The Vineyards of Champagne

by Juliet Blackwell

Who turns down a free stay in Paris?

  Rosalyn, that’s who. She simply couldn’t stomach the memories. Rosalyn abandoned her place in line, got herself a double shot of espresso, lugged her things over to the rental car counter, and spent half an hour changing her reservation to start right away. Gaspard Blé was out of town, but his office manager had sent an e-mail with the code that opened the door and assured her she was welcome to arrive at any time and make herself at home in Chambre Chardonnay.

  She entered Blé’s address in Cochet into the GPS on her phone, but after tracking down the dark red Renault rental in the dimly lit parking garage and loading her bags, Rosalyn studied the proposed route on a paper map to orient herself.

  The old map was soft with wear, tearing at the corners. Hugh had plucked it out of a pile of papers in a dusty corner of his office with a flourish, declaring, “Here she is!” Rosalyn ran her fingers along the furred seams, sparing a smile for her occasionally pushy but mostly delightful friend Hugh, wondering how long he had had this map and on what adventures it had accompanied him. It had always amazed her that Hugh was still single; once when Dash teased him about it, Hugh remarked that all the interesting women his age were already taken, and joked that not everyone could marry their young interns.

  Charles de Gaulle Airport sat well northeast of Paris, en route to the Champagne region, which meant Cochet was less than two hours away. It took nearly that long to drive from Napa to San Francisco on bad traffic days.

  Then again, in California, Rosalyn didn’t have to deal with roundabouts. Jittery from the strong espresso, Rosalyn went round and round the first few times before figuring out her exits. The route was a confusing alphabet soup of roads: take D401, also called E50, toward the A4. From there, D23E5 to D23 to D24. What’s wrong with exit numbers? she thought grumpily. Better yet, signs reading, “Rosalyn, it’s this way”?

  Once she made it to the autoroute, driving became easier and she could relax a little. Soon the outskirts of the city fell away, replaced by lush green forests and farmers’ fields.

  The light began to dim along the horizon, the cold winter sun going to bed. The flight had arrived a little after three; it had taken a while to retrieve her bags, pass through customs, and rent the car, so Rosalyn hadn’t left Paris until after five. There were numerous stops along the autoroute advertising fuel and snacks, but she kept going, determined to reach Cochet before it was pitch-black.

  But once she exited the autoroute, Rosalyn started getting truly hungry—a ravenous, panicky emptiness amplified by lack of sleep and the body’s confusion induced by jet lag.

  Out in the countryside, there was no fast food and, as she’d assumed, certainly no 7-Elevens. Rosalyn passed through one small village after another, their boulangeries and butchers long since closed for the night. Hugh’s voice whispered in her ear: she should have gone to Paris, where businesses and restaurants stayed open late.

  She drove past acre upon acre of vineyards and other crops—wheat and alfalfa, she guessed—rimmed by tall trees. The landscape was studded with ponds and streams, the fields interrupted now and then by stone farmhouses, some featuring steep turrets and colorful roofs tiled in patterns.

  There were no food options at all, apparently, so Rosalyn munched on almonds and a PowerBar as she drove, reflecting upon the irony of being so hungry in what was pretty much universally acknowledged as the culinary capital of the world. Why hadn’t she grabbed something besides espresso in the airport? She began torturing herself with the thought of hot, glistening pommes frites, or a luscious pain au chocolat. Perhaps a nice duck à l’orange, or . . . what other dishes were the French famous for? Crêpes, maybe? She didn’t know that much about French food, when it came down to it.

  Dash had done the ordering for her while on their honeymoon. Mostly, she remembered the bread.

  Patches of snow and ice gave testimony to the season, and leftover Christmas decorations, limp and sagging from weather, still adorned the town squares. Homes were dark, their wooden shutters not for show the way they were in Napa—these were actually closed at this hour, giving the villages an unfriendly, stockaded look. Green neon pharmacy signs flashed vulgarly on sleepy main streets, an incongruous modern touch. Old town houses with shared walls—maisons de village—came right up to the street, with at most a tiny walkway separating them from narrow cobblestone roads. The roofs were made of earth red tile; the jagged stone was golden or gray, some partially covered in a mellow yellow stucco.

