Pinot Noir

by Lorraine Evanoff

  “It sounds fascinating.”

  “It has a fascinating past,” Jules said, continuing with a practiced air. “There are two ruins carbon-dated to around 3000 BC. One of the ruins is an open-air temple and the other a necropolis.”

  “Burial grounds?”

  “Oui. But there are also the remains of a huge circular wall, about a hundred meters in diameter. A symbol of the sun or moon. So, Romans arriving would have immediately recognized their god Dis Pater represented by this circle.”

  “Dis Pater,” Louise echoed.

  “Another temple shaped like this,” with his fingers he made an inverted T, “also contained a sacred basin where artifacts of ex votos were discovered.”

  “Ex votos, the symbolic offerings?” Louise was pleased she was tracking with him.

  “Exactement. The offerings were made of stone, metal, or wood. They were related to healing and represented the ailing body parts, heads, hands, feet, and phallus.” He covered his mouth in mock embarrassment. “Excusez-moi.”

  Louise extended her index finger from her glass, giggled and sipped her wine. “Please, go on.”

  “The bubbling salt-water springs were a healing sanctuary of Celtic worship. The Celts believed that the bubbles rising to the surface of the water were the essence of deities. But it was actually helium, which, when inhaled, increased the pitch of the voice, giving it the chipmunk effect. Imagine the ancient vast underground caverns filled with helium and Celtic druids conducting their secret meetings, speaking in bizarre voices, dumbfounding their constituency.

  Louise laughed at his cartoonish depiction. “You said King Arthur was there?”

  “Ahh oui. There are many questionable tales of King Arthur: the location of Arthur’s battles, his birthplace, his parentage, his ethnicity, and his very existence. However, few have ever questioned if Avalon was real, in the way that they question if Camelot was real. No one has ever found Camelot. But, the discovery of coins dating from the fourth century within the basin of Les Fontaines Salées could be considered proof of Avalon, as described by the author Geoffrey of Monmouth in the 11th century.”

  It had been a while since Louise had indulged in the Arthurian legend. “Wait,” she said, “I always get confused by the timeline. King Arthur was fifth century AD, inspired by ancient Celts from the Iron Age 700 years BC.”

  “Exactement.”

  “Then the Templars were twelfth-century knights, inspired by King Arthur.”

  “Precisely. The formation of the Knights Templar came hundreds of years after King Arthur, but their philosophy and ideas of honor were based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights. They made a vow of taking the cross, hence the red crosses sewn into their tunics. Anyway, since the late twelfth century, it had been widely accepted that Avalon was an otherworld, according to that fifth-century legend of King Arthur, like heaven in Christianity, or a nirvana, or a mythical paradise. A concept, rather than a physical place.”

  Jules sipped his wine then continued, “A similar concept of paradise was the Celtic Yniswitrin – or Isle of Apples – most closely associated with the town of Glastonbury in the county of Somerset in England. Glastonbury was a kind of physical embodiment of the Concept of Avalon. But there never has been a physical place called The Isle of Avalon anywhere in Britain. The word Avalon in ancient Celtic and Gaelic means apple tree goddess.”

  Louise’s head was spinning, partly from the wine she had consumed and partly from the thrilling facts and figures the barman seemed to possess. “There is an ancient town of Avallon right here in Burgundy, n’est-ce-pas?” Louise asked.

  “Bull’s eye!” Jules said. “Think about it. After the Gallic Wars in the second century A.D., the Roman Conquest added on to the Celtic site of Les Fontaines Salées. Then in the fifth century, as the Roman Empire was collapsing, about the time that Arthur Riothamus was in Burgundy, workers built the Christian Chapel of St. Jean-Baptiste on the site of the open-air Temple of Les Fontaines Salées.”

  Now Jules had lost her. “I don’t understand,” Louise said.

