by Nan
Petit Meurice did not acknowledge Clifford’s question. Instead, he gave the candle to Lily while he began moving some of the cartons. “You will like the next part of our journey,” he said, clearing a path toward an old walnut armoire. “Come.” He opened the ornately carved door. “We must hurry.”
Lily turned to Dwight. “Said the white rabbit to the sitting ducks.”
“Hurry where?” Clifford asked. “Into a closet?”
Petit Meurice nodded. “It is an armoire. A very old one.”
“You want us to go into a closet with you?”
Petit Meurice smiled. He took the candle from Lily and squeezed himself into the armoire. The four of them closed ranks as he removed the back panel to reveal a door. He pushed down the latch and leaned gently against it. They strained to see beyond the open door. There was nothing but blackness.
“Come,” Petit Meurice urged. His voice echoed as though he were standing in a tunnel. Only his face, with those great bulging eyes, was visible in the candlelight.
Lily took a step back. “I think we should let the Benjamins go first.” Everyone turned to look at Lily. “Well, fair is fair. We were kidnapped first!”
“I’m not going,” Clifford said.
“Come,” echoed Petit Meurice’s voice.
“Where?” Clifford asked. “Where are you taking us?”
A pause. And then a great whisper resounded like the first wave in a sudden storm. “Somewhere over the rainbow!”
They stood in stunned silence. Lily shrugged her shoulders. “Well, what the hell!” She stepped into the armoire and looked back at Emma and Clifford. “Come, come, you two. You can ask the Wizard for a heart and a brain.”
Dwight took Lily’s hand. As he walked into the armoire, he leaned back to help Emma. She held on to him and dragged Clifford in behind her. After stepping through the false door, they suddenly found themselves struggling to maintain their balance on a floor that curved up around them. Petit Meurice cautioned them to be quiet as he searched the wooden wall of the giant tubular structure. He then sighed with relief, put his fingers to his lips and whispered, “Shhhh!” He blew out the candle.
They were in total darkness. There was a dim yellow light as Petit Meurice opened another door. It was some sort of a tunnel. He listened for a moment and then put his head out the door. He looked from side to side, stepped down and motioned for them to follow. They walked out of an enormous wooden cask into a seemingly endless arched brick tunnel. Lining the walls, as far as they could see, were other casks lying on their sides.
Lily looked around fearfully. “I knew it! A few hours with them and we’re at the bottom of the barrel!”
Petit Meurice spoke in a barely audible whisper. “I have the pleasure to welcome you to the caves of Pommel et Bonnard.”
“The champagne?” Clifford asked.
“Shhh! We are not out of danger yet. There are many people working down here. You must not speak one word,” he cautioned them, “until it is safe.” Then he smiled. “I will explain things as we go. I think you will enjoy it.” He waited a moment. “Do you understand?”
The four of them looked at one another. As Clifford was about to say Yes, Lily put her hand over his mouth and nodded for him.
Petit Meurice turned back to the oak cask through which they had entered and closed the door. He smiled. “This was built for our most precious reserve. A reserve of old vintage wine is kept to blend with the pressing from the new harvest. It is the blending that gives the character unique to Pommel champagne. That is what all of these casks are filled with. The reserve. But this cask was built for an even more important mission.” His eyes narrowed. “It was an escape route for the Maquis during the Occupation. Those of us who were hidden in the cellars could escape through the vineyards. And now”—he motioned for them to follow him—“I am taking you the same way we brought in Claude Picard over thirty-five years ago.”
The four of them listened intently. “We carried him through here when he was wounded.” Lily opened her mouth as though she had suddenly remembered something.
Unconsciously, Emma reached down toward her right knee. Then, with the sudden awareness of being watched, she turned. Lily was staring at Emma’s hand.