  This is going to be all right, Rosalyn told herself as once again she drove round and round in a roundabout, trying to decipher road signs. Even with the GPS—featuring a polite British voice that asked her to “Please bear right”—it was hard to figure out which exit to take. But what was the worst that could happen? She might wind up sleeping in her car, which would be not great but doable. After all, this was France. Nothing bad happened in France, right?

  Just one world war after another.

  She had a sudden mental image of Émile Legrand in the trenches, and Lucie Maréchal surviving underground.

  One foot in front of the other.

  In an effort to fend off sleepiness, Rosalyn went over what she knew about Champagne the region, and champagne the wine. After Hugh had taken pity on her and offered her a job as a wine rep, she had taken classes in viticulture at night school.

  She had learned that the region of Champagne was tightly controlled by panels of representatives who dictated everything from when the grapes were ready for harvest to how much inventory each winemaker must keep on hand for reserve, how much they were allowed to sell, and even the use of pesticides.

  Le champagne vient de la Champagne; champagne (the drink) comes from the (region of) Champagne. Those who loved the bubbly concoction waxed on about the contrast of the masculine with the feminine: the region’s chalky, difficult soil giving rise to one of the world’s most delicate beverages. Rosalyn had also learned that a series of international treaties meant that the French owned the designation “champagne” and had a coronary whenever people outside the geographical region applied the term to their sparkling wines. The U.S. hadn’t signed on to the treaties at the time due to Prohibition, leading to a persistent sense of resentment among the Champenois.

  At long last, Rosalyn spotted a small sign: COCHET.

  Emma Kinsley hadn’t been kidding: there wasn’t much to it. Surrounded by farmers’ fields, the town consisted of a collection of houses, an old stone church, a mairie—a town hall—a small school, a grocery store, and a mechanic’s shop, all of which were shuttered.

  Rosalyn kept her eyes peeled for the address of Gaspard Blé’s gîte, but before she knew it, she had left Cochet behind. She realized this not only because she was once again surrounded by fields, but also because French town limits were indicated by a road sign with the name of the town bisected by a huge red line: a vivid indication that you were no longer in the town.

  Having continued until coming to a small turnout, Rosalyn carefully navigated a change of direction—no small feat given the deep irrigation ditches that ran along both sides of the narrow road, which had neither bike lanes nor shoulders. She had been warned that the French drove fast on these rural highways. Flustered, she made her many-pointed turn as quickly as possible, and headed back into Cochet.

  Finally, she spotted Blé’s address at a sharp turn in the road. She proceeded slowly down a gravel lane, her tires popping and spitting, until she reached a courtyard surrounded by several disappointingly modern buildings, not unlike what she might have seen in Napa. There were no lights on, and no cars in the lot. A building to the left sported a large sign: BLÉ CHAMPAGNE/SALON DE DÉGUSTATION/TASTING ROOM. A building to the right had a small entryway with a glass door, and as the headlights illuminated within, she could see signs over the interior doors: CHAMBRE CHARDONNAY, CHAMBRE PINOT MEUNIER.

  Fingers numbed by the cold, she struggled
to input the code on the electronic keypad to the left of the entry, praying it wouldn’t lock her out if she got the password wrong too many times, like her bank’s ATM seemed to enjoy doing. Clearly there was no hotel in Cochet, and now that she realized just how cold it was, sleeping in the car was not an option.

  Success. The door buzzed, and she entered into a blessedly warm tiled foyer.

  Rosalyn opened the door to Chambre Chardonnay and flicked on the lights to reveal a large room with a tiled floor and pristine cream-colored walls. Near the entry stood a tall chest of drawers and a round oak table with four chairs, and at the other end a double bed and two nightstands. There was an en suite bathroom with a large shower and a separate toilet room, as well as an empty closet with shelves and a rod.

  That was it. Nice, and roomy, but . . . sterile.

