by Ann Mah
My cousins had grown up in this house, I thought, and their mother before them, and one of her parents before her, and back, and back, and back to the very first ancestor who had planted a stake at this spot. What would it be like to spend your whole life in the same small village, on the same patch of land, surrounded by the same people and things? I hadn’t lived with both my parents since I was twelve, when my mother’s bank promoted her to vice president—dependent upon transfer to Singapore. She’d hopped on the next flight to Asia, leaving my father to raise me. My parents sold their house in the Marin County suburbs and split the proceeds in their divorce. They both had new families now—a young wife and baby boy for my father and, for my mother, a silver-haired attorney to match her high-powered banking career, and a passel of grown stepchildren who lived in New York, conveniently halfway around the world from her.
I had spent enough time in France to know that the words “chez moi” meant something a thousand times more profound than one’s current home. “Chez moi” was the place your parents came from, or maybe even the region of your parents’ parents. The food you ate at Christmas, your favorite kind of cheese, your best childhood memories of summer vacation—all of these derived from “chez moi.” And even if you had never lived there, “chez moi” was knitted into your very identity; it colored the way you viewed the world and the way the world viewed you.
Where was my chez moi? Northern California, I supposed—I’d spent my entire life there—though, beyond my friends and colleagues, I didn’t feel a particular affinity for the place. I liked to eat take-out Chinese food at Christmas, my favorite kind of cheese was aged Gouda from the Netherlands—where I’d never set foot—and the best vacation I’d ever taken as a kid was a three-day pioneer camp in Yosemite with my eighth grade class. We had chopped wood, square-danced, and slept under the stars on burlap sacks stuffed with pine needles—no arguing parents allowed. At this point, my “chez moi” was more a space within myself—the dreams and ambitions that I carried with me—rather than any tangible place. For years I had been proud of this self-sufficiency, this minimalism—the ability to shape-shift into new jobs and new restaurants, or to pack up an apartment and move within two days.
But ever since I’d arrived in Burgundy, I had felt unsettled. Something about being here in the land of my ancestors, ensconced among the layered souvenirs of several generations, made me feel small and vulnerable. Alone. Maybe it came from cleaning out the neglected cellar—the dust of melancholy hanging over items no longer beloved. Maybe it was the effort of communicating in my faded French. Maybe it was the strain of forging a new normalcy with Jean-Luc. Or maybe it was the constant reminder of what I’d given up all those years ago: not only love, but also a home.
A sharp breeze banged the window against its frame, bringing me back to the present. I flushed the toilet, just in case anyone was outside, and washed my hands with cool water and lavender soap. But when I opened the door, I found the front hallway empty, and through the tall windows of the salon, I could see everyone still seated at the table outside. I lingered inside for a moment longer, standing before the bookshelves, steadying myself with a few deep breaths. Just another minute to clear my head.
My eyes drifted along the rows of books, wine guides and atlases, a set of encyclopedias, a row of French classics that included all the usual suspects: Madame Bovary, Les Misérables, Le Comte de Monte-Cristo . . . At this last title, I smiled. The Count of Monte Cristo. How many copies did one family need? I pulled the book from the shelf and opened it to the title page, peering at the inscription, which was written in an old-fashioned hand: “Benoît Charpin.” It was my grandfather’s book—though I found it hard to match my memories of the stern-faced, white-haired authoritarian with such a flamboyant tale of adventure. I leafed through the pages, breathing in the fusty smell of unaired paper. A slender pamphlet fell from the center, and as I bent to retrieve it, the cover caught my eye.
République Française
VILLE DE MEURSAULT
LIVRET DE FAMILLE
ANNÉE 1933
My breathing grew shallow. And then, before I could stop to consider what I was doing, I opened the booklet and turned its yellowed pages, squinting at the copperplate handwriting. It was a family record of sorts—a booklet issued by the French government. I scanned the first section, filled in by hand and marked with official stamps.