They walked along the cold earthen floor, passing dozens and dozens of vats. “You see, unlike the fine wines of Bordeaux and Burgundy, the name on a bottle of champagne does not identify a single vineyard from which all of the grapes come. No, no. Champagne is a blend from a number of vineyards.” He turned back and smiled. “As the Maquis was a blend of people from all walks of life.” The smile left his lips as he said, “We were united in a common goal. To end the occupation.” He stopped to look both ways as they came to a crossroads. There was a small blue-and-white enamel plaque on each corner that informed them they had been walking along Galerie B and were making a right turn into Galerie 16.
“Most people do not realize that champagne is a manufactured wine. It is not simply that you grow grapes, press them and put the juice into bottles like those simpletons in Bordeaux.” They watched as Petit Meurice’s breath fogged in front of him. Galerie 15. Galerie 14. Galerie 13.
“Then there is the decision of how much sugar to add.” He turned back to them. “During the occupation, the Nazis controlled it all. Poor Madame Pommel had to bargain with them for sugar. How terrible for her! To have to beg to continue the tradition of her fine family! You see, they too invaded more than our privacy. They also invaded our national heritage.” Galerie 12. Galerie 11. “During the occupation they controlled everything. The sugar. The food. Even the films. Ah, the films they would not let us see! Such harmless films with pretty people singing and dancing.”
The arched brick tunnel that was Galerie 11 led directly into a series of smaller, darker tunnels whose curved limestone ceilings were covered with mold. Lying flat on their sides, stacked eighteen rows high, were green bottles of champagne undergoing fermentation. The nearly six-foot-high stacks ran for miles along both sides of the tunnels.
Petit Meurice motioned for them to stop. He cocked his head, listening for a sound he could not hear. With a great huffing, he bent his enormous frame down onto the floor and stretched out a hand in front of him. Allowing just the tips of his fingers to touch the cold earth, he shut his eyes as though listening with his hand. He rose quickly, taking a deep breath, and pushed the four of them against the wall between two casks. His eyes ablaze, he lifted a finger to his mouth as his lips formed the sound “Shhhh!”
Emma leaned her head on Clifford’s shoulder. Dwight embraced Lily. They heard nothing. But Petit Meurice stood still, barely breathing, as he nodded his head in anticipation. The hum had become a rumble, and then they heard a motor and the shaking of glass as a man on a front-load open truck hauled his cargo of bottles through the underground labyrinth. Once he could no longer be heard, Petit Meurice smiled and led them to where the bottles were stored.
“After the wine from the new harvest has fermented in vats, it is blended. So much from this vineyard, so much from that. And then the proper amount of reserve is added to bring the wine around. It has now become the special blend of the house called the cuvée. La cuvée. The specialty of the house.” He turned to them and smiled proudly. “The characters of the champagne houses are as different as the musicals from MGM were from those of RKO and Paramount.” He paused for a moment. “Can you imagine the Nazis not allowing us to see Babes on Broadway?”
As Galerie M led into Galerie N, Petit Meurice pointed to a dab of white paint on the bottom rim of each bottle. “The caviste marks each bottle. They are stored here for five years. Once each year every bottle is shaken to mix the sediment back into the wine. Then they are restacked.”
Emma began to cry. She put her hands over her mouth and looked helplessly at the others. Clifford brushed away the tears. Lily turned, not wanting Emma to see that she too was terrified.
They were tired and cold as they walked mile after mile. Twice they stopped
upon hearing the sound of an explosion. Excess gas produced by the sugar had caused some bottles to burst. “Of course, if the cuvée is composed solely of wine from a single harvest and no reserve is used, then a vintage is declared.” Petit Meurice turned back to look at them. “Nineteen forty-two and nineteen forty-five were vintage years for us,” he said defiantly.
There was light at the end of Galerie O. After over an hour of walking through dim, moldy tunnels, the mere promise of light, whatever the source, lifted their spirits. They walked quickly as though suddenly renewed.
