by Ann Mah
“Why not take this time to completely immerse yourself in exam preparations?” Jennifer said, when she called me the next morning. “From where I’m sitting, this looks like a perfect opportunity to do some extended wine travel.”
“Except for the pesky problem of money.”
“Airbnb your apartment. Use your savings to buy a plane ticket to France. Don’t you have family with a vineyard in Meursault?”
“Ye-es,” I admitted.
“Ask them if you can stay for a couple of months. Tell them you want to help out in the vineyard in exchange for room and board. Trust me, I’ve never known a vigneron to turn down free labor. And,” she said, warming to the idea, “if you start planning soon enough, you could even be there for les vendanges!”
Jennifer could be opinionated and meddlesome, but in all the years that I’d known her, she’d never given me bad advice. I swallowed my pride, wrote to Heather and Nico, and, a couple of weeks later, found myself in the last place I ever thought I’d be: on a direct flight bound for Paris.
Chapter
2
“Here we go.” Heather twisted the knob and the door opened with a creak, revealing a flight of stairs descending to a pool of darkness. “Brace yourself,” she added.
I followed her down to the cellar, breathing in the cool air, damp with the suggestion of mold. A naked bulb swung from the ceiling, casting a weak light on the mounds of junk filling the room. Old clothes spilled from gaping boxes, magazines and newspapers slid into heaps, stacks of broken furniture threatened to topple and crush us. I saw televisions that predated remote controls, a radio that predated television, a cracked globe that predated the Soviet Union, and several fans that might have predated modern electricity. And that was only the area in front of us.
Heather tipped her head up. “Good gravy,” she whispered. “Does it breed and multiply while we sleep?”
“This is like an episode of Hoarders.”
“Huh?” She tore her eyes away to glance at me.
“You know—that reality show where they put on hazmat suits and clean out people’s houses.”
“There’s an entire TV show about this? God, sometimes I feel so out of touch with the States.”
“People die from hoarding. All the stuff collapses on them and they suffocate.”
“Are we the dudes in hazmat suits, or the people getting buried alive?”
“We could be both.”
“I would laugh,” she said darkly. “But it might turn out to be true.” She unfurled a roll of garbage bags. “Come on. You start on that side, I’ll tackle this side, and we’ll meet in the middle, probably some time next February. Sound good?”
“Sure.” I nodded, and she ripped off a wedge of black plastic sacks and handed it to me.
After lunch, Heather had wanted to take me to Beaune, to stroll the crooked streets of the old town and sip lemonade on the place Carnot. “It’s your first day,” she had said. “We have plenty of time to clean out la cave before the vendanges begin.”
And yet she had seemed almost relieved when I suggested we start working right away. “I want to help you as much as I can,” I had said, which was partially true. I didn’t add that I wasn’t ready for an afternoon of reminiscences or the confidences exchanged by two friends who hadn’t seen each other for a decade.
Now we worked in companionable silence, the only sounds the rip of cardboard, the rustle of plastic bags. Occasionally I’d call out the contents of a box. “Stained onesies. Cracked pacifiers. Ratty stuffed animals.”
“Chuck!”
“About a million cloth diapers.”
“Chuck!”
“Some sort of medieval torture device?” I held up a plastic object flailing with rubber tubes.
“Oh Jesus, my breast pump. Chuck!”
It was strange, I mused, rummaging through these mementos, trying to assess them without knowing their sentimental value. Like this pile of polyester shirts crackling with primary colors and static cling. I held one up, blinking at the bold yellow and blue stripes; the name “CHARPIN” was printed on the back with a huge number “13” below it. “Soccer uniforms . . . maybe Nico’s?” I called out.
“Chuck!” And then, more quietly: “But don’t tell him.”
I placed one of Nico’s soccer jerseys in the keep pile and slipped the rest into a garbage sack. When I opened the next box my fingers brushed soft leather, and I pulled out a pair of tiny booties laced with faded pink ribbons. Turning them over, I saw a name—Céline—embroidered on the soles, and I knew the shoes had belonged to my mother, who had grown up in this house. Try as I might, I found it difficult to picture her as a baby wearing something so sweet. In my mind’s eye she appeared always the business professional, crisp and polished, her blond bob impeccable.