  Jules blushed a bit. He forgot that when he revved up about the history of the region, he tended to get too complex. “This was an extraordinarily optimistic addition at that site considering the power-struggle between the colonizing Germanic tribes. Armies were ransacking their way through Gaul, leaving smoldering buildings and bodies in their wake. But those atrocities had no effect on Les Fontaines Salées. Christians were confident their new chapel would survive. Les Fontaines Salées became a magnificent example of a Roman spa, with hot and cold baths, gymnasium, wrestling arena, and beauty parlor.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Dark Ages happened. We have little idea of how things were after the Romans left. Emerging out into the light again in the fourteenth century, it was a long time before anyone recorded any reliable information. There was only spoken lore and archaeology. But Arthur Riothamus was at the mouth of that tunnel in the middle of the fifth century. The springs are an important time capsule of the period having collected many artifacts. Not only were the mineral waters a mecca for their healing powers, but also the water had a high concentration of salt that was collected and processed by evaporation and traded. The extraction of valuable salt continued until the fourteenth century when monks buried the site so that the townspeople had to use the Church’s salt store and pay a salt tax rather than help themselves to what had always been available to them at Les Fontaines Salées. The wells drifted into distant memory and then were forgotten altogether. That is how they remained until Les Fontaines Salées and all its beautifully preserved artifacts were rediscovered in the twentieth century.”

  “Aren’t they near Vézelay?” Louise asked.

  “Oui, the ancient village near Les Fontaines Salées was originally named Vezeliacum, after a wealthy Roman who had built a villa a few kilometers away from the springs. The small village that grew up around Vezeliacum became one of the most important places in medieval Christendom. By the Middle Ages, churches had been built up the sides of the hill creating a walled town now known as Vézelay, just 16 kilometers from Avallon. It is thought King Arthur lived in Avallon around 470 A.D. tending his wounds at Les Fontaines Salées. The land was said to be spiritually charged and a whole community of Romano-Celtic women practiced at the healing basin dedicating a shrine to the goddess Diana. The site which had been used for healing and worship since Neolithic times would have been the ultimate, ancestral Celtic experience for King Arthur.”

  “Are you theorizing King Arthur died at Les Fontaines Salées? Wouldn’t that make it the Avalon?”

  “That is the legend. In that area you will also find many depictions of Coquilles Saint Jacques along the road. That’s how you know you are on Santiago de Compostela.”

  “Saint James Way, the annual pilgrimage route?”

  “Yes, which began during the time of the Templars.”

  “What about Dis Pater?” Louise asked, as if she were at a Socratic lecture.

  “It is also, how you say, symbolique. According to legend, the first century Roman consul Cicero derived the name from a contraction, the Latin dives for wealthy, and pater for father. Dives Pater is Father Wealth. It refers to the wealth of precious stones below the earth. Like Pluto, Dis Pater became associated with the underworld because the wealth of the earth – gems and precious metals – were considered the domain of the Greco-Roman underworld. The Gauls believed they were descended from Dis Pater, a tradition handed down by the Druids. That is why they computed every season by the number of nights and not the number of days. For birthdays and the beginnings of months and years the day followed the night.

  Louise was like a child listening to an academic bedtime story. “So, Dis Pater, the Roman god of wealth and the underworld, comes from Celtic lore?”

  “That’s right,” Jules said. “But beware, the goals of Dis Pater are lurking behind countless lies and deceptions.”

  Louise looked at her watch and remembe
red dinner. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Zat dependz,” Jules said in English. “Will you be back?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Zen eet eez on zee house.”

  “Formidable. Merci.” Louise shook his hand and left.

  The words, “Beware, the goals of Dis Pater are lurking behind countless lies and deceptions,” echoed as Louise drove through the ancient forest back to the vineyard. The glass of wine, coupled with jetlag, seemed to play on her vision, mysterious figures seeming to gambol in the shadows.

  N I N E T E E N

  January 4, 2002

  “Bonsoir!” Magali greeted Louise.

  “Bonsoir!” Louise was relieved to be back in the warm family setting.

  “Ça a été?”

  “Yes, Pommard is so picturesque,” Louise said in French. “And the people are very friendly.”

  “Bonsoir!” Matthieu entered with Luke on piggyback and placed him in his booster chair.