MARIAGE
Entre: Monsieur Charpin Edouard Auguste Clément . . . Né le 18 juin 1902 . . . Profession: Vigneron . . . Veuf de: Dufour Marie-Hélène . . .
Et: Mademoiselle Bonnard Virginie Louise . . . Née le 18 février 1908 . . . Profession: Néant . . . Veuve de: Néant . . .
Délivré le 3 mars 1933
Le Maire,
I thought back to the photograph Heather and I had found in the basement, of the proud vigneron and the beautiful, doll-faced woman standing beside him. “Our great-grandparents,” Nico had said. “Edouard and Virginie.” But wait. I examined the booklet once more, peering at Edouard’s details. “Veuf”? That meant “widower.” Had Edouard been married before?
I flipped to the next page, marked “Enfants.” Yes, here was the record for Benoît, born in 1934, and Albert, 1936.
The last page was labeled “Décès des Époux”—spouses’ deaths—and there was Edouard, dated simply “Printemps 1943”—Spring 1943. The rest of the book was blank, as if someone had stopped filling it in.
Had I missed Hélène? I flipped back to the front and scanned the pages again. No, her name wasn’t listed anywhere. But again, the word “veuf” leapt out at me. Did anyone know Edouard had been married twice? I reread the name of his first wife: Marie-Hélène Dufour. Hélène Marie was the inverse of Marie-Hélène—was that a coincidence?
I was so absorbed in the document, I didn’t realize someone had entered the room until a voice spoke behind me. “Ah, here you are. We were getting worried.” Uncle Philippe stepped from the shadows.
Almost instinctively, I slid the pamphlet behind my back. “You have so many interesting books on your shelves,” I said, holding up Le Comte de Monte-Cristo with my other hand.
He moved closer, reaching for the book. “Ah. This was my father’s favorite novel.” He turned a few pages. “Have you read this?”
“Um, yes, a long time ago,” I stammered, wondering how I could return the livret de famille without his notice. “In translation, of course.”
“Of course.” He smiled faintly. “And you recall the story?”
“More or less?” I tried—and failed—to keep the question mark out of my voice.
“Edmond Dantès is falsely accused of treason and imprisoned for many years,” he prompted me.
“And he escapes and becomes fabulously wealthy.”
“And exacts terrible revenge on those who wronged him.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“But do you remember why?” He tapped the book with a finger. “Why was Dantès imprisoned in the first place?” Before I could respond, he supplied the answer. “His friends set him up. They were jealous of his good fortune. And Dantès . . . well. He trusted the wrong people.” He snapped the book shut. “I do hope, Katreen, that our trust has not been misplaced.”
“Your trust in me?” I began to lift my hands, before remembering to keep them behind me. With a swift, desperate motion, I managed to slip the pamphlet into the waistband of my skirt. “Moi? No, of course not!”
He challenged me with a stare, but I kept my gaze steady. “D’accord,” he said eventually. “Well, shall we rejoin the others?” He gestured broadly, inviting me to go first.
Ignoring his penetrating glare, I maneuvered behind him so that he was forced to walk in front of me. As we stepped into the garden, I tugged at my sweater, making sure the livret de famille was completely hidden.
“We saved you some cheese,” Heather called as we made our way down the path, single file.
A wooden cheese board sat in the center of the table, it
s contents ravaged. I served myself, trying hard to maintain the original shape of each cheese.
“Qui veut du café?” Heather asked. “Coffee? Tea? I’ll go put the kettle on.”
“I’ll do it,” Aunt Jeanne said hastily, rising from the table. A few minutes later she returned bearing a pot of coffee and a gilt box of chocolates. “I almost forgot that Chloé brought us these.”
“Chloé! These are like tiny works of art.” I admired the colorful designs painted on each shell.
“Hmm?” My cousin looked up from her phone. “Oh, les chocolats? They’re just from the boutique down the street from our apartment. C’est pas grande chose!” she chirped, though I was sure that box had probably cost about half the GDP of Montenegro.