I hesitated. Should I save the shoes for her? She had never been sentimental about her heritage. In fact, by the time I was born, she had abandoned her mother tongue—shedding even her accent—and relinquished her French citizenship “for tax purposes,” passing neither to me. Still, these tiny shoes were one of the few things left from her childhood. I placed them in the keep pile for now.
At the bottom of the box, I found a miniature sailor suit in yellowed fabric, with a square collar and brass buttons. “Oh, look!” I exclaimed. “This must’ve belonged to Uncle Philippe.” I reached for an empty carton. “I’ll start a box for him and Aunt Jeanne.”
Heather came over and took the outfit from my hands. She hesitated. “Nico’s parents are on vacation in Sicily.”
“Right, but they can sort through everything when they get back.”
Again she hesitated, and even in the gloomy light, I saw a flush rising to her cheeks. “I suppose you’re right,” she finally said, and moved back to her side before I could ask any questions.
By late afternoon, we were wading through a sea of brimming garbage bags. And yet, the cellar appeared strangely untouched, still overflowing with mountains of junk. “I swear it mushrooms every time we turn around,” Heather groaned as we carried boxes and plastic sacks up and out, heaving them into the bed of Nico’s pickup truck. But after a cup of tea and several shortbread cookies, we both started to cheer up. Back in the basement, we reshuffled a few boxes and managed to expose about three square feet of cellar floor. Heather dragged a suitcase into the space, a boxy rectangular relic of another era with hard sides, scratched leather trim, and a brass clasp. A thick leather handle dangled from the top.
“Can you imagine lugging this thing around? With no wheels?” She knelt to unlock the clasp. “Humph.”
“What is it?” I looked up from a box of books.
“It’s stuck.”
“Here.” I squeezed past a metal shelving unit. “Let me see.” Kneeling beside the suitcase, I saw a nameplate next to the thick handle, a worn leather tag bearing the initials H.M.C. I squeezed the clasp. “It’s locked. Is there a key? Look on the floor.”
She switched on her cell phone’s flashlight and trained its beam on the ground. “I don’t see anything.” She tried the clasp again. “Maybe we could force the lock? Is there a toolbox down here?”
“We could try”—I felt around in the pocket of my jeans—“this?” I held out my wine key.
She laughed. “Do you always carry that thing around with you?”
“In case of emergencies.” I handed it to her.
She inserted the tip of the corkscrew into the lock and pounded the end with the spine of a French-English dictionary. “I don’t know if this’ll work.” She winced as the heavy book hit her thumb.
“Let me try.” I grabbed the dictionary and took careful aim, hitting once, twice. I felt a sharp, sudden pop, and the clasp sprang open.
“I will never make fun of your wine key again,” Heather vowed, lifting the suitcase lid. “Ugh. More old clothes. Can you believe it?”
I knelt and pulled out a faded dress in a flowered cotton print. It looked like it was from the 1940s: a modest square n
eck, short puffed sleeves. It also looked well-worn: dingy stains under the arms and, scattered on the skirt, a constellation of tiny holes radiating around a large one, as if the material had been scorched. Underneath it lay a second cotton dress, the style the same, but made up in red-and-white polka dots, with more nibbled holes on the skirt. A sensible pair of culottes in thick brown tweed. A pair of T-strap sandals, the grey suede worn shiny. A smashed, fawn-colored hat with a moth-eaten brim. Several pairs of crocheted ladies’ gloves, and one loner in nubby black silk piqué.
“Whose clothes are these?” I held up the polka-dot dress. It fell just below my knee, cut for someone who matched my height. “This stuff can’t have belonged to my grandmother. She was tiny.”
“Look.” Heather was still digging through the case. “There’s some other stuff. A map.” She unfolded it. “Paris et ses banlieues. Paris and its suburbs?” She dug to the bottom. “And . . . an envelope!” She lifted the flap and revealed a stack of black-and-white photographs that proved too difficult to examine in the dim light. “Should we head upstairs? I need to start dinner, anyway.”
