The Vineyards of Champagne
Page 24
“I had no idea,” Blondine continued. “I am so very sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Guess what,” said Blondine, changing the subject. “Emma’s taking us to Paris!”
“I’m sorry?” Rosalyn was in grave need of coffee, and her discussion with Emma last night—and the encounter she’d just had with André—left her feeling raw and vulnerable. Also, she was a wee bit hungover from last night’s champagne.
“I have an appointment in Paris that I can’t reschedule,” said Emma. “So I was thinking, why not make it a girls’ road trip?”
“Oh, I . . .” Rosalyn busied herself in the kitchen, putting the water on to heat and prepping a mug. “I don’t think I can make it.”
“It’s all of an hour’s drive from here,” said Emma.
“More like two, depending on traffic,” Blondine said.
“It’s not far, is my point,” said Emma. “What’s the holdup?”
“I’m not really fond of Paris,” said Rosalyn.
They both stared at her.
“I’m sorry. I just . . . I went there once, a long time ago. That was enough.”
“I thought you were kidding when you said that before,” said Blondine. “First, you don’t like champagne, and now you don’t like Paris? Everybody loves Paris.”
“And maybe I will, someday,” said Rosalyn. “But I only have a couple of weeks left in France, and there’s a lot still to do here in Champagne. I’m not being paid to traipse around Paris.”
“Are you sure I can’t convince you, Rosalyn?” Emma said, her voice so full of gentleness and understanding that it grated. “A road trip might be just the thing.”
“No, thank you,” said Rosalyn. “Truth to tell, I could use a little time by myself. But take pictures; I look forward to seeing them, and hearing your stories. And if you need bail—do they have bail in France?—anyway, if you do, I’ll be happy to deal with the gendarmes on your behalf. I’m sure André and I will have you out of the slammer in a jiffy.”
* * *
Rosalyn had been looking forward to a return to solitude, but she found herself missing her friends: the late-night talks around a bottle of wine, cooking together, sorting through the letters. It was lonely at the gîte without them.
It wasn’t like her hermitage when she first arrived, however. Rosalyn knew people in Cochet now. Gaspard and Pietro were often around, as well as the Blé Champagne office manager. When she walked to the store for supplies, she chatted with Dominique, then stopped to say hello to Monsieur Bonnet as she passed by the mechanic’s shop. Waving to familiar faces on the street, Rosalyn realized she had made connections almost despite herself. She had also become attuned to the rhythms of village life: the shouts of the children at the end of the school day, the regular chiming of the church bells, the growing number of tractors in the fields as more townsfolk returned from their vacations.
Rosalyn meandered through the little cemetery, and even slipped into church when she noticed a service being held, letting the words of mass in French slide over her in an incomprehensible stream, smelling the mingled scents of old damp stone and incense, reading the walls engraved with the names of the deceased.
In the pews were only Rosalyn and half a dozen elderly women, all dressed in black. Looking around at them, she realized she was starting to long for color.
Chapter Thirty-six
Lucie
I have neither seen nor heard from Émile for a very long time.
In one large pit of the crayères is a chapel with pews made of champagne cases. There is a virgin here, rescued from the ruins of the cathedral. Each champagne pew is full every Sunday. The priest tells us that Champagne—both the region and the drink—has become a symbol of France’s determination to survive. But despite bringing in the harvest, and setting up schools, and having enough food and shelter to survive, we are miserable.
Together we recite the Lord’s Prayer:
Notre Père, qui es aux cieux,
Que ton nom soit sanctifié,
Que ton règne vienne,
Que ta volonté soit faite
Sur la terre comme au ciel. . . .
As my mother would say, before we start thinking we are particularly devout, it should be noted that our underground cafés and bars are full as well. And throughout the caves, many people become drunk on the only thing we have plenty of, champagne. I do not judge.
Give us this day our daily bread.
Donne-nous aujourd’hui notre pain de ce jour.
I felt great joy, not long ago, when I married my beloved, Monsieur Émile Paul Legrand. My mother, now ailing in earnest, stood up with us, as did my brother. Topette was my flower girl; despite my admonishments, she snuck out one day to gather wildflowers and made me a crown of white and yellow blossoms. The baker managed to create a few dubious-looking cakes from flour made of potato and turnip, but somewhere he found a bit of sugar, and they were much appreciated. Many of our cave-dwelling neighbors joined in the festivities, and of course, we drank our fill of champagne.
Émile and I spent our wedding night together in my little cave within a cave. Our dubious bridal chamber, complete with gargoyle.
But our happiness was short-lived. After we’d spent only a few brief days together as husband and wife, Émile was called back to duty. We mounted the one hundred sixteen steps hand in hand toward what we call the mouth of hell—but is hell at the top of the steps or below?
We kissed, and then he turned to leave. My husband looked over his shoulder and smiled at me as he walked away through the rubble.
My heart felt like it shattered.
