The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

  “He’s just a monk, Kat, not vanished from the face of the earth.” But the glimmer of a smile softened his words.

  I picked up my half of the burrito. “How do you like the carne asada?” I asked, gesturing at his plate.

  But Jean-Luc didn’t respond. He was staring somewhere over my shoulder, his mouth drawn into a frown. “You know,” he said musingly, “Louise had a meeting at the Abbaye de Cîteaux a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, really?” I couldn’t imagine a more unlikely visitor to a monastery. “Well, I’m sure that was just a coincidence. I distinctly remember Nico saying that Albert became a Trappist monk.”

  He gave a cough so sharp, I feared he was choking. “Oh, Kat,” he said. “Trappists and Cistercians—they’re the same thing.”

  A familiar, panicky feeling buzzed within my chest, as angry as a wasp. “What was her meeting about? She doesn’t know about the secret cellar, does she?” I asked.

  “I—” The heat was rising in his cheeks. “Maybe. I didn’t tell her,” he added quickly. “But the other day, she was asking strange questions about Nico and his father, and how your family survived the war. It didn’t mean anything to me at the time, but . . .”

  The feeling in my chest was growing more and more uncomfortable. Across the table, Jean-Luc was watching me with concern. “If Albert is still alive . . .” I took a deep breath. “Damn it! I wish I wasn’t so far away.”

  “Can you come back to Burgundy? I probably have enough airline miles to get you a ticket.” Jean-Luc leaned his elbows on the table.

  I could still smell the cellar’s moist, moldy air, feel its chill touching my face and bare arms. I had left without uncovering all its secrets and still they beckoned to me. For a moment, I hesitated, tempted. But no—with all my obligations, it was impossible.

  “But, ah, of course, you cannot leave right now.” Jean-Luc’s tawny eyes were watching me. “Your responsibilities must be keeping you here in San Francisco. The exam for the Master of Wine, it is only a few weeks away, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Two weeks,” I said, touched that he had remembered. “Although another trip to the Côte d’Or probably wouldn’t be the worst idea, at this point.” I had performed so dismally at the last practice session with Jennifer, she had pointedly remarked it was difficult to believe I had ever spent time in Burgundy at all.

  “And your work at the restaurant, as well. You’re extremely talented at your job, Kat. I saw tonight how much they are relying on you.” He smiled at me with something that looked like pride.

  “Er, I don’t know about that.” I coughed awkwardly. “Although it is true that I can’t afford to piss them off. I’ll need that job if I don’t pass The Test.” It was the first time I had admitted the possibility out loud.

  “Ne t’inquiète pas,” he reassured me. “You will succeed.” His nod was so firm, his confidence so certain, that, for a tiny sliver of a moment, I felt sure of myself, too. It caught me off guard, this feeling of hope. “Thanks,” I said. Without thinking, I reached over to squeeze his arm—but I had forgotten that my hand was still greasy from the tacos, and my fingers left oily smudges on his clean sleeve. “Oh! I’m so sorry!” I said, snatching my hand away, knocking over his beer in the process. Liquid cascaded across the table, flowing into his lap. “Oh my God, I am so sorry!” I cried.

  “C’est bon—ça va.” Jean-Luc blotted at his trousers with a napkin. He stood to fetch more napkins, and I saw that he was completely soaked.

  “Maybe I should take you back to your hotel,” I said.

  He opened his mouth to respond—and suddenly a yawn engulfed him, followed by another, and another. “Désolé,” he apologized, forcing open his drooping eyelids, blinking several times. And then, after a pause, “Ouais—I should probably get some sleep. I have a long flight back tomorrow.”

  “Sure.” I slid back my chair and stood, swinging my bag over my shoulder with a jaunty gesture in an effort to dispel a pinch of irrational disappointment.

  Twenty minutes later I deposited Jean-Luc at his hotel, bade him farewell with an awkward hug from the front seat, and watched him stagger through the glass doors to the lobby. Then I drove home and went straight to bed, exhausted. But in the last quiet moments before sleep, I thought about our conversation, and when I finally drifted off, it was on a raft of conviction that made me feel calmer and more clear-headed than I had in weeks.

