The Vineyards of Champagne
Page 8
Rosalyn turned her attention to other e-mails, and was surprised and pleased when, a few minutes later, Emma responded:
Good old Pietro. He’s a treasure. If there’s anything nicer than a French accent, it’s a French accent with an Italian twist. How cute is that? And remember, if you get bored buying champagne, my offer of a research job still stands. What could be more interesting than poking around old French attics?
Other than a few chatty e-mails from Hugh and her mother and a couple of friends in Napa, Rosalyn felt very removed from the world. Very alone.
But she did not feel lonely. In fact, it was only when she was by herself that she did not feel lonely.
She’d finished the three paperbacks she’d brought with her, and tried reading more on her computer but her eyes glazed over. Her e-reader had broken the day before she left California, when she set it on the roof of her car while searching for her keys, forgot it, and drove off. Yet one more example of not paying attention, of breaking things, tripping over nothing, walking into walls. Grief brain.
The village of Cochet remained quiet, the only signs of life the occasional workers guiding tractors through the fields.
She continued to wake early in the morning, which made no sense. Her body should have adjusted by now. But perhaps it already had; when she was at home, Rosalyn frequently woke up before dawn. Dash had died at four twenty-seven in the morning, and for months afterward, she had startled awake at that moment, precisely. Perhaps it was as simple as that.
On a few occasions when she walked in the cold silence of dawn, Rosalyn saw the same farmer tending to his vines; the two exchanged waves.
Feeling as if she should be working, Rosalyn continued to send out e-mails, leave voice mails, check inventory, and respond to inquiries from Hugh’s other reps, who were watching over her accounts while she was out of town. But her phone calls and e-mails to local producers went unanswered. Hugh seemed unfazed, and urged her to relax and enjoy her time away.
Time slowed down. Sometimes annoyingly so.
At last it dawned on her: This was what she had wanted. To be alone, surrounded by silence. No questions, no comments, no one to answer to.
Her very own hermitage in the French countryside.
As she began to embrace the solitude, Rosalyn felt an urge to capture some of the local scenery on paper and started sketching close-ups of the barren grapevines in winter, landscapes of the gently rolling hills, the villages tucked into shallow valleys. She drew the man on the tractor at dawn, the memorial in the village square overseen by the Madonna, and a grave marker she found near a pond in the woods.
Rosalyn had always preferred painting to drawing; with paint she could lay down swaths of color versus the hard lines of the pencil.
But now she had no taste for color. The harsh contrast of the dark graphite against the creamy white paper suited her mood as she worked at capturing the myriad hues of gray.
Although she didn’t catch another glimpse of him, Pietro kept the kitchen stocked with the basics. Food simply appeared, as though delivered by an Italian elf: a plump farm-raised chicken one day, thick pork chops wrapped in white butcher paper the next. Baskets of winter vegetables, squash and kale and potatoes.
For the last few years, Rosalyn had lived on takeout, frozen food, leftovers from office functions—anything that didn’t require time in the kitchen. Cooking was something she had done for Dash, and it was so central to their life together that she couldn’t bear the thought of preparing meals just for herself. But now, faced with fresh food, a large kitchen, a huge stove, and no fast-food options, she put some music on, grabbed a sharp knife, lit the stove, and started chopping. Adhering to the old adage “When in Rome,” she tried her hand at a classic French dish from a recipe she found on the Internet: coq au vin. It was surprisingly simple, and Pietro had provided her with all the ingredients: bacon, pearl onions, champignons de Paris—button mushrooms—and thyme. She found an inexpensive burgundy in the cupboard to use for the sauce.
Soon the kitchen/tasting room was filled with the homey aromas of food bubbling on the stove. She felt self-conscious sitting down to such a formal dinner all by herself but was pleased by the results of her labor.
Later, as she lay in bed, Rosalyn realized she had enjoyed the act of cooking again. It did not feel like betrayal; it didn’t feel like anything more significant than a good dinner.
The next day she drove to Reims to check out the capital of the Champagne region. A few stores were open, but by and large the town was as sleepy as Cochet and the other villages. There were similar soggy leftover Christmas ornaments, though on a larger scale. The massive Gothic cathedral reminded her of Paris’s famous Notre-Dame; she almost stopped to take a look inside, then decided against it.
Dash holding her hand as they climbed the winding steps to visit the gargoyles at the top of Notre-Dame, making the whole tour group laugh by calling out for “Sanctuary!”
As Rosalyn toured Reims, she drove past the impressive mansionlike façades of the Mumm, Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin, Taittinger, and Ruinart champagne houses. In Champagne, the major wine houses were located in large towns rather than in the vineyards, as they are in Napa and in the rest of France.
The Pommery champagne house—now called Vranken Pommery Estate—was a vast gray-and-red Elizabethan-style mansion, complete with turrets. It was closed to tourists for the holidays, of course, but Rosalyn pulled her Renault up outside the tall iron gates and spent a few minutes studying the formal buildings and manicured grounds.