  “Bonsoir!” Louise said. She took the small gift out of her purse and placed it in front of Luke. “Cadeau.”

  “A gift? Qu’est-ce qu’on dit?” Magali told Luke.

  “Merci!” Luke gingerly took what appeared to be an antique brass disk out of the small paper bag and turned it over in his little hands. Just as Louise expected, within a minute, Luke figured out the moving parts and flipped out the lens.

  “That’s a magnifying glass!” Magali exclaimed. “Do you know how to use it?” She mimicked holding a magnifying glass in front of her eye.

  Luke peered through the loop, making his large eye appear even bigger. Then he pulled back, startled by the change in vision and they all laughed.

  “Allez, à table.” Matthieu pulled Louise’s chair out for her and touched her back, giving her an unexpected frisson. She sat and he brought over a large bowl of tossed mixed greens with a simple dressing of Dijon mustard, fresh lemon, salt, and pepper. “All from our greenhouse and garden. Even our own mustard seeds.”

  “La pièce de résistance.” Magali set a white serving bowl in the center of the table. “Coq au vin, made with our own red wine.”

  LaFontaine had been right about these accommodations, Louise through to herself.

  “Bon appétit,” they said in unison.

  Louise tried the tender chicken braised in rich red wine sauce with button mushrooms and onions. “Delicious.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Have you had this farm long?”

  “Our great grandfather acquired this parcel of land when our family first settled in Bourgogne in the nineteenth century,” Matthieu said. “He bought it along with another parcel of Chablis.”

  “Chablis is the diamond among rubies,” Louise said, quoting her research about the region.

  “That’s right!” Magali said. “Chablis is the only white burgundy grape.”

  “How many hectares do you have, if I may ask?”

  “It’s hard to say, exactly,” Matthieu replied. “We have increased the domain little by little over the generations. But it’s barely large enough to exploit at a profit.”

  “Would expanding more help?” Louise asked.

  “Yes, we need to expand. But it’s not easy,” Matthieu explained. “You need liquid assets to purchase quickly when something comes on the market, which is usually due to some financial difficulty or other misfortune.”

  “What a business, having to wait for someone’s misfortune to have your own good fortune, n’est-ce pas?” Magali added.

  “It sounds like a natural cycle,” Louise said, her banker’s instincts kicking in. “I mean, you’re trying to develop the region while at the same time support local growers to keep the traditions alive. Right?”

  “Yes, but it feels like a war of attrition,” Matthieu grumbled.

  Magali raised her wineglass. “Allez, à votre santé!”

  “To your health,” Louise repeated.

  “A la santé des vignes,” Matthieu added.

  Louise’s natural curiosity inspired her next inquiry. “The vineyards look bare,” Louise said. “Is that normal?”

  “It is completely normal this time of year,” Magali said. “In the winter, the vines are dormant. Matthieu has been worried about some issues we have been having…”

  “Magali…” Matthieu gave her an ominous look. “It is bad luck to talk about the vineyards. The reputation is the most important asset a terroir has.”13

  “Given this meal and the wine, I can assure you that your reputation is intact as far as I’m concerned,” Louise said.

  Magali spilled another bit of news. “Unfortunately, the inspector said we must cure the affected crop, or our bank will call the loan,” Magali said. “My brother avoids the truth sometimes, as he is a proud man like most farmers.”

  “Ça suffit, Magali.” Matthieu said, bristling.

  Louise could understand why. This information was shocking. LaFontaine must have had a reason for referring her to this particular gîte, and the bank could be it.

  “Is it a local bank?” Louise asked.

  “Yes, we have had a line of credit with them for decades to get through the less prosperous vintage years,” Magali explained.

  Matthieu got up and brought his plate to the sink. “Allez, au lit, mon petit.” He picked Luke up and carried him off.

  “Good night, my cabbage,” Magali said to Luke then turned to Louise. “My brother is a proud man, as are most farmers. But even more so for viticulturists.”