In the brightly lit kitchen, we washed our grimy hands before inspecting the photos. “I’m almost positive this is one of our parcels of land.” Heather held up a snapshot of vineyards punctuated by a small stone hut with a pointed tile roof. “I recognize the cabotte. It’s oval, which is kind of rare—they’re usually round.” Next, a picture of two young boys beside a yellow Labrador retriever. The last was a posed group shot in front of the house. In the center stood a stocky man with a dark moustache, the hint of a smile on his lips, a peaked cap shading his eyes. A slender woman stood beside him wearing a checkered cotton dress and a stiff smile on her porcelain features. In front crouched the same two boys from the photograph with the dog. The smaller one scowled at the camera, while the other, slightly older with rumpled hair, gazed into the lens with dark eyes set in a pale, thin face. Towering beside the kids stood a teenage girl, wavy brown hair falling to her shoulders, clad in a flower-print dress, with a pair of round, tortoiseshell spectacles on her face.
“The girl’s dress,” I said. “It’s the same one from the suitcase.”
“Who is she? Do you recognize anyone?” Heather asked.
I shook my head. “My mom’s never been big on family history. But this kid”—I pointed at the scowling boy—“looks exactly like Thibault. Don’t you think?”
She started to laugh. “You’re totally right.” She squinted at the faces, then flipped the photo over. “Les vendanges. 1938. So, it’s not Nico’s dad, because he was born in the ’50s.”
“One of these kids must be Grandpère Benoît. But who does this suitcase belong to? As far as I know, he didn’t have a sister.” I touched the battered nameplate, running a finger over the initials. “Who’s H.M.C.?”
Heather shook her head. “I have no idea. A long-lost aunt? A disgraced daughter?”
Before I could respond, the back door flew open and Thibault hurtled inside. “Mama!” He flung himself at Heather. “We have a surprise for Kate!”
“For me?” I said.
Anna appeared at the door, and then Nico, his arms filled with bottles. “I selected some wines for a dégustation—to help you prepare for the exam,” he told me.
“Yes!” Heather clapped her hands together. “That means we can have the three c’s for dinner.”
“What are the three c’s?” I asked, as Nico handed me a bottle to open.
“Charcuterie. Cheese. Crudités.” Heather ruffled her daughter’s hair, before bending to retrieve a couple of wooden boards from a low cupboard.
“Everything you need for a balanced meal,” Nico said.
“And no cooking!” she added.
Twenty minutes later we were sitting round the kitchen table cutting through oozing cheeses, piling slivers of saucisson sec on sliced baguette, and heaping salad on our plates. An array of stemmed glasses stood before us.
“Now taste this one.” Nico poured another white wine into my glass and watched as I swirled and breathed deeply.
“The color is pure and bright . . . yellow with hints of gold . . .,” I began. “Stone fruits on the nose—white peaches . . . and something toasty. Almonds?” I tipped a few drops on my tongue. “Yes . . . peaches. Apricots. And a lovely, long finish with notes of spice.” I took another sip and sighed a little. When I opened my eyes, I found everyone watching me—Heather, Nico, the kids with their crusts of baguette held aloft in midair.
“Alors?” Nico raised his heavy eyebrows.
“Magnificent,” I said, stalling for time.
“So? What appellation?” He spun the label away from me.
I deliberated. “Montrachet?”
He turned shocked eyes upon me. “Mais non, Kate. The last wine was a Montrachet. This is a Meursault. Our wine. Try it again.”
The second sip revealed floral notes beneath the fruit, and something sensual—almost seductive—that I couldn’t place. My mind whirred, trying to pin it down. Where had I drunk something similar? “It’s somehow—it’s familiar.”
“Pas mal, Katreen!” Nico pursed his lips together and nodded. “It is the wine of Jean-Luc’s domaine. His father produced it.”
“Ah. Jean-Luc’s father.” I swallowed a little harder than I’d intended.
“It’s one of the last vintages of Les Gouttes d’Or he ever made,” said Nico. “I pulled it from the cave so you could compare it to the others.”