“What’s on the bottom layer?” Heather nudged a finger underneath.
My uncle’s hand shot out. “Don’t go poking around too much.” He snatched the box away. “You might not like what you uncover.”
9 OCTOBRE 1940
Cher journal,
It happened today in Beaune. I was on the place Carnot when two German soldiers stopped me and demanded to see my papers. I had never before been stopped while alone, and my hands started shaking as soon as I opened my handbag to find the documents. They spent ages scrutinizing the dates and stamps, checking and double-checking everything in minute detail. The whole time my heart was pounding so hard I feared they could hear its thundering beat. It’s sickening to have to submit to inspection by these people, to dread the sweep of their icy gaze, to be treated with such suspicion even when you have nothing to hide! I despise living this way, cowering like a beaten dog, yet there I was, barely able to squeak “Merci” when they gave me back my identity card.
Madame had sent me to Beaune to buy sugar. I used to love going into town, but now my visits are so rare, each time I am shocked afresh by the Germans swaggering everywhere—the cafés are heaving with them, the newsstands stacked with their papers, their flag hanging above the Hôtel de Ville, their pink, pork-fed faces crowding the train station. Oh! The mere sight of them fills me with such a revulsion, I fear it is seeping into my very soul.
At least I am usually too busy to obsess about this cancer of shame that is eating us alive. Our femme de ménage, Vieille Marie, retired in August and no one has come to replace her. Instead, Madame and I, though largely moi, it must be said, do all the cooking and cleaning, the washing, ironing, and shopping—ouf, the shopping alone could fill our days, calculating the allotment dictated by those horrid ration cards, standing in endless queues—collecting and chopping firewood for the stove, not to mention feeding the chickens and rabbits, and cleaning their hutches. Benoît and Albert sometimes help with the latter—when Madame judges them hale enough, which is not often.
In the weeks following the “Armistice,” I feared Madame was on the verge of a nervous collapse. She had virtually stopped eating and spent most of her days in bed, her forehead covered with a damp cloth (that is, when she wasn’t secreting away her “treasures,” moving them from one place to another, until even she couldn’t remember what she had concealed where). But a few weeks ago, Madame Fresnes invited her to attend a meeting of the Cercle du patrimoine français—some sort of French heritage society—at the Musée des beaux-arts in Beaune. We are all a little afraid of Madame Fresnes—even Papa!—because her husband presides over one of the oldest négociant houses in Burgundy, and there are rumors that one of her relations is close to our “dear leader,” Maréchal Pétain. So Madame forced herself to bathe and dress and off she went to town, drenched in perfume and wearing a violet silk day gown that billowed at her waist, she’s lost so much weight.
Well! She returned several hours later with a gleam in her eye, chattering about the authentic traditions of France, creating an ideal French village, and the strength of this new France under Vichy, a France that had been revitalized by her ordeal. Papa let her talk for a while, and then he quite calmly told her that he could not tolerate further praise for Vichy under his roof. Madame flushed and replied that we needed to work together with the Germans, that collaborating was the only way we would survive, and that if he would only accept the situation, he would see the Occupation wasn’t even that terrible for us here in the Côte d’Or. “Those of us who make wine, we are lucky!” she insisted.
And how did Papa respond to this defiance? (Because, trifling though it was, it was undeniably defiance.) For a moment, he slumped in his seat, deflated. Then he pushed his chair from the table and stalked away, muttering something about letters to write. In short, he did nothing.
As far as I’m concerned, these Cercle du patrimoine meetings have rather proved to be a boon. Ever since she started attending them a few weeks ago, Madame’s spirits have improved—she hums around the house, she teases the boys. In fact, she has been rather pleasant—no, strike that. Madame could never be pleasant. But she has softened toward me slightly, as if trying to apply the spirit of cooperation within her own home. Yesterday she even thanked me for cleaning the WC! And today she shooed me off to Beaune, saying she would prepare the evening meal. “It’ll do you good to have a change of scenery after so many weeks cooped up here—ça fait du bien!” she trilled.