  One large window would look out onto the courtyard and parking area, Rosalyn imagined, except that a rolling shutter was closed over it, the type shop owners used to keep thieves at bay. A button on one side of the window presumably operated the shutters, but no matter how she pressed it, nothing happened. Despite the bright overhead lights, the room felt dark, almost cavelike.

  On the table was a bottle of champagne, atop a note written in a distinctive upright French script:

  Dear Madame Acosta,

  I am very sorry I am not here to greet you properly. Our man Pietro Santini will come if you need anything. His number is by the telephone. Please to help yourself to anything from the kitchen—and to champagne! It is located in the building next door. The code is 1914. The code to access the Internet is 2343sf532fhlik58089bxjk5.

  Cordially,

  Blondine Blé, daughter of Gaspard Blé

  Waves of fatigue washing over her—it had been a very long travel day—Rosalyn propped the main door open with her purse while she unpacked the car, her ungloved hands freezing. After rolling everything inside, she pulled the door shut tightly and set about organizing her home for the next few weeks. She cranked up the heat, stashed her clothes in the closet and her toiletries in the bathroom, and set up her computer on the table, plugging it into an outlet to charge, using the foreign adapters Hugh had reminded her to pack.

  Now what?

  Rosalyn perched on the edge of the bed and ate half of another PowerBar, washing it down with tap water, wishing for junk food and a bottle of red.

  She had been a stickler about her diet until Dash got sick, at which point she had alternated between eating nothing at all and periodically stuffing herself with junk. In her experience, hospital vending machines were stocked with exactly the kinds of rubbish foods that landed so many people in the hospital in the first place, ironically enough. In an effort to use this trip to modify her habits, Rosalyn had packed only healthy snacks. She glared at them now with distaste; eating well had seemed like a much better idea when she wasn’t hungry. At the moment, she yearned for potato chips, chocolate, the salty-sweet temptations of a PayDay bar.

  What a rotten time to decide to be virtuous.

  Hunger temporarily if unsatisfactorily sated, she kicked off her shoes and reclined on the bed. The quilt was filled with fluffy goose down, and she sank into its softness with a sigh, closing her eyes, grateful to be horizontal.

  Unbidden, images flashed through her tired mind: the medicine cabinet in her little cottage in Napa; Dash in his last moments, pale and cruelly shrunken on the hospital bed; the way she had run from the room. She thought of how desperately she longed no longer to put one foot in front of the other.

  She was weary. Depleted. Desperate.

  In France.

  A country apparently devoid of twenty-four-hour convenience stores.

  Damn Hugh, anyway.

  Chapter Eight

  Rosalyn had come to know when sleep was a lost cause. After half an hour she climbed out of bed, crossed over to the little table, started up her computer, and opened her Internet browser.

  There were a few work e-mail messages waiting for her, but nothing pressing. She sent notes to Hugh and her mother to let them know she had arrived safely. None of the local champagne vintners had returned the messages she had sent earlier asking to arrange tastings, so she rooted through her shoulder bag to find the longer list of producers Hugh had suggested she meet with in Champagne.

  Her hand stilled when she came across one of Emma’s old letters stuck in a side pocket.

  The envelope was stamped January of 1915, by which point Émile and Doris had been corresponding for a few months. As she had on the plane, Rosalyn studied the letter with a wordless sort of reverence: the military envelope, the yellowing onionskin paper, the ink fading to a rusty brown at times so faint she could barely make it out. Dark splatters of some substance—mud? Coffee? Blood?—marred one edge.

  She brought out her travel dictionary, opened the bookmarked website that translated French into English, and began to decipher the letter as best she could. There were words she didn’t know, phrases she didn’t understand—but at least very little had been cut out or censored.

  It was laborious but fascinating work. From time to time, the faded ink was so hard to read that she had to squint to decipher the letters, or resort to an educated guess based upon the meaning of the rest of the sentence. Other words and phrases were legible but unfamiliar, necessitating a thorough search of the dictionary and website, cross-referencing to be sure she understood their true meanings in context. Most challenging were the idiomatic expressions, which conveyed great meaning but defied word-for-word translations—she marked those with the placeholder “xxx.”