Somewhere under these buildings was where Lucie Maréchal had sought shelter from the German bombardment.
Rosalyn tried to imagine what it would be like to move one’s whole life underground. Had the moment of decision been borne of panic? Or had it been the only sensible option, given the circumstances? Had entire neighborhoods relocated? Why hadn’t they already evacuated the city?
Or, she wondered, was the decision assumed to be a temporary solution to an immediate problem that had, instead, altered their lives in untold ways?
Chapter Twelve
Lucie
First the Reims Cathedral, and then Villa Traverne.
Thinking back on the home that was Villa Traverne, I still find it hard to believe that such a fine, sturdy building would collapse.
But then, even great stone castles fall under the constant barrage of a wartime siege, do they not?
Once upon a time my father, Raymond, taught me about such things as we sat in his study, reading and studying the globe. But no more.
On February 22, 1915, more than a thousand shells were showered on Reims, sometimes as many as ten every minute. The Germans called it “watering the city.” An incendiary bomb set Villa Traverne on fire, and our once-fine house burned for fully a day, until there was nothing left but charred ruins.
We had no choice but to leave. We were barely able to get our injured soldiers out in time; later they were evacuated by the army, and the rest of us were left standing, dazed and smudged with soot, in the rubble-strewn street. Honorine left to try to find her sister.
Nothing remained of the life our family had lived.
All my father’s books, his precious tomes, gone.
Only the globe stood, a blackened tribute to what once had been our world.
* * *
Now my father passes his days in silence, staring at the walls. Papa had remained strong through the maiming of my brother and the death of my sister.
But this final blow, the loss of Villa Traverne, has rendered him mute.
It was up to Maman and me to find a new situation.
Despite all the destruction and chaos rained down upon Reims, there were still neighborhoods that remained intact. We moved into a small house that had been abandoned by an evacuated family, in the southern part of the city. Some clothes and cookware had been left behind, and we
availed ourselves of them though my mother insisted we show the items the utmost respect so the family might find their things intact upon their return.
If they returned.
Chapter Thirteen
Rosalyn was on her way back to Cochet when she noticed her gas gauge was nearing empty. Damn it. She tried to remember if she had seen a gas station once she had left the autoroute on her way to Cochet that first day.
Soon enough the fuel light blinked on, ratcheting up her nervousness.
She pulled over to the side of the road, took several deep breaths, and turned to her phone for help. Its software directed her to a nearby village, where she found two gas pumps in the parking lot of a small convenience store. The store was closed for the holidays, of course, but to her great relief the pumps took credit cards.
Rosalyn tried one card, then another, then another. Each time the pump’s digital display demanded a code. What code? She didn’t have codes for her credit cards. She had a PIN for her debit card, but the pump didn’t recognize that card and spat it out.
She felt like crying.
An engine rattled as an old truck pulled up on the other side of the island. She recognized the vehicle, and the driver: He was the farmer she had encountered in the field during her predawn walk that first day, the same one she had seen several times since. They waved each time, but always at a distance. Seeing him now, up close, she realized he looked very . . . French. Full lips, pouting, the top lip as full as the bottom, as though poised to say something, or to kiss someone. He had unbearably sad, downward-tilting gray-green eyes. Her mother would have said he “looked like trouble,” with his scruffy, short-cropped beard, but Rosalyn sensed sorrow more than anything else.
He inserted his card into the other gas pump, tapped in a code, and immediately started fueling up his truck.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Rosalyn said.
“Bonjour,” he said, his eyes on the digital readout.
“Pardonnez-moi,” she continued. Although the man projected an air of “Don’t bother me,” desperate times called for desperate measures, so she asked him if he would help her: “Est-ce que vous pouvez m’aider avec le machine? J’ai besoin de pétrole.”
He let out a long sigh, practically rolling his eyes, and spoke in rapid-fire French, which she couldn’t follow.
“Je suis désolée. Je ne comprends pas,” Rosalyn apologized, and asked him to speak more slowly. “Est-ce que vous pouvez parler plus lentement?”
He stared at her for a moment, then asked in clipped English: “It is an American card?”
“Yes.”
“The American card does not work here. You have to have the chip.”
“It has a chip.”
“And a code.”
“What code?”
“A personal code.” The man yanked the fuel nozzle out of his truck, returned it to its resting place in the pump, and flipped the gas door closed with smooth, efficient movements.
Damn it. What now? “And there’s no way to pay cash, right?”
“The store is closed,” he said. “As you can see. Most of the businesses are closed this time of year.”
Rosalyn nodded, trying to figure out her next step. Maybe she could make it back to the gîte on fumes. If not . . . did they even have taxis or ride-share services in this part of France? Too bad she hadn’t thought to bring Pietro’s phone number with her.
You’ll be fine, she assured herself. If worse came to worst, she was probably close enough to Cochet to walk home.
Rosalyn felt the man’s eyes on her.