Petit Meurice beamed with pride as they stepped into what appeared to be a lunar landscape. The smoothly arched ceilings of the tunnels gave way to the craggy, irregular shapes of wedges cut from whitewashed limestone-and-clay walls. Echoing the almost triangular shape of the wedges were wooden, inverted-V racks in which thousands of bottles were placed neck down. “This is where I do my work!” he said excitedly. “You see, after the bottles have slept on their sides for five years, they are brought to me and put into these racks. Pupitres. It is my job to turn and angle the bottles so that the sediment will slide down into the neck and rest against the cork. It is a very delicate operation,” he said, turning one bottle with each hand. “See?” He turned some sixty bottles in less than fifteen seconds. “All that is left for the others is to freeze the sediment onto the cork, remove it, add a little sugar syrup and recork it. But that part is very boring.”
Suddenly, Petit Meurice had nothing more to say and, seemingly, no place to go. Clifford took his arm from around Emma. He did not whisper as he asked, “Why have we stopped?”
“Because we are here.”
“Where?”
Petit Meurice reached up and loosened the screws that held marker number 9 to the wall. He pressed the latch, and a ten-inch-thick slab of limestone opened into a room. He motioned for the Simons and the Benjamins to enter.
The room was divided by floor-to-ceiling iron bars. Within the caged section were a table and four chairs. Petit Meurice held open the iron gate. With an overwhelming sense of doom, they walked to the table and read their names on the small white place cards. Silently, without being told, each sat in front of the correct card. They were not surprised to hear the cell door slam shut behind them.
IT was one o’clock. Or, as the voice in the War Room had just announced, “Bon Voyage minus five.” Etienne stood across the table from the Minister of Economy and Finance, the Prime Minister and the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. He picked up his pointer and began moving markers across the map of Europe spread out before them.
“Our initial estimates were based upon a standard unit price for all Common Market members.” Etienne smiled as he moved markers into Italy, Belgium and Luxembourg. “Our terms were full payment within thirty days.” He moved markers into England and Ireland. “The Swiss were furious at our restricting the bidding to EEC nations and offered payment in only ten days. To their chagrin, the others followed suit. Germany, as usual, overreacted outrageously. They had already volunteered payment on delivery.” Markers were pushed across the map into Denmark and The Netherlands. “All that was left, then, for the Swiss was to raise the price per unit. That was when everything got out of hand.” He moved the last markers into Germany and Switzerland. “I am pleased to report to you that in addition to covering our projected expenses for the evacuation and return, we will have a twelve-to fourteen-percent profit above our costs.”
The Prime Minister looked up and smiled. “Perhaps we should have such a sale every year.”
The Minister of Economy and Finance put his hand on Etienne’s shoulder. “You have done very well so far, Duvert. If your figures prove accurate, I am confident the President will be very pleased.”
“Pleased?” the Prime Minister scoffed. “If his figures are what he claims, I would not be surprised to see Duvert replace Brezol on the Council next year.”
Etienne felt his mouth grow dry. He did not know what to say for fear he would betray his excitement. He was grateful to hear himself being paged. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said walking to the telephone. “This is Duvert. I have a call on line seven.”
“Etienne?”
“Who is this?”
“Can you talk?”
“Who is this?”
“Durac. Pierre Durac. From the Louis.”
“What do you want, Pierre?”
“I want to help you. I have information of interest to you.”
“What information?”
“I know who is responsible for all of this. I can help you put a stop to it.”
“A stop to what?” Etienne asked.
“To the evacuation! To this madness.”
Etienne looked around, afraid someone might have overheard Pierre. “What are you saying? Is this a joke, Pierre?”
“A joke? Etienne, my life is at stake. I am calling on my private line, but I am not even sure that is safe. Listen to me, I can put an end to all of this!”
But it had all just begun for Etienne! By turning a national threat into a national profit, he had secured his entire future. And now Pierre was offering to put an end to it? “Listen to me, Pierre,” he hissed. “If you ever mention this conversation to anyone, anyone at all, I personally guarantee the world will know you were the informer. Worse than that, I will see to it that you are audited annually! And I will arrange for monthly health and building inspectors who cannot be bribed! As far as I am concerned, you have not called to tell me anything other than how well the evacuation is proceeding at the Louis. Do you understand?” There was a long pause. Etienne looked around guiltily and spoke in a loud voice. “I am pleased to learn your guests are in the lobby awaiting transfer to the airport.”