  I slept late the next morning, pulling the covers over my head to block out the muted light of another cloudy day. My phone rang a couple of times, but when I saw it was Amy, I ignored it. My coworker was no doubt calling for gossipy details about my evening with Jean-Luc, and even though absolutely nothing had happened, I still felt reluctant to talk about him with anyone.

  It was almost noon when I finally emerged from the duvet and began moving around the apartment to the soothing sounds of NPR. I brewed coffee, showered, and popped the last pieces of bread in the toaster. I’d have to go to the store before work; I should make a grocery list . . .

  BZZZ BZZZ. My phone vibrated against the counter, and I swiped at the screen with a finger, accidentally smearing it with peanut butter. My smile faded when I saw a text from Amy.

  HEY LADY! WHERE ARE YOU? I tried to call but you’re probably still with Frenchie. SO guess what? The Health Dept. came by this morning. SURPRISE! Remember those weird coffee grounds all over the bar? Turns out it’s COCKROACH SHIT. Long story short, we FAILED the inspection. Chef is PISSED and Becky’s ass is FIRED. Restaurant has to CLOSE for 5 days for treatment. Chef will call everyone next week about a staff meeting and reopening. Perfect timing for you, right?;) Have fun with Frenchie! CALL ME!!!

  I placed the phone back on the counter. The restaurant was closed? Was this some sort of sign? I took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and tapped “Hotel Lombard San Francisco” into Google. Seconds later, I was speaking to a receptionist, and then the sound of ringing filled my ear: once, twice, three times, four, five . . .

  “Allô?” said a groggy voice.

  “Jean-Luc?” I said. “C’est moi, Kat. Je veux t’accompagner. I want to go with you.”

  Chapter

  15

  I was tucked between crisp sheets, the comforting weight of a down-filled duvet draped across my body. Under my head I had arranged two pillows, perfectly fluffed, and yet they kept collapsing. I plumped them, shaking them to fit into the hollow of my neck. Again my head crushed the pillows. Again. Again. Again. If I couldn’t fluff the pillows correctly, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. And if I couldn’t sleep, how would I be able to concentrate on The Test the next morning? I punched the pillows into the proper shape and lay down again. My eyes fluttered shut, my mind began to drift . . . suddenly, with a sharp jerk, my head snapped forward, my eyes flew open, and there was Louise, snatching the pillows away. “Mine,” she said. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

  “Kat. Kat. On est presque là.” Jean-Luc’s voice broke into my dream.

  My eyes flew open, the dream shattered. We were in Jean-Luc’s truck, speeding along the motorway. The dull ache in my neck testified to the awkward position in which I’d been sleeping.

  Jean-Luc and I had been traveling for almost twenty-four hours. First, there was the flight from San Francisco to Paris, and then—after picking up Jean-Luc’s truck from the long-term parking garage at Charles de Gaulle airport—the drive from Paris to Beaune, which on this three-day weekend of Lundi de Pentecôte lasted seven hours instead of the usual four. Needless to say, we had made several stops for coffee.

  I swallowed a yawn and looked out the window. I’d last seen this landscape six months ago, just as the fiery blaze of fall foliage had started to fade along the slopes. In my absence, the vines had slept and awoken again, sending out tender fronds, tightly furled, and glowing green in the distance. From the rushing car, I couldn’t see the hard clusters of unripe fruit sheltered beneath the verdant canopy, but I knew they were there, just as I knew the sun would sweeten those grapes and dr
aw color to their skins.

  We passed a sign that read “Route des Grands Crus,” and then another for Beaune, skirting the town before we turned west toward Meursault. “I should probably give Heather a call,” I said, digging in my bag for my cell phone. “I feel really bad that I didn’t get in touch earlier to ask if I could stay.”

  Jean-Luc glanced at me, and then returned his eyes to the road. “Ils sont en plein travaux,” he said. “The house is a complete wreck—they’re living out of three rooms, with a hot plate. I was thinking you’d be more comfortable staying with me.”

  “Sure!” I said quickly, before an awkward silence could descend. “Thanks—I completely forgot about their renovation.” We continued a few miles, the landscape growing increasingly familiar as we passed the garden center, the Carrefour shopping complex, the gas station. It felt strange being here without Heather and Nico, but then I thought back to her email of a few months ago: I’m ready to close this particular chapter of Charpin family history. Maybe it was best to spare them this fresh round of amateur sleuthing—or at least investigate its merit before dragging them back into the mire of emotions.