Papa, on the other hand, has been distracted and forgetful of late, quiet almost to the point of silence, fretful with worries that I can only guess are related to the domaine. We had another dismal, cold summer, and this year’s harvest was disastrous—even worse than the last, the grapes so sparse and green it took us only three days to pick them. Even if Papa had wanted to chaptalize the must to encourage fermentation, there was no sugar to do so, and goodness knows how we’ll clarify the wine with our limited supply of eggs. If things continue in this manner, we’ll scarcely have any wine to sell to that portly German Weinführer who seems so eager to buy it.
The stress of all this has rapidly aged Papa. In the past six weeks, his hair has gone greyer and he appears to have shrunk within himself. He disappears for hours in the afternoons. When I asked him about it, he told me he was pruning the vines. I expressed surprise—because pruning season doesn’t usually start until the winter—and he snapped at me and told me to mind my own business. He stormed from the house and about a quarter of an hour later, I saw him amid the vineyards walking back and forth. Pacing, pacing. I have absolutely no idea what he was doing.
Yesterday I was chopping wood behind the house when Papa appeared. His shoulders were stooped in that peculiar manner that has become so familiar, and his entire face blanched, even to his lips. When I paused to fetch more logs, he picked up the axe and began to wield it, splitting the dry wood with far more force than was necessary. I crept up behind him and heard him muttering between blows: “It is they who have taken leave of their senses . . . not I. Them. Not I. Them. Not I. Them.” After he had chopped for several minutes, he threw the axe to the ground and strode off toward the stables. I didn’t see him until the next morning when he appeared after breakfast with a grizzled face, reeking of stale drink, his grim expression forbidding any questions or exclamations of concern.
Frankly, I am worried about Papa. At times he seems hollow, callow with shame, utterly defeated; at others he crackles with suppressed fury. Meanwhile, Madame holds her tongue until he disappears—she does not have to wait long—and then prattles endlessly about the charming ladies she sees at the Cercle du patrimoine, women of such beauty, elegance, and wealth (according to her descriptions), they could rival Helen of Troy. Truthfully, of late, I have found Madame’s attitude more tolerable than that of Papa. At least she swallows her fear for the sake of the boys. Yes, she needles us into submission, but the end result is that she maintains some semblance of a routine. And that helps us stumble through this purgatory of uncertainty.
Oh! There is Papa, listening to the wireless in his office. There are the four gloomy beats of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, the faint murmur of words—“Ici Londres. Les français parlent aux français”—so that I know it’s Radio Londres, the BBC
’s French service, which is forbidden. I must tell him to lower the volume—even from my room upstairs I can hear it.
Chapter
7
“We’ve made progress, don’t you think?” The light flicked on and Heather began clomping down the stairs.
“What is this, Groundhog Day?” I teased, following her into the cellar.
“Oh, come on, I don’t say it that much.” She turned with one hand on the stair rail. “Do I?”
“At least every morning. And usually after lunch, too.”
“Well, if I do, it’s only because it’s true. Look, I can do this now!” She jumped off the last step and turned to face me, stretching her arms out on either side. “See what I’m touching? Nothin’!”
I laughed. “Okay, so what’s the plan for this afternoon? Should we finally tackle the armoire?”
Our gazes traveled to the behemoth standing against the far wall: a hulking carved wardrobe, about six feet high and almost twice as wide. How anyone had squeezed it down the narrow cellar stairs was a mystery that defied spatial logic. Yet there it stood, dominating the wall that ran perpendicular to the windows, its dark wood covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. We had avoided touching it because all five of its mirrored doors were shattered, the cracks radiating like cobwebs.
Our reflections in the broken mirrors showed our faces refracted into a Cubist specter. “Yeah, I guess.” Heather repressed a shiver. “That thing spooks me.”