“You are the one walking before dawn,” he said, a frown creasing his brow.
“Oui, c’est moi.” She felt oddly vulnerable to be recognized, as though her cocoon of privacy had been cracked open. Rosalyn had enjoyed the anonymity of their predawn encounters, the infinite possibilities and the absolute lack of expectations.
“Why do you do this?” he asked. “Why do you walk before dawn?”
“C’est à cause du décalage horaire,” Rosalyn responded, blaming the jet lag.
“Speak English. It is easier for you.”
She was simultaneously relieved and insulted. “Thank you. I’m visiting Cochet until the festival of Saint Vincent. I’m staying at Gaspard Blé’s gîte.”
The man was silent for a moment, then walked around to her side of the gas pump, inserted his card, and tapped in a code.
“It will work now,” he said, handing her the nozzle.
“Oh, thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. I’ll pay you back in cash. I have euros.”
He shrugged, now looking amused.
The machine hummed as it filled the Renault’s tank. They waited without speaking. As she watched the digital numbers speed by, Rosalyn’s anxiety rose. Liters were smaller than gallons, she knew. But how many liters did her car hold? She did have enough euros to reimburse him, didn’t she? She tried to remember where she had last seen an ATM.
“You start work awfully early,” Rosalyn said to break the silence.
“I practice biodynamic agriculture. Things have to be done on a certain schedule.”
“Is that the same as organic?” Rosalyn recalled from her college courses that in France organic produce is called “bio,” or biologique.
“No.” He did not elaborate.
The numbers were mounting fast, along with her apprehension that she would not have enough cash to cover it. Sure enough, when the tank was full and she put away the nozzle, she was several euros short.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little short on cash, after all,” she said, holding out all the money she had. “I think I saw an ATM in Reims. I’ll go there right now and get the rest I owe you.”
He glanced at the wad of bills in her hand and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Of course I will pay you back. Should I stop by your home, or . . . ?”
He gave a firm shake of his head. “Consider it a New Year’s present. Bonne année.”
And with that, he turned and walked to his truck, hoisted himself into the cab, turned on the engine, and drove off.
Until that moment Rosalyn hadn’t realized it was New Year’s Eve.
And she didn’t even know his name.
* * *
Rosalyn declined Pietro’s invitation to join the townspeople at a small New Year’s Eve fete in the mairie, though from the solitude of Chambre Chardonnay, she could hear the sounds of laughter and revelry.
Rosalyn had wanted a hermitage, and she got it. French countryside style.
She sat gazing out the window, watching as light snowflakes fell in the parking area and on the trees beyond, and fiddling with the empty locket around her neck. She had always meant to find tiny photographs of her and Dash. She always assumed they would have plenty of time.
At midnight, the church bells rang out slowly—one, pause. Two, pause. Three, pause . . . When the twelfth bell sounded, loud cheers and the honking of noisemakers filled the air.
A new year.
Yet another year further away from her life with Dash. Another year from the person Rosalyn had been with Dash.
Chapter Fourteen
Like Hugh and so many other recent arrivals in Napa, Dash had invested in a winery with money earned in the computer industry, abandoning the high-tech campuses of Santa Clara for the deceptively rural fields of Napa.
Rosalyn had fallen for him the first time she saw him. He and a few other local winery owners had visited Sonoma State University to interview potential interns, who would earn academic credit for their work in the industry. With his brilliant smile and easy laugh, Dash was enthusiastic and inspiring. Competition for the coveted internships was intense, and after applying and interviewing for several, Rosalyn was thrilled to land the one she wanted most: at Dash’s company, Domain Acosta.
Rosalyn worked nights busing tables at an upscale restaurant in downtown Napa to help pay her way through school. The first time she saw Dash at the restaurant, two of the waitstaff were out with the flu, and she’d leapt at the chance to pick up a cocktail shift. It was a plum assignment—tipsy Napa socialites and day-trippers from San Francisco tended to be big tippers, and she would end the shift with a nice wad of cash.
That night her mind was on a class project due the next morning, a label redesign that she would have to finish when she got home after her shift. Distracted, she forgot which man had ordered which drink, and hesitated a moment at their table.
Dash looked up at her, his head cocked slightly. “I know you.”
“Just barely,” she said with an embarrassed smile. Figuring she had a fifty-fifty shot at getting their orders right, she set the highball glasses down in front of them.
His tablemate, a hearty-looking fellow she had heard Dash call Hugh, gave her an indulgent smile. She was no model, but she was young, with long hair and big eyes, and older men had a way of gazing at her with a mixture of benevolence and vague flirtatiousness.
The two men swapped glasses.
“Oh, my apologies,” Rosalyn said.
“We’re good. Thanks. Where do I know you from?” Dash asked.
That stung. Rosalyn didn’t expect the winery’s big boss to remember her name, not really, but for him not to be able to place her at all? It was a blow. Apparently she truly was beneath his notice. Rich people, she thought to herself. The rest of us matter, too, you know.