realized Gaspard’s invitation must have been a spur-of-the-moment decision and she took m
ore salad out of the small frigo.
“I’ve always wanted to see an actual cork tree,” Rosalyn said. The main character from her favorite children’s book, The Story of Ferdinand, used to sit under just such a tree, smelling the flowers. In her child’s mind, the tree had consisted of hundreds of actual corks, stuck together.
“Then you must come visit us in La Mancha,” said Raúl, the elder Santiago. He was plump and short, with the dark sloping eyes so common among the Spanish. “It would be our pleasure to show you how we make our bouchons from the bark of the cork trees.”
Rosalyn passed the tray of brioche and salami to the men, who had gathered at the counter, trading tales with Emma and drinking freely of champagne. Spirits were high, the music was playing, and André had rejoined them and helped himself to champagne.
It was after eight, and dinner was nowhere near ready. Rosalyn’s stomach growled, and she snuck another brioche. Blondine didn’t miss much.
“You are accustomed to eating earlier in the U.S.,” she said flatly.
“I am, yes. But I’m more than fine with this brioche.”
“I hear Americans eat as early as six in the evening!” said Gaspard. “How are you not too hungry in the morning?”
“I never really thought about it. Maybe that’s why a lot of people eat big breakfasts,” Rosalyn said.
“That’s because they go do real work,” Emma teased. “Not like you effete Frenchies with your tiny espressos and crusts of bread.”
“You look at us vintners and tell me we don’t work hard,” Gaspard said, pounding on his chest, then splaying out his hands. “Look at these calluses. We are Champenois, true, and so we laugh and joke; we celebrate life with champagne. But we also work hard to coax the vines from this difficult soil.”
“My father eats only a piece of chocolate and coffee in the morning,” said Blondine, gesturing with a knife in hand. “I cannot live without my croissant, but I don’t think I could eat an American breakfast. Sausage and beans for breakfast?”
“You’re thinking of English breakfasts,” said Emma, nabbing a slice of glistening salami. “As I’ve mentioned before, Rosalyn’s American, and I’m Aussie—thank you very much—and we’re nothing like the English. Though honestly it couldn’t make the slightest bit of difference.”
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