Saving Grapes

by J. T. Lundy

  “Your card should have said bullshitter.” She laughed. “You’re funny, though, and kind of cute.” She looked at Stumpy affectionately. “My name’s Betsy.”

  Stumpy’s eyes lit up and I could tell that he and Betsy had made a connection. “I might not know anything about vintning, but it’s true, we’re going to work at a vineyard in Bordeaux.”

  “Sell a vineyard,” I said.

  Her head tilted and her smiled disappeared. She believed us. “You really own a vineyard?”

  I held my hand toward Stumpy. “Straight up. We’re partners. This vineyard has been an investment for us.”

  “It’s outside Bordeaux in the Dordogne region,” Stumpy said.

  “Really?”

  “Really!” we said in unison.

  “You should visit us,” Stumpy said.

  “Maybe.” She took a sip. She reached into her pocket and handed Stumpy a card without looking at him.

  “Betsy,” it said above a website, login phrase, and password.

  Stumpy was transfixed by the card. He stared, seeming unable to speak anymore.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Have your semi-mute winer log in and fill out the questionnaire. If we’re a match, I’ll give him a call.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said.

  Stumpy looked up. “I’ll do that.”

  “Yes. You should do that.” Betsy stood up to leave. “I want to call you, but we should take care of those online formalities first.” She smiled at him with a smile that willed Stumpy to fill out those online forms.

  Stumpy and I stood up as well.

  “Do you live here?” Stumpy asked.

  Betsy didn’t answer, but pointed at Stumpy and said, “Online form.”

  “Of course,” Stumpy said. We shook hands and said goodbye.

  Stumpy and I descended into the metro, punched the billet machine a few times, and knocked against some Parisians until we figured it all out. After taking two trains in the wrong direction, we solved the Metro Maze and ended up at the Gare du Nord train station. We hopped on the last express to Bordeaux. Stumpy hugged the window like a terrier on a Sunday drive. The TGV skimmed over the land. Small towns and endless fields of grain blurred by.

  Stumpy had an old phone, but it could still connect to the Internet. He struggled with the archaic interface and eventually logged onto Betsy’s website and online dating form.

  “Do you think I have a sense of humor, Jason?”

  “Yes.”

  The cool cabin air smelled like carpet and leather and lemon air freshener. The window fan hum and vibrating train made me sleepy.

  “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate my intelligence?”

  “Ten.”

  “Jason!”

  “Okay, nine.”

  “That’d be fudging the truth and you know it.”

  “Everyone fudges the truth. Do you want this girl or not?”

  “Okay—eight then.” Stumpy laughed. “This is fun. I could fill it out any way I want.”

  “Yes! That’s what online dating is all about.”

  Stumpy smiled and continued his project. I looked out the window and drifted off to sleep.

  “Jason, Jason.” Stumpy nudged me as the train slowed into Bordeaux. I don’t think he’d missed a moment; such was his excitement.

  The setting sun dimmed the light on the sleepy town. The grand palace-like buildings spoke to livelier times gone by. I had peaked in college, so I could relate. Bordeaux made me feel sad in that way.

  Stumpy’s credit card procured us a rental car, but the tiny Toyota was a stick shift. We got in the car and Stumpy whiplashed us down the middle of the street toward a roundabout. He turned left directly into oncoming traffic. Horns honked. Cars veered left and right. We lurched and swerved down another street.

  “Other side,” I cried.

  Stumpy was on the left side of the road heading directly into a truck. He veered us right. We missed the truck. Stumpy popped the clutch and we stalled next to the curb. “They drive crazy here,” he said.

  I slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re the crazy one. Why do you keep running into traffic?”

  “Don’t they drive on the left side here?”

  “No! That’s England.” I got out of the car and walked around and opened his door. “Out. I’m driving.”

  We headed east, destination Duras, a small town in south central Dordogne. Stumpy put his face in the map and sniffed out the directions.

  After many wrong turns, we only had correct ones left and we were soon in the vicinity. I was excited, I admit. “Let’s go by the vineyard. We can check into the hotel later.”

