Spoils of the Game

by Lee Lamond

  Austin could not think of a reason to say no. “Sure, I would love to.” He was not sure that he’d made the right decision, but what was the harm? And she was right: it might be fun.

  “Oh, that is great,” said Madeline with a silent shy. “I am taking Friday off, and we can take the train on Friday morning.”

  Austin spent the rest of the week in his apartment, trying to identify the project’s problems and determining where the answers might be found; he also spent time on the phone with Carl, addressing some business issues back home. He tried to spell out the economic, political, operational, and logistic problems of the project, and to identify the portions aimed at addressing Church issues. It was going very slowly. His proposals couldn’t offend anyone or cast aspersions on his or her status or ability to do the right thing. He could not suggest that forces in the art world were late in meeting their responsibility. He also couldn’t suggest that some guy from North Carolina should lead them. Perhaps the best approach was to present the problem and the possible solutions and worry about the money later.

  Friday morning arrived sooner than he planned more quickly than he’d expected. The train was at eight o’clock that morning, and Austin arrived at the station a little after seven. He was not concerned about missing the train, but he was concerned about disappointing Madeline. Austin had a love affair with European train stations. They reflected the pulse of the respective country, and you could almost get almost anywhere you wanted within reason by buying a ticket. Austin picked up a copy of the European edition of the Wall Street Journal and a fresh cup of coffee and took a seat where he could watch the action and easily spot Madeline when she arrived. A quick glance of the financial page showed that the value of his company’s stock was holding its value, which was good news in the current downtrend; it also showed that no one in the financial community was overly concerned that he had not been in the office for the past few weeks.

  Within a few minutes, Madeline arrived. She had always presented a businesslike appearance, with tailored clothing and an office demeanor. Now she had transformed her appearance into a more relaxed and very feminine style. She was very pretty, and Austin was impressed. Her smile seemed bigger, and her eyes seemed more inviting.

  “Good morning,” she said with enthusiasm. “I am so glad you could join me. We have to buy our tickets.” She opened her purse. Austin held up his hand and reached for his wallet with the other. He did not know how much money she made, but the cost of a couple of train tickets would be nothing to him. He handed her two one-hundred-euro notes, which she accepted with a smile. Now it appeared to each of them, secretly, that perhaps this was a date, although neither would admit it.

  The train left the station with a remarkable smoothness and wove its way through the southern parts of Paris. Soon open fields and valleys full of sunflowers surrounded the train. Madeline sat across from him, a small table between them. She talked excitedly of the plans for the party in the village. Unseen to Austin was the excitement she had in bringing to her town someone that she was quickly falling in love with.

  On the table she had a pad of paper, and with a pencil she was sketching the figure of a person. Within a few minutes she turned the pad around and presented the sketch to Austin. Austin was surprised and amazed to see an image of himself. He’d known she was an artist, but this was the first time that he had ever seen any of her work. The sketch was charming. Either she knew him well, or she had unbelievable perception. He studied the sketch like he had learned to study other forms of art. It was exceptional. He wanted to save it.

  “I have to apologize for not knowing how good an artist you are,” said Austin. “You took just a few minutes and created a great drawing. I watched you the whole time, and you made it look so easy. I suspect that you would be happier if all you had to do was draw or paint. Maybe you should just quit and paint. I could be your Medici, your patron.”

  Madeline played down the portrait’s importance and value, but it was important to Austin. As a concession, she removed the sketch from the pad and put it between the pages of a magazine for protection.

  “Oh, speaking of drawings, have you seen these?” said Madeline. She reached into her oversized purse and pulled out several copies of full-color drawings.

  Austin took the drawings and immediately recognized several versions of Pierre, the Museum Mouse.

  “These look great,” he said, looking at several different portrayals of the adventurous and informative little creature. “Where did they come from?”

  “We have an art department, and we also worked with an outside agency. Vassar wanted the project pushed forward, and next week they will pick the final version. Which one do you like the best?”

  “Number three is great. The first one looks more like a rat than a mouse, but number three is great. Who sketched up this one?”

  “I did, with a little help from the art department,” said Madeline, who was pleased that Austin had picked her friendly little mouse.

  Austin sat and carried on a conversation with his mouth while his mind was again appraising the woman in front of him. She was so easy to look at, so talented. But more importantly, in his mind she was becoming more than a friend.

  Within ninety minutes of leaving Paris, they arrived at Madeline’s little village, Saint-Abban. As the train pulled to a stop, Madeline peered out the window, looking for signs of her sister. Quickly a smile appeared on her face.