  “I hope the issue with the bank will sort itself out. It’s hard to believe such a world-class vineyard would ever have to struggle.”

  “It’s the unexpected costs,” Magali said. “The inspector gave us an estimate for the treatment of the disease, and we won’t be able to afford it if the bank calls the loan. We might be forced to sell.”

  Louise was now convinced the banker’s behavior was suspicious. But she didn’t want to alarm Magali so instead tried to console her. “Do you have family who could help?”

  “Luke is the last of our lineage.”

  “Perhaps you can find an outside investor?”

  “This community looks down on any kind of outside influence.”

  “Maman!” Luke cried from his bedroom.

  “Excuse me.” Magali put her napkin aside. “I need to tuck in my son.”

  After Magali left, Louise got up to clear the dishes, but Matthieu returned and stopped her. “Please, you are our guest.” He took the plates from her hands.

  “It is a pleasure for me to help,” Louise insisted, resuming her clean-up efforts. “It’s like meditation for me.”

  “Cleaning is a meditation?” Matthieu asked.

  “Let’s just say, teachers are glorified housekeepers.” She had almost said barkeepers.

  Matthieu laughed. “I have never thought of it that way. But, yes, it is a constant challenge to keep order.”

  “It’s amazing how I already feel at home here.”

  “That is the intention of the gîte concept,” Matthieu said. “This region is fiercely protective of its community.”

  “I’m sorry about the problems you’re having with the vines. Is it something you can explain in layman terms? I promise to keep it confidential.”

  “You mean you won’t write it in your novel?” Matthieu dried his hands and they both picked up their wineglasses.

  “I’ll change the names to protect the innocent,” Louise said, and they clinked glasses.

  “Did you know that some believe the reason we clink glasses is to fulfill the fifth sense of sound?”

  Louise actually found that very interesting. “Ah yes, I see, sight, smell, taste…what about touch?” Louise asked.

  “I’ll show you. He raised his glass pointing out the color. “First you have sight, look at the color.” Matthieu took a deep sniff of the wine to demonstrate and Louise eagerly followed along. “Then the nose.” He spun the wine in the glass. “Aerate to allow the wine to open up.” He sniff
ed again. “Now, second nose.” He raised a finger in warning. “Now here is where it’s gets physical. Chew the wine then spit it out while blowing out of your nose.” He demonstrated, taking a sip and chomping his teeth as though chewing. Then, he spit the wine into the sink making a slight grunt.

  “You spit so gracefully,” Louise said. “I didn’t know that was even possible.”

  “Allez, you are among friends.”

  Louise tried simultaneously spitting while blowing out of her nose with disastrous results. Red wine trickled from her nose as she bent over the sink, coughing and laughing. Matthieu turned on the water, allowing her to rinse and then handed her a towel.

  “How embarrassing!” Louise said, her eyes watering.

  “It happens all the time.” Louise tried to clean a spot on her blouse. “Allow me.” Matthieu wet the corner of a clean towel and held the dry corner of the towel on the inside of her blouse and blotted the top of the blouse with the wet corner. His hand brushed her skin and Louise blushed. “Excusez-moi.” He then put a pinch of salt on the stain. “Voila. Good as new.”

  “Is everything okay?” Magali asked, sweeping back into the room as if catching two amorous teenagers.

  “Everything is fine,” Louise said, as her skin flushed with warm sensations. “Matthieu was teaching me how to spit out the wine while blowing out of my nose and…” Louise showed her the water spot.

  It was way too detailed an explanation and Magali laughed wholeheartedly. “It is not the first time and it won’t be the last. It takes some practice.”

  It was time to temper the moment. “Well,” Louise said, looking at the clock. “It’s late and I should go rinse this out.” Louise put her coat on.

  “I’ll walk you to your cottage,” Matthieu said. “It’s perfectly safe outside, but it takes time to get used to the darkness.”

  Louise felt her skin flushing again. “Thank you for the delicious dinner, Magali.”

  “It was our pleasure.” Magali handed Matthieu a lantern. “Bonne nuit, dormez bien.”