  She brought out her journal and began a list of unknown words and mysterious phrases; maybe she could figure them out later, or find a native speaker who could help.

  My dear Marraine, Madame Whittaker,

  I do hope my meaning won’t be lost or altered by the censors. But word has come down that the censors have been xxx with too much mail to analyze, so now it is a lottery to see what shall make it through!

  Shall I tell you the difficulty that sometimes exists between poilus and the officers? They are men from higher classes, no more attuned to war than we poor farmers. Some are decent types, but others xxx. There have been mutinies, soldiers tried for treason and shot down dead with French bullets, not for cowardice but for the sin of not wishing to face bullets and poison gas, shielded only by their too fragile human flesh. (If Anastasia’s scissors are sharpened, I’m sure none of that will survive.)

  One of the officers is affianced to a young lady from Reims, named Lucie Maréchal. I will not mention the gentleman’s name, which would mean nothing to you, of course, but he was known to me in Reims. He and his brothers xxx and xxx were in the habit of hunting in the fields not far from our home, on the outskirts of the city. Often he would stop to purchase a jar of my honey—my bees were known to produce among the finest honey in the region—and he was always trying to negotiate me down from my standard price.

  With communication with Reims disrupted, he has been set upon by the fear that the young lady in question is being unfaithful, or perhaps has been harmed or xxx in some way. It seems she declined to evacuate the city when she had the chance; I cannot understand why.

  I did not have an acquaintance with this young lady, but because I know Reims, and he and I were known to each other, the officer has sent me to the city to gather intelligence—and to carry a gift and letter to his beloved. He claims he is unable to leave his important post, though I believe it is more likely he fears the treacherous trip in and out of the city. Risking my life to pass through the dangerous zone for an invented purpose xxx as ridiculous as so much else in this war; as I’m sure you know, it is never guaranteed that one will survive the expedition.

  Refusing a direct order is not possible, so I went, and took heart from knowing I would be able to see for myself as to the well-being of my old neighbors and my beloved city.
My own dear family has evacuated to the south, thank the heavens, but I was happy to return to Reims, if only to indulge in a bottle or two of my region’s famous bubbly nectar. In the trenches our only luxury is our daily ration of wine and brandy. When in Reims I felt sure I would be able to imbibe at will.

  I will not describe for you at present what I discovered in the formerly handsome streets of my city. My heart is still broken at the scandalous devastation, not only of the homes and businesses, but even the great cathedral, where the kings of France have been crowned through the ages, where Joan of Arc rode in to savor her victory.

  The Huns have done their best to destroy it, and along with it, our very spirit as a people. Whether they will succeed is xxx.

  Well, my dear Marraine, what shall I tell you about the young lady in question? I found her in her family home, which had been badly injured by a mortar, losing half the wall that had enclosed a grand staircase. She and her mother were nursing a dozen soldiers along with only one maid. I am certain it was quite a shocking change from their previous life, before the war.

  The mademoiselle is beautiful, to be sure, the sweetness of her countenance most welcome after months in the rotten gray muck of the trenches. There is a grace about her, as if she would smell like flowers despite the mud on her face. I was certain she would be silly and vain, as so many young ladies of her class are. I will admit, with shame, that I was angry at having been sent for such a frivolous reason, and upset at the state of my fair city, and did not mask my feelings around her.

  She did not flinch under my harsh words. On the contrary, she smiled and asked what the officer in question had sent her.

  It was an intricately carved comb for her long chestnut hair. She laughed when she saw it.

  “What good is a comb? A wheel of cheese would have been more welcome.”

  I was surprised, and pleased at the same time.

  When not nursing the soldiers, the mademoiselle’s mother knits incessantly and gave me a present to take with me: a knitted balaclava for the officer from Reims, and two pairs of thick wool socks for me. This might seem a small thing. But clean, dry socks are a balm to the poilu, who stands day and night in the muck.