  “She’s here,” Madeline said with excitement. As she exited the train, Austin was right behind her. He was in unknown territory and did not want to lose his guide. Madeline and her sister Paulette shared a hug, and then Madeline quickly turned to introduce Austin. Austin offered his hand, and Paulette took it. For a split second he felt that he was being inspected from top to bottom. Paulette spoke very little English, and the introduction was a little awkward, but Austin got the impression that he had passed inspection. Behind Paulette, Madeline beamed with pride and excitement. In broken English, Paulette directed Austin into the back seat of her car, and they were off on a short drive to the little village, situated on the side of a hill and on the shore of the river. Paulette talked nonstop with her sister in French, and Austin gave up trying to follow any of the discussion.

  Madeline turned around and said, “Austin, we are going to drop you off at the hotel and get you checked in, and then we will go up to Paulette’s house for lunch.”

  Saint-Abban was a lovely little town with stone buildings along winding cobblestone streets. Four hundred years ago, farming and the vineyards were the local businesses. Life changed little for many years, but the Saint-Abban of today was much more commercially savvy, with small shops to attract tourist traffic and a wine business that had introduced modern technology and marketing via the Internet.

  The tires rumbled on the cobblestones as Paulette navigated over a small stone bridge and through the streets at a speed faster than Austin liked. Paulette had driven these streets for years, but some of the streets were barely wide enough for one car, and often two-way traffic was the norm. After rounding a corner, the car came to a stop in front of the hotel. The little hotel had flower boxes under the front windows, and a bicycle was leaning against the front wall by the door. Austin had seen towns like Saint-Abban before and had stayed in similar hotels, but he never got tired of the simple and quiet atmosphere that was born of a cultured heritage. A cat stood guard as Austin and his host entered the hotel. Again French words were in the air, and Austin stood politely, awaiting direction or a verdict. Paulette took possession of the key attached to a large key bob and led the group up the steps to the first floor. Wooden floors and whitewashed walls defined the hallway that led to his room. Paulette opened the door to a lovely room with a large window that overlooked the vineyards and the river below. Austin placed his luggage in the corner and looked at what appeared to be an overstuffed bed. He pushed down on the mattress, and his arm disappeared into its depths.

  “Feathers,” said Madel
ine with a laugh.

  “This is a lovely hotel,” said Austin. “Does your sister know how old it is?”

  After a brief discussion in French, Madeline replied, “About four hundred years old.”

  “We just don’t have this type of history back where I came from,” replied Austin.

  Within a minute or so, it was back in the car and on to Paulette’s house, just around the corner. Paulette’s two boys surrounded the car with excitement. Madeline was well known to the children, but they looked with curiosity at the strange man in the back seat. The older boy approached the car on crutches as his brother pushed his nose against the car’s window. Austin exited the car and shook hands with both boys. Again French words surrounded him, and he felt a little embarrassed and slightly humbled. In a few minutes the excitement subsided, and Austin was exposed to a modern French family. Paulette and her husband owned a small shop in the village and had tripled their business in the past few months by clever marketing. Paulette’s husband, who as a boy had helped with the grape harvest, was now a wine broker who had expanded his markets with contacts around the world. Lunch was waiting on the back porch, and several bottles of wine were on a cloth-covered table. The afternoon was warm, and so were his hosts. Paulette’s husband, Louis Pashea, spoke very good English and took the responsibility for translation so that Austin could follow the discussion.

  Life was simple in Saint-Abban. It was an improbable blend of the sixteenth century and modern times. Lunch was wonderful and included homemade soup and bread with fresh salad and wine. A chocolate mousse finished the meal—and Austin as well, who was ready for a nap.

  “Austin, let’s go down to the vineyard, and I will teach you about growing grapes,” said Louis.

  The offer was instantly accepted. As Austin learned, modern wine production was not left to chance. Machinery and the use of chemicals provided high yields, but the weather still had to cooperate, and grape growers had to be on guard for the first sign of mold or insect infestation.

  Austin looked over the many acres of grapes grown in carefully established rows. “How do you pick all of these grapes without some being unripe and others being overripe?” asked Austin.

  “It can be difficult. and at picking time, it is madness. But this valley has been in the grape-picking business for hundreds of years, and we have learned to get it done. This is a very serious business for the people of this area. The people who pick grapes know what to look for and which vines are ready and which are not.”

  Austin and his host walked through the field, and Louis pointed out the soil and an area where leaf blight had affected a small number of vines. A drip irrigation system provided water along with liquid fertilizer on days when the rain did not arrive, and at the edge of the field Austin noted special machinery necessary to gather up the harvest. Before him were rows of vines as far as he could see. It was clear that this was a big business that required a big investment. At the edge of the field was a large building where the actual winemaking process took place. Although old oak barrels were still used, stainless steel was now the norm.

  “Mr. Clay, I must confess to a little secret. For hundreds of years, we French made wine from what God provided. The sugars and chemistry were out of our control, and some years we made excellent wine, and some years the wine was poor. The average winemaker did not understand the chemistry. For most of our fine wine we identify the superior grapes and let God have his way. For commercial or table wines, we can identify weakness in the juice and perhaps address these weaknesses before we place the juice into the large tanks you see over there. So if God was sleeping when the juice was in the grape, we can help him out.”