“And now you will listen to me, Etienne. If you ever mention this conversation to anyone, I personally guarantee that the Council will know you withheld vital information. You see, my friend, I have secretly been taping this entire conversation!”
Etienne put a hand to his head. “Why would you do a thing like that?” he whispered hoarsely.
Another pause. “Protection. In the event, as I feared, that you might be one of them. If you ever cause me any trouble, Etienne, I will release this recording more widely than a new song by Schubert! You will not dare to do anything to me. Do you understand?” Etienne smiled and sighed with relief. He would be safe now. Pierre was as frightened as he. “And so,” Pierre continued, squeezing the last drop of venom out of the conversation, “you think my guests are sitting in the lobby? Ha! I am sorry to disappoint you. But there is no one sitting in my lobby except my doorman. Surely you realize that at one o’clock our guests are not still in their rooms. They are all out, Etienne. They are out having lunch, fittings or facials.”
Etienne’s voice grew tense. “How many units are sitting in your lobby?”
“How many what?”
“Tourists! How many?”
“One British couple.”
“Where are the others?” he yelled.
“I told you. They are out. On the boulevards and in the boutiques. You will have to find them, my friend, if you wish to send them away.”
“Mon Dieu,” Etienne murmured as he hung up the receiver. He turned quickly to the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. “I must have a car and some trucks. At once!”
ETIENNE stood up in the front seat of the Jeep. A walkie-talkie was slung over his shoulder. He had Murphy’s binoculars around his neck. And he carried a bullhorn in one hand. The driver looked up at him as they reached street level from the underground garage. Etienne nodded to the right. The driver turned back to the convoy of twelve open troop trucks and made a broad gesture to the right. They proceeded slowly along the avenue de Marigny toward Place Beauvau. Etienne could almost hear the steady beat of a sarabande. He switched on the walkie-talkie and brought the microphone to his lips. Solemnly he announced, “We are about to take the St.-Honoré!”
As they turned the corner, Etienne gasped. Hundreds of shoppe
rs were lined up in front of stores already filled to capacity. There were twenty in front of Lanvin. At least twice as many at Cardin. The chic butterflies who once had flown from flower to flower had been replaced by swarms of impatient locusts. Each line had its own energy as it spilled off the sidewalk and into the street. Some moved steadily; others pulsated as heads bobbed up and down and bodies shifted from foot to foot. Those who squeezed out of the shops laden with packages had but a brief moment of victory as they pushed past the crowd of envious onlookers merely to join the end of another line.
The most elegant shopping street in Paris had become an Arabian bazaar. Shopkeepers peddled armloads of handbags and sweaters to those standing in line. Young women swirled brightly colored designer-initialed scarves and yelled, “Cent francs! Cent francs!” Black men in caftans held up wallets and belts. Students showed freshly painted scenes of Montmartre, urging, “Buy direct from the artist!” Pastries and sandwiches were being hawked like hot dogs during the ninth inning.
Etienne leaned forward against the windshield. He reached for his binoculars to estimate how many units were lined up in front of Louis Feraud. In front of Castillo. Down the block toward Roger & Gallet. It was a thrilling sight! He began counting to himself. One 747! A thin smile stretched across his nervous lips. Two 747’s! And that didn’t include the mob in front of Saint Laurent! He signaled for Commandant Giffard.
“Monsieur le Secrétaire?”
“Commandant, we must get through.”
“You don’t mean through that?” he asked pointing down the St.-Honoré.
“Yes! I don’t care how we do it. I don’t care how many men we need. We must get behind their lines!”
“But—”
“It’s not until we get them off the street that we can go in and clean out the boutiques!”
“But—”
“First we take the ones standing outside. Get them into the trucks quickly. We will need reinforcements. God knows how many of them are in Hermès!”
Commandant Giffard saluted. “A vôtre service, Monsieur le Secrétaire.”
