by Ann Mah
I touched the pearls, which were smooth and cold under my fingertips. “Merci, Papa.” When I kissed his scratchy cheeks, his eyes crinkled, and for a second I felt that he missed Maman as much as I do.
“You look just like her when you smile,” he said, a statement based more in nostalgia than fact, because the few photos I have seen of Maman show a slender young woman with smooth light-colored curls—not frizzy and dark brown, like mine—and a merry glint in her eye. (Madame says that my spectacles give my face a dour aspect.) Maman has been gone for more than thirteen years—so long I’m not even sure if my memories of her are real or just things people have told me. “She would be so proud of you,” Papa sighed. “As your belle-mère and I are,” he added hastily.
This was such a blatant exaggeration that I just nodded, a smile affixed to my lips. Ever since she married my father, when I was eleven, Madame has been counting the days until I leave home. I wouldn’t be surprised if she crossed off each one on a calendar, like the Count of Monte Cristo. I know I have.
Papa, perhaps sensing my reticence, continued: “I know she can be particular but please try not to be too hard on Virginie. Benny’s illness has caused much anguish for us all.” He looked down at his feet. My half brother’s frail health rules our family, like weather patterns shape the vineyards. Only Albert can soften Madame. Then again, at three years old, he is a little brown bear cub—un petit ours brun—who could melt the thorniest of hearts, even mine, his systematic, scientific half sister, fifteen years his elder.
Beside me, Papa took a deep breath. “Hélène.” He so rarely uses my formal name that I looked at him sharply. In the fading light of early evening, his eyes had turned black. “I’ve decided to let you continue your studies next year.”
I exhaled with a gasp. “I can apply? To Sèvres?”
“If you so wish.”
“Does my belle-mère 1 know?”
“I wanted to tell you first.”
Neither of us voiced what we were thinking: She’ll say that proper young ladies do not leave home before marriage. Even though the École normale supérieure de jeunes filles, founded in 1881, is the most prestigious women’s science university in France, it is located in Sèvres, a suburb of Paris—and to hear Madame air her views about Paris, one might think she was talking about Gomorrah. I gazed down at my shoes, a pair of pale grey T-strap sandals that Papa bought me at the start of summer, even though they were outrageously expensive and Madame said I didn’t need them.
“I’ll talk to her,” he promised, and the confidence in his voice reassured me. Perhaps Madame will view my continued education as a shrewd investment against my freckled face and gangly legs.
“We’ll miss you, you know. The house already feels empty without you.” A teasing smile played about Papa’s lips, but his eyes remained grave.
“I don’t even know if they’ll accept me. It’s meant to be very competitive.”
“Of course they will. Though I do wonder if you should wait to matriculate. Given the current situation.”
“Nothing has even happened,” I protested. “I think they’re bluffing. I bet there won’t be a war at all.” Of course, this is what we all hope.
For a minute, we sat listening to the rabbits gnaw at their lettuce cores. Then Papa brushed off his coat and said he needed to get back to work. He and the pressoir team will be crushing grapes well past midnight.
It astonishes me, this love my father and—I think, perhaps, eventually—my brothers have for the vineyard. Where I see sunburns, cracked hands, children working the vines when they should be in school, dirty farm equipment, and the indelible stains of vinification, they see the joy of physical activity, the satisfaction of tradition, the pride of owning the same land for generations.
I am not sure there is a place for me here, on the domaine. I’m not sure I want one, either. I’ve talked about finding a teaching position in Dijon if I receive my degree, but lately I have been thinking of going somewhere else, somewhere far away: Paris, Berlin, Geneva—or maybe even America? Les États-Unis . . . Would I dare?
One thing I know for certain. This house has not been my home ever since Papa married Madame. If I am offered a place at university next year, I have no intention of returning to live here ever again.
Chapter
3
A mist floated over the vines, a fine spray that blurred the distant village and heightened the color of the grape leaves so they flashed against the grey sky. It was the third morning of the vendanges, and my sleeves were soaked with dew, my hands cold and slick, my back throbbing as I bent and stooped. And yet, despite the physical discomfort, the beauty still bewitched me—the air, silken and pure, the crisp sounds of snipping secateurs and heels crunching on graveled dirt, the precision of orderly vines marching across gentle slopes. At this hour, before the sun rose bright and strong, the landscape was a wash of color, the pinot noir grapes fat clusters of soft violet, the chardonnay pale celadon, the broad leaves fluttering emerald, the precious soil a crumbly stroke of russet.
“Allez, tout le monde! Ça va?” Nico stood near the cabotte, a primitive stone hut. “I brought the casse-croûte,” he continued in French, holding up a wicker picnic basket. “Let’s finish this patch and we can eat before loading up. D’accord?”
A few calls of assent and we bent to work, the others, more experienced, moving swift and steady through the vines, while I trailed behind. Finally, I finished my row and lugged my bucket to the wheelbarrow, emptying the fruit within. The other pickers started loading crates of grapes on the truck bed as Nico stood by and noted each one on a clipboard.
In the picnic basket, I found the last sandwich—a length of baguette stuffed with a thick slice of pâté de campagne and a slender line of cornichons—sat down on an overturned crate, and took a bite.
“Du vin?” A teenaged boy appeared before me, proffering a bottle of wine.
“De l’eau?” I asked hopefully. After the morning’s toil I needed water to quench my thirst, not wine.
“J’sais pas.” He shrugged. Wine it would be.
I found a plastic cup and