We repeat the Lord’s Prayer when the shells fall and the crayères tremble, raining dust down upon us in a grisly parody of the priest tossing earth upon a casket at burial.
Pardonne-nous nos offenses,
Comme nous pardonnons aussi
À ceux qui nous ont offensés.
Et ne nous soumets pas à la tentation,
But it is the last I recite whenever I think of my beloved Émile facing what no one should ever have to face:
Mais délivre-nous du mal.
Deliver us from evil.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Rosalyn pulled up to the gas pumps, dismayed to see the store was closed. Again. Why? What possible reason could there be for closing today? It was a random Thursday, for heaven’s sake.
At least this time she wasn’t running on fumes. The gas could wait until tomorrow.
She was about to leave when a familiar truck pulled up on the other side of the pumps. Jérôme Comtois. Her heart sped up. A young boy sat on the passenger side of the truck, just tall enough to look out the window. She waved at him, and he smiled and waved back.
“Need me to buy gas for you?” Jérôme asked as he climbed out of the cab.
“Not this time, thanks. I’m fine,” she lied. “I just wanted to clean the windshield. But why isn’t the store open?”
“Saint’s day.”
“Another saint’s day?”
He nodded. When he smiled, crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. The last rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, painting the whiskers of his face with an orangey light.
“Just out of curiosity, do the stores close for every saint’s day? I mean . . . isn’t there a saint for just about every day?”
“There is, as a matter of fact. But the stores only close for the saints that are important to the region, or sometimes to the owner.”
“Clearly, I need to keep track of such things. Is there a calendar of when businesses are closed? Or maybe an app for my phone?”
He shrugged and began pumping gas. “I suppose it’s something one grows up with around here.”
Rosalyn used the squeegee to scrub her windshield, carrying through with the
charade. “I guess I need to learn to plan ahead.”
“I remember when I was in New York,” Jérôme said, leaning back against his truck while the numbers on the pump ticked by. He wore work clothes and his muddy boots. “Things were open all the time. There was no need to plan ahead. I found it convenient, but also . . . disconcerting.”
“That’s New York City. Small-town America is more like Cochet, where the sidewalks get rolled up at sundown. Looks like you’re hard at work, though. Isn’t that going to offend the saint of the day?”
“The vines don’t allow many days off. And the saints don’t seem to mind. So, where is Emma? Isn’t she your—what is the expression?—your ‘partner in crime’?”
“I guess she is, in a way.” Rosalyn smiled at the thought. “She’s out of town at the moment. Is there something I can help you with? Us being partners and all.”
“She was asking about my father’s collection at the party, and I assumed she would follow up. But I haven’t heard from her.”
“She and Blondine went to Paris.”
“Really?” Jérôme pushed out his chin in a classic Gallic move. “They should have talked to me; they would have been welcome to use my flat there. But perhaps it wouldn’t be nice enough for them.”
“Emma does seem to have champagne tastes, so to speak.”
“You didn’t want to join them?”
“I’m not that fond of Paris.”
“I’m surprised. Most people like Paris.”
“Once was enough for me. I didn’t enjoy the tourists.”
“Then you weren’t with the right tour guide. One of the great things about Paris is that although there are a lot of tourists, it’s also a city where people live, and work, and raise their families. There are many neighborhoods, restaurants, cafés, where you rarely see tourists.”
She used a paper towel to dry the edges of her windshield.
“You were there with your husband?” Jérôme asked after a moment.
She nodded. “Honeymoon.”
“Ah. Well. That makes sense, then.”
“Did you know him?” Rosalyn asked suddenly. “Dash?”
“I wouldn’t say I knew him. We met once, briefly, years ago, when my brother was still involved in the vineyard. Your husband approached us about representing our champagne in the U.S.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if Jérôme had turned Dash down because, like the man she had overheard at the party, he didn’t trust Dash to pay his bills. But that made no sense, she thought. Jérôme had refused Rosalyn’s offer of representation, too. But what she had overheard at the Gathering of Vintners had rattled her, and she found herself wondering if everyone had known what she learned only after he had died—that their lavish lifestyle was a sham; that when it came to money, Dash was well intentioned but unreliable. Was that his reputation? Should she have realized that earlier?
“Your husband was very well liked, Rosalyn,” said Jérôme. “He was kindhearted, and charming.”
She forced a smile. “That he was.”
There was a long pause, but as before, it didn’t feel awkward.
“Well,” said Rosalyn as she finished wiping the windshield and tossed the dirty paper towels in a trash receptacle, “fun running into you here. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
“What will you eat?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Tonight, since you are alone at Gaspard’s gîte. What will you eat?”
“I . . . haven’t thought about it.”
He tilted his head. “Come dine with us.”
“Oh, no, thank you. I wouldn’t want to bother you.”
“I’m cooking anyway; we just bought groceries—at a store that is open, by the way, in Foucrault. My son is with me.” He called out, “Laurent, viens ici. I would like you to meet someone.”