  Stumpy had X’ed the spot about eight kilometers outside Duras. The night was complete now as we drove over the rolling landscape; only starlight graced the fields, hinting at the rows and rows of grapes.

  “We should be there,” Stumpy said. “This could be your land.”

  It was beautiful even in the dark and I felt myself wondering about the people who lived here. Was their life better than mine? More relaxed? More purposeful? “Cash. Think cash, my man. Cash is king.”

  A six-foot-high rock barrier fence arose along the road next to us.

  I stopped in front of a spear-pointed double wrought-iron gate.

  Stumpy folded up the map. “This is it. This has to be it.”

  We stepped out of the car and put our hands on the gate’s bars—cool and moist like the night—and peered into the dark. A large stone structure loomed before us. A dim porch light revealed two massive wooden doors above three stone steps. A cross hung on the exterior wall above the transom.

  “It’s a mansion,” Stumpy said. “The Morceau sisters are living large.”

  Convincing the Morceau sisters to sell might not be as pie as I had hoped.

  I heard a huff, huff, pitter-patter, and then barks. Fang-like teeth chomped and snarled at us through the gate, barely missing a Stump and Chump meal.

  Stumpy and I backed away. “Sh, sh. Bonsoir, Bonsoir. Doggy, doggy.”

  A woman spoke in rapid French from the dark. The ferocious dogs quieted and disappeared toward the voice. More French.

  “Madame Morceau? It’s Jason Barnes, Clara’s nephew. I sent you a letter.”

  A shadow walked up the stone steps, opened the door, and then before entering the house, held up one finger toward us.

  “She wants us to wait,” Stumpy said.

  “Nothing escapes you, man.”

  The double iron gates swung inward.

  The double wooden doors opened outward.

  Two nuns stood in the doorway.

  CHAPTER 6

  One of the nuns motioned us forward. Stumpy and I stood at the bottom of the stone steps, and after a bonsoir or two, a bow, and some clumsy hand gestures, we settled on English as the best way to communicate.

  The nun on the left spoke. “I am Claudette Morceau. This is my sister, Lucia Morceau. Lucia is in a state of silence and will not speak this evening.” Sister Claudette stared at me for a moment, like she recognized me but wasn’t sure.

  “You’re sisters,” I said.

  “Yes, we are sisters.”

  “Really Sisters.”

  “Yes, we are really Sisters.”

  “Sisters and sisters.”

  “Yes. Sisters and sisters.”

  I felt uneasy. “How many Sisters are there?”

  “We are the nuns of St. Sebastian.” Both the sisters spread their arms wide as Sister Claudette spoke. Their robes hung like banners from their arms and they looked like dark angels in the night, welcoming and formidable at the same time. “We are eighty-two sisters strong, doing God’s work and humbly harvesting the land to make wine.” The sisters bowed their heads and lowered their arms, clasping their hands in front of them.

  “Like Jesus,” Sister Lucia whispered.

  My head spun as my plans for an easy sale seemed to be floating away. “Eighty-two Sisters?”

 
; Sister Claudette nodded. “Now you know us. Who, good sirs, are you? We are rarely disturbed this way in the evening. Sister Anne said you wrote us a letter?”

  A nun appeared in the entryway and handed Sister Claudette a letter. Sister Claudette stood taller than Sister Lucia. She had a long nose and a stern face. She looked at the return address and then at me and I saw a look of understanding cross her brow. “I had not seen this letter yet.”

  “I’m Jason Barnes. My Aunt Clara was—”

  Sister Claudette held up her hand to stop me. She made a great show of opening my letter. She put on a pair of black oval reading glasses and inspected the blue airmail paper like it was a lost scroll. “You didn’t give us much warning.”

  “Well, I, er, I was—”

  Sister Claudette held her hand up again and I shut up. She looked over her glasses accusingly. “Telephone? Email?”

  I dropped my head. “I’m sorry, Sister. We shouldn’t have disturbed you. We’ll return in the morning.”

  “No, no. Come inside where we can get a look at you two. Leave the dogs.” The sisters left the door open and disappeared into the convent.