  The truck was climbing now, nearing the top of a slope, and Jean-Luc was looking out the windshield and frowning at his rows of grapevines, which seemed meticulously tidy and vibrant with health. A few minutes later, we were pulling into his driveway, the front garden a profusion of peonies, early roses, and wild lavender beds, the rough walls of the old stone house shimmering in the afternoon heat. I hesitated a moment before following Jean-Luc to the side door, our feet crunching on the gravel.

  Within the thick walls, it was dark, quiet, cool. I stood in the mudroom, breathing in the smells of musty fleeces and waxed raincoats draped along the walls, the laundry detergent drifting from the machines in a side room. I hadn’t been inside this house for nearly ten years, but it appeared unchanged. How many times had I inadvertently pictured the kitchen’s beige laminate countertops and scuffed oak cabinets, the linoleum floors, clean but worn, the large round table tucked into the nook of the bay window? How many times had I thought about the warmth radiating from the old cream-colored Aga standing against the wall? I sidled up to it, holding my hands above the burners. It was stone cold.

  “Ah, I let it go when Maman moved to Spain.” Jean-Luc said when he saw my face. “If I’m going to make pasta or something, it’s easier to just use the electric cooker.”

  “Makes sense,” I agreed. But without the stove’s steady warmth, the kitchen seemed to have lost some piece of its soul.

  “I thought you could stay in the blue room,” Jean-Luc was saying. “First door at the top of the stairs. The femme de ménage came while I was away so the sheets should be clean.” He moved back toward the mudroom. “I’ll bring the bags inside. If you want, you can have a little rest before we decide what to do first.”

  The wide stairs creaked under the thick carpet. I peeked into the bathroom—same flowered curtains, same eau-de-nil toilet and sink, though Jean-Luc had replaced the cracked tub with a shower—and continued to the blue room. Two narrow twin beds greeted me, covered in blue-and-white toile duvets. I collapsed onto the closest one, closed my eyes, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  I woke at dusk, eyes dry and burning, heart racing. Slowly the pieces returned to me: Burgundy. Jean-Luc’s house. My great-uncle Albert. Had Louise met with him at the monastery?

  I struggled from the bed and moved to the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth and threw cold water on my cheeks, and then headed downstairs to the kitchen. I found Jean-Luc hovering over the electric stove with a wooden spoon in one hand. A colander of chopped broccoli sat on the counter, and the smell of browning garlic perfumed the air.

  “Oh, hi!” He looked surprised to see me. “Did I wake you?” I shook my head. “Are you hungry?” He waved the spoon in the direction of a bubbling pot. “I’m making some pasta.”

  “You’re cooking?” The words, steeped in incredulity, escaped me. I saw a flush creep across Jean-Luc’s face. “Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I mean, wow, you’re cooking! Pasta sounds great. Merci,” I said, as he handed me a glass of white wine.

  We ate at the kitchen table—the site of so many other meals together, the site of our ill-fated engagement—both of us sitting in different seats than we had ever used before.

  “This looks delicious.” I gazed at the shallow bowl of penne and broccoli florets. “Thanks.” I ate a noodle, surprised to find it subtly infused with chile.

  “I thought we needed a hot meal,” he said, proffering a dish of grated cheese.

  “Mmm, no, thanks—it’s perfect.” Suddenly ravenous, I began eating more quickly.

  “While you were napping, I called the Abbaye de Cîteaux,” Jean-Luc added, sipping his wine. “No answer.”

  I stabbed at my food with my fork. “Is this a wild goose chase? We don’t even know if Albert is there. And with my luck, all the monks are probably cloistered away in some special silent retreat.”

  “Guided visits start at ten-thirty tomorrow morning,” Jean-Luc said in calmer tones. “It takes about forty minutes to get there, so I think we should leave at nine.”

  “We?” I perked up in my chair.

  He looked surprised. “Of course, Kat. You didn’t think I’d abandon you now, did you?”

  Flat farmland surrounded the Abbaye de Cîteaux, pastures of interlocking green that left the plain buildings vulnerable to the elements. A gust of wind pierced my coat, and I shivered as we entered an immense stone building with cavernous vaulted ceilings, enormous arched windows, and not a shred of heat.