The boy crawled out of the cab. His cheeks were rosy, and he was dressed in a little green wool sweater that looked handmade.
“This is my son, Laurent. Laurent, this is Madame Acosta.”
“Bonjour, madame. Enchanté.”
Laurent tilted his head up to her, and she leaned down so they could kiss on both cheeks.
“Enchantée, Laurent,” replied Rosalyn. “C’est un grand plaisir de te rencontrer.”
“You’re the American?” Laurent asked in lilting, slightly accented English.
“I am, yes.”
He looked up at his father. “Elle mange avec nous?”
“You see?” Jérôme asked Rosalyn. “Even Laurent knows you should come eat with us. This isn’t California, you know. In France, one cannot just skip a meal. It simply is not done.”
She fiddled with the locket at the base of her neck, and looked up to find his eyes on hers. Was it just her imagination, or did she find a kindred sadness there?
“Will you show me the collection?”
“You are a very stubborn woman, Madame Acosta, if I may be so bold.”
“You’re not the first to notice.” Rosalyn smiled.
“Come, then, allow me to cook for you and to show you my family’s collection. And then perhaps you will find something else you would like me to do for you. I am at your service.”
She laughed. “I’ll try to come up with something. You, sir, are a true ambassador for your people.”
“Bon. It’s settled, then. Please follow me. Allez, en route, Laurent!”
The boy ran and climbed into the truck, and Rosalyn drove after them in her car, down the highway toward Cochet before turning left onto a long lane just before the town limits. She noticed something she hadn’t before: a sign had been covered over. They passed through a gate, and the pitted pavement gave way to gravel, which in turn yielded to mud. The last of the snow had melted, leaving behind puddles and small ponds in the gullies.
Rosalyn said a fervent prayer that her rental car wouldn’t get stuck in the thick mud, then realized a farmer like Jérôme would have more than enough equipment to pull her out if need be. She forged ahead.
At last the path widened in front of a large two-story house with small dormer windows in the attic. The thick stone walls and rusted ironwork made the house look ancient. To one side was a clutch of outbuildings that housed the tractor and other pieces of heavy farm equipment. She recognized the fruit press, a large device that crushed grapes to capture their juice.
The garden in front of the house was an overgrown and tangled mess, but when she looked closely, she realized it was laid out in a foursquare pattern, with a fountain in the middle. It would probably be beautiful in full summer.
A sign on a gate in a stone wall to the other side declared: MUSÉE DE VIGNE ET VINS, COMTOIS PÈRE ET FILS. Museum of vines and wines, Comtois Father and Son. Beyond the wall was a building the size of a small house.
Rosalyn pulled up behind Jérôme’s truck and watched as Laurent bounced out of the cab of the truck, carrying a tote bag with a baguette sticking out, and ran to open the front door of the main house.
Jérôme climbed out with two more shopping bags full of groceries. They passed several large rectangular boxes as they walked toward the house; Rosalyn could hear the buzz even at a distance.
“Are you a beekeeper as well?” Rosalyn asked.
“Yes, a lot of vintners are. It’s very little trouble, because the bees do all the work. They are important for the grapes, with the extra added benefit of producing honey. I also keep chickens, ducks, and goats, and we use the fertilizer.”
“Bienvenue chez nous, madame,” Laurent piped, holding the door open and inviting her in.
“Merci,” Rosalyn said. “Très gentil.”
“Actually, would you mind speaking English with Laurent? He doesn’t get a chance to practice as often now. . . .” Jérôme trailed off. “It’s good for him to converse with a native speaker.”
But in among the classic antiques, the décor had been playfully reimagined, with a chartreuse wall here and colorful modern paintings there, whimsical racks made of deer antlers and strings of holiday lights. It was charming, an eclectic mix of old and new.
She followed Jérôme into the kitchen, which was separated from the large living room only by a counter. A huge fireplace held pride of place along one wall. Jérôme crouched down to light the paper and kindling already laid out in the grate.
“This will take the edge off the chill soon enough.”
“I love your house,” said Rosalyn. “It’s gorgeous.”
“It’s quirky—I think is the best euphemism. It’s an old family home, and now a work in progress,” he said as he strapped on an apron and started extracting things from the fridge. “I brought some of my favorite art pieces from Paris. I’m no collector, but I enjoy the contrast of old and new.”
“May I help with dinner? Blondine’s got me well trained as a sous chef.”
He smiled. “At the moment, just take a seat and keep me company—if I need chopping, I’ll let you know. It’s nice to have an adult conversation.”
Jérôme lined several chilled bottles of champagne up on the counter. “These are my private labels. May I pour you a glass? Or would you prefer red?”
“I’d love to try your champagne,” she said. “At long last. So, where did Laurent go?”
“Up to his room, I’m sure. He’ll be back soon, carrying any number of books or games he’d like to show to you, unless I miss my guess.”
“He’s adorable.”
Jérôme nodded as he poured champagne into two flutes. “Six-year-olds are pretty cute.”