  “There is something peaceful about a vineyard,” said Austin as they walked back into the sun. “Maybe someday when I get tired of the medical hardware business, I will buy a vineyard.”

  “Let me know when that day arrives,” said Louis. “I would like to broker the deal, and there are some excellent properties on the market.”

  Paulette and Madeline had walked down to the vineyard, and they found Austin holding a handful of soil.

  “Are you going to become a grape grower?” said Madeline with a laugh.

  “Maybe,” said Austin with a smile that suggested that it was a possibility.

  “Austin, let me pull you away and give you a small tour of Saint-Abban,” said Madeline, extending her hand.

  Paulette and her husband walked back to their home while Madeline led Austin to the oldest part of the village. At the highest point on the hill on one side of the town square was the church that gave the town its name. It was a small church that had stood at this site for centuries. The original oak doors were weather-beaten, but the handmade nails that held the doors of God’s house together were still on the job. Over the door was a stained-glass window. By Parisian standards the church was small and primitive, but for many years it had been the center of life for the people of Saint-Abban.

  Madeline pushed on the door, and it opened slowly. Madeline and Austin entered the dark church, which was lit only by sunlight streaming from the stained-glass window over the altar. Two of the women from the village had just finished arranging flowers on the altar and were leaving with their watering cans. Madeline bowed before the altar briefly and then showed Austin a seat near the rear of the church. For a few minutes they both sat in silence. They were now alone in the church, and Austin was impressed by the quiet and peace within the structure. The couple had sat for ten or fifteen minutes, when Madeline asked Austin a question.

  “Austin, do you believe in God?”

  It was a simple question, but Austin was caught off guard. He liked to be precise in his answers, and a simple yes just did not seem like an appropriate reply.

  “I believe in God, but I have my own definition of who and what he is. Do you believe in God?”

  “I would like to, more than I think I do. My faith was strong when I was young. When my mother died a slow and very tragic death with cancer, I wondered how God could let that happen. When my fiancé died, I was mad at God. I felt that he was not protecting me and the people I loved. I even questioned whether he existed. As I have gotten older, I think I have a different perspective, and I am more content. I have not been fair with God, and perhaps I feel a little guilty.”

  Austin appreciated Madeline’s honesty. “Madeline, I was raised in the Bible Belt in North Carolina, and officially I am a Baptist. The older I get, the more I tend to think that man has drifted from what God or Christ intended. My relationship with God is one-on-one. I am a weak or lazy Christian, but I have no doubt that he knows me and that we will have to settle accounts when I die. I try to be a good person, but I could be better. The more my company learns about the workings of the human body, the more I understand that it was not by chance that we are built the way we are.”

  Austin studied the stonework of the aged building and understood that every stone had been hand-cut and fitted without the benefit of power equipment; the stained-glass windows had been designed and assembled by true artisans with skills that would be hard to find today.

  Austin and Madeline continued to sit in the quiet for another few minutes, and then Madeline looked at her watch and suggested they go. She led Austin over the ancient stone floor toward the altar. Austin noted several paintings on the walls of the church and stopped to study both the paintings and their condition. The paintings were hanging high on the walls, and it was difficult to see the artwork. Age, poor lighting, and soot had hidden much of the images.

  “Madeline, what can you tell me about the art in this church?” asked Austin.

  She looked up at the paintings, which had been in the church her whole life. “I must admit that I don’t know much about them,” she said. “I suspect that the church office might know more, but they are closed, and I don’t think they open until Wednesday.”

  For a few seconds both sat quietly looking up at the artwork. To Austin they were prime examples of the problem, and t
o Madeline they were a source of a little embarrassment. She was employed by the biggest art museum in the world, and she did not know about the art in her own church.

  They left through a side door that opened into the church graveyard. Madeline walked down one of the pathways slowly, with Austin a few steps behind. It was clear that Madeline was going to a location that she knew, which Austin soon learned were the graves of her parents. Madeline looked down at the gravestones and said a little prayer. She turned and looked at Austin with a tear in her eye. “I miss them.”

  Madeline wiped her eyes. Austin put his arm around Madeline’s shoulder and walked her out the iron gate that guarded the cemetery.

  In front of the church, in the middle of the square, was a monument topped with a bronze angel with open arms. The angel stood guard over the names carved into the sides of the white marble obelisk. On the front, the side facing the church, were the words AUX LES ENFANTS DE SAINT-ABBAN QUI SONT MORTS POUR LA FRANCE, 1914–1918. On the other three sides were the names of over forty young Frenchmen that died in the First World War. Austin studied the names. There was Joseph Carrere, Emile Lafforgue, and Armand Martin. Somehow, seeing the names made the deaths that almost destroyed a generation seem more real. As he walked around the tall white structure to where Madeline was standing, he saw three names that surprised him.