  “The abbey was founded in 1098, when a group of monks came to this remote spot hoping to follow a simple lifestyle, as indicated in the teachings of the Gospels,” said our guide, a surprisingly young novitiate who had introduced himself as Frère Bernard. “This room is the scriptorium, where medieval scribes copied, illuminated, and bound books.” He lifted an arm to indicate the vast space. “As directed by the rule of Saint Benedict, their work occurred mostly in silence—though a vow of silence is not required by our order. Today there are about thirty brothers in the community, and we strive to speak only when necessary; idle chitchat is discouraged, and any talk that leads to mockery or derision is considered evil—which means, of course, we don’t use social media.” He smiled at us all benevolently.

  Jean-Luc and I both laughed, but the other visitors on our tour, a gaggle of spry retirees, appeared unmoved by this show of hermetic humor.

  “Please, take a look at the exhibit, and then we shall visit the cloisters, which offer an early example of Romanesque architecture.” Frère Bernard moved to the side of the room, and I darted beside him, anxious to engage him before any of the others could ask a question.

  “Is it ever possible to make contact with the brothers here?” I asked, trying not to shiver in the draft that flowed from the thin-paned windows.

  “We offer silent retreats for those on a spiritual quest,” he said automatically, and I had the feeling he had been asked the question before. “Seekers of God, or peace, or those at a turning point in their life.” He peered at me more closely. “Is that what you mean?”

  I flushed under his gaze. “No, not exactly.” I paused, considering my words. “I am looking for my great-uncle. I have reason to believe he joined the community many years ago. Please, can you tell me if there is a Frère Albert among you?”

  Frère Bernard frowned, fingering the cloth belt wrapped around his waist, its edges so frayed I suspected this was a nervous habit. “What brings you in search of him?”

  Again, I hesitated. What should I say? Here, amid this atmosphere of rigid aestheticism, the idea of hunting down a cache of rare wine seemed horribly craven. I thought of Hélène, and of the turmoil and destruction she had wrought on so many. “I am hoping to find peace,” I said quietly. “I am hoping to forgive.”

  His eyes softened. “Stay behind after the tour,” he said in an undertone, as the other
s began to drift toward us. “I will see if anything can be done.”

  “Is Albert here?” Jean-Luc asked in discreet tones when I had rejoined him.

  “Frère Bernard only said he’d see if anything can be done.”

  “Hmm. Ambiguous.”

  We continued the visit, traipsing to a plain chapel, the austere refectory, and a cutting-edge fromagerie—where the monks silently produced a delicious, creamy cheese called fromage de Cîteaux—and finally ending at the gift shop. Jean-Luc and I waited for Frère Bernard, nervously filling a shopping basket with jars of honey and jam, a wheel of cheese, and other Trappist delicacies. Jean-Luc added a box of chamomile tea to the basket and we headed to the cash register, where a young woman began ringing up our purchases and placing them in a bag.

  “That’ll be a hundred and seventy euros,” she said, and my jaw dropped to the floor.

  Jean-Luc gave her his credit card, laughing at the expression on my face. “I know, it’s crazy, right? These monastery gift shops are more expensive than the Harrods Food Hall.”

  “Mademoiselle?” Frère Bernard’s robed figure appeared from a door leading out the back of the gift shop. “Would you like to follow me?” He beckoned, his invitation clearly precluding Jean-Luc.

  “I’ll meet you at the car,” Jean-Luc said. “Take your time.”

  Frère Bernard led me outside and across the abbey grounds, our heels sinking into the grass. I began to search my mind for some banal topic of idle small talk before I remembered that the brothers spoke only when necessary. In truth, the silence was restful.

  Rounding a long building, we entered a kitchen garden marked carefully into planting beds brushed with spring growth. An elderly monk knelt in the earth, clad in the order’s garb of a sleeveless black tunic over an off-white robe, belted with a leather strap. Strands of white hair did little to protect his pink scalp from the sun, though his generous white beard perhaps compensated.

  Beside me, Frère Bernard gave a little cough. The monk looked up and my breath caught in my throat, for there, set into his lined face, were my mother’s eyes—my eyes—dark green, the edges deepening to brown. “Bonjour,” I whispered.