  The beasts sniffed at our heels, and we both flinched. I laughed. The dogs were small fluffy white poodles and looked like little snowballs. “The devil’s got a hold of those two, I tell ya.”

  “Aw, come on, Jason. They’re nice.”

  “Nice? Did you see their fangs? Their incisors were like a saber-tooth tiger’s.”

  Stumpy and I stepped inside. I shooed the dogs away and shut the doors.

  “I don’t know about their teeth. I didn’t see either one of them smile,” Stumpy said.

  I socked him in the arm. “I’m talking about the dogs, you dodo.”

  “Oh, of course. The dogs.” Stumpy laughed. “Geez. I wondered. Even for you those comments were insensitive.”

  We walked down the dimly lit arched stone hallway. It smelled like cold concrete. We made our way until we stood outside a main office door.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered. “Dogs or nuns—they all looked ready to bite.”

  We entered the office and sat in two wooden chairs. Fluorescent lights illuminated the modern office. Modern, that is, as opposed to the ancient abbey. The office was 1950s modern with dull white tile and metal cabinets. Paintings of Jesus and Mary hung on the olive-colored plaster wall. Black-and-white photographs of unsmiling nuns lined another wall. The sisters sat behind desks in front of us. A color photograph of Mother Teresa sat on Sister Lucia’s steel desk. A photograph of Pope John Paul II sat on Sister Claudette’s desk. Sister Claudette looked severe. She had a nameplate that proclaimed her mother of the place and her demeanor exuded superiority. Sister Lucia had a round, kindly face. She couldn’t stop smiling at us. I felt like she wanted to hug me.

  I whispered in Stumpy’s ear. “Be smooth. Keep it cool.”

  “And you must be Neil,” Sister Claudette said. “Better known as Stumpy?”

  Stumpy sat up straight at being called out. “Yes, Sister.” He looked like a miracle had been performed in front of him. “Amazing, Sister.”

  Sister Claudette opened an expandable legal-sized folder. “Oh, we know all about you two.” She pulled out a stack of letters and a couple dozen photos. “These items are mostly about Jason, though Clara kept us well informed.”

  She spread the photos in a line across the desk and I saw all the stages of my life before me.

  “You sure were a smiley kid,” Stumpy said.

  “So full of hope and promise,” Sister Claudette said.

  I squirmed in my seat.

  “But you haven’t aged well,” she said.

  “I’m only thirty-two.”

  “Yet filled with an old man’s contempt.”

  Aunt Clara had obviously confessed my sins and shortcomings to these two penguins in the pile of letters. If she had wanted me to own and work this vineyard, why did she sell me so short to these nuns? It was always fifty-fifty with Aunt Clara. She had to make it tough for me—a present with a problem. “Jesus,” I said.

  Sister Claudette shot me a wolfhound look, and if Sister Lucia hadn’t patted her hand I think she would have clambered across the desk and clamped my neck.

  “I can see the degradation of your soul in the photos, and I can see it before me,” Sister Claudette said.

  “I’ll admit to a little weakening, but degradation is a little over the barrel.”

  Stumpy touched a photo of the two of us standing arm in arm at a water park. We must have been seventeen. “You’ll notice the stark contrast between this photo …” Stumpy pointed to another photo. “… and this sad photo.” In the second photo I was smoking a cigarette leaning over the Brunswick Lanes’ Galaxy Bar. It was right after Laura had dumped me, and I don’t know who took the picture, but I did look horrible. “The spirit has clearly left the man,” Stumpy concluded.

  The sisters frowned and nodded.

  I stood up angrily. “What is this—an intervention?”

  “Should it be?” Sister Claudette said.

  “No.” I slapped Stumpy in the back of his head. “What are you doing?”

  Stumpy shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “Just talking. Just saying what I feel.”

  “Well, keep your feelings to yourself.” I looked at the sister Sisters. “And save your soul saving for the next drifter, ’cause we’re here on business. Now I was going to wait a few days until we got to know each other, but seeing as you all are so personal with me already, we may as well discuss business now. I’m here to sell the vineyard. This place is worth millions and that will help my soul out plenty.” I sat down. “Now let’s talk.”