“Les Gouttes d’Or—Drops of Gold,” I repeated. I took another sip and a memory rose, unbidden: Jean-Luc’s hands cradling a bottle coated in a thick, white-grey web of cellar mold. “Les Gouttes d’Or,” he had said, his eyes shining with pride. “My family’s wine. This is a 1978, one of the most exceptional millésimes. And the first wine my father made.” A wave of nostalgia hit me, so powerful the wine turned bitter on my tongue.
“Mama!” Thibault broke the silence, dropping his fork with a clatter. “I want to watch Barbapapa! All done!”
I pushed my glass away and hoped no one had noticed.
“I’m done, too.” Anna slid from her chair.
“Wait, wait, what do you say?” Heather looked at them expectantly.
“Thank you for dinner, Mama! Please can I get down?” they chorused.
“You may,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”
They disappeared into the living room and seconds later the TV began buzzing in the background.
“Speaking of les caves”—Heather reached for her wineglass and took a sip—“Kate and I found some interesting stuff down there today.”
“Ah bon? Quoi? ” Nico reached over and speared a slice of ham from Thibault’s laden plate. “A scratched Louis XV escritoire?” he said hopefully. “Or maybe a hideous painting that’s really the work of a young Picasso?”
“Uh, no. More like an old suitcase . . . full of clothes. And some old photographs.” She stretched, grabbed the photos from the counter, and handed them to Nico, hovering over his shoulder as he flipped through them.
“This is from one of our parcels of land,” he said, pausing at the picture of the vineyards and stone hut. “My father used to take me camping out at the cabotte. Do you remember, Kate? I think we brought you one summer. Papa always said it was like the olden days. Comme autrefois.”
The memory of a dark night took shape in my mind. A sky scattered with stars. Flickering camp light. Pork sausages cooked on sticks and, instead of s’mores, squares of dark chocolate tucked into a length of baguette.
“We used to build a fire in the middle of the hut.” Nico turned to the next picture, the group shot. “Wow, the house looks exactly the same.”
“It was taken in 1938.” Heather snuck a cornichon off his plate. “Do you recognize anyone?”
Nico peered at the figures. “Here.” He indicated the stocky man whose heavy Gallic features and dark eyes mirrored his own. “That’s our great-grandfather. Edouard Charpin. He died quite young in a work camp durin
g the war . . . it must’ve been just a few years after this photo was taken. And this”—his finger moved to the slender woman—“this is our great-grandmother, Virginie. And this is our grandfather, Benoît.” He indicated the thin-faced child. “And the little boy is his brother, Albert. He became a Trappist monk.”
“Seriously?” Heather asked.
“It wasn’t uncommon back then, chérie.”
“Who’s this?” Heather leaned over Nico’s chair so that her head touched his. She pointed at the young woman in a flower-print dress. “Is she related to you guys?”
He examined the photo more closely. “She looks so much like—”
“Thibault?” Heather interrupted. “I kind of thought so, too.”
Nico glanced up, confused. “I was going say that she looks like Kate. Look at her mouth.”
Heather sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh my God, you’re right.”
I gazed at the girl in the photograph. Did she also have green eyes? Faint freckles dusting her nose? When I looked up, Heather and Nico were staring at me so intently that I flushed.
“Who is H.M.C.?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Those initials are on the suitcase.”
“I don’t know,” Nico admitted. “My father’s the person who really knows our history. He keeps the livret de famille—the family record.” He slipped the photos back into the envelope. “Of course, as you know, he can sometimes be . . . touchy about things like that. He doesn’t like talking about the past.”
I nodded, recalling Uncle Philippe’s sharp features and hooded gaze. He had terrified me as a child, with his ability to silence our squabbles with a single withering glare. Even as a college student, I had found his cold formality intimidating—not to mention the way he never hesitated to correct my French so that I found myself tongue-tied around him. No, Nico was right. My uncle was not someone who would welcome questions about the past.
“It seems so sad, though.” I fingered the edge of the envelope of photographs. “She’s just been forgotten. Lost to time.”