  Everyone stared at me like I was Mephistopheles.

  “Real cool,” Stumpy said. “Real smooth.”

  Sister Claudette stood up. She placed her fists on the desk and leaned over. “The St. Sebastian Sisters have worshipped the Lord, harvested the grapes, and made wine—”

  “Like Jesus,” Sister Lucia whispered.

  “Like Jesus,” Sister Claudette said. “For nigh four hundred years now.”

  I sat back down, as did Sister Claudette. I clasped my hands together. “I understand your attachments are deep—”

  “Like the vine roots in the soil. We own the convent and a small parcel within the vineyard you have inherited.” She put her palms together as if in prayer. “And I’m sure you are aware that our approval is necessary if you want to sell the vineyard.” Sister Claudette looked at me with steadfastness. “But never will we sell.”

  “Wait, what?” I had to have their approval to sell? I took a moment to digest this troubling information. I smiled. “You’re coming in strong, Sisters, and I respect that. But at least we’re negotiating.”

  “We are doing no such thing.”

  “I’m willing to offer you a higher market value for your portion. Did you have a figure in mind?”

  Sister Claudette waved her hand back and forth like she was trying to swat me away. “You are not listening. We don’t care about market values or negotiating. We are not selling.”

  “But Sisters. Why don’t you let me sell? We can stipulate that the new owners keep the same agreements, and the St. Sebastian nuns can make wine here for the next four hundred years.”

  “Like Jesus,” Sister Lucia whispered.

  Sister Claudette glared irritably at Sister Lucia. “Whispering is not silence.”

  Sister Claudette then stared at me with a solemnity that weighed me down. I felt immobilized as her eyes pierced into mine. “Jason.” She made a tsk, tsk sound. “It is all much deeper than you think.” She stood up. “It is late. There is a guest room you can use.”

  “We have reservations at the hotel in town,” I said.

  “Nonsense. This is your land. It will be right for you to stay here. We shall clean up the vintner’s house tomorrow; it has remained empty for twenty years now.” Sister Claudette continued to stare at me. I felt unraveled, but I stared back as forceful
ly as I could.

  A nun led us down a dimly lit stone-walled marble hallway to a sparsely furnished dorm-like room.

  Stumpy and I lay side by side in twin beds, exhausted.

  “They’re tough,” Stumpy said.

  “Like French Foreign Legion tough.”

  “I don’t think they’re going to sell.”

  “I’ll think of something,” I said. “There’s gotta be a way.”

  “I don’t know, Jason. She said it goes deeper than we think.”

  “Yeah, what the hell?” I looked around, remembering I was in a convent. “Sorry, heck. What the heck was that all about?”

  “The way she said it … It feels powerful.” Stumpy rolled away from me and drifted off to sleep.

  Stumpy was right. Something did feel powerful. Cashing in on this vineyard might be tougher than I thought.

  Game on, Sister.

  CHAPTER 7

  I awoke late in the morning feeling fresh—jet lag in the bag. Stumpy, however, was having trouble with the time change and was a bit of a groggy mess. He wore a nice shirt to impress the nuns, but had buttoned it one off. It was classic Stumpy, and I thought it so funny I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.

  We toured the convent and met many nuns, but caught on quickly that a long conversation was the last of their intents. The rectangular abbey enclosed a large courtyard, where square plots separated by pebbled paths contained purple, yellow, and white flowers that I could admire but not name. A cloister walkway with Roman arches and columns lined the perimeter. In the courtyard center, Sister Lucia pointed to a large circular basin fountain that contained a statue of a robed and bearded man. “Saint Sebastian,” she said.

  “He looks a little stiff,” I said.

  Stumpy elbowed me in the side. “Respect, Jason.”

  “Respect, Stumpy.” I slapped him in the belly. “Try buttoning your shirt again.”

  We left the courtyard and stood outside in the shade and looked up to the gargoyle-protected church that formed the west wall. A cross sat atop the steeple, the tallest structure in the vicinity. A rectangular stone winery barn for making and storing wine stood close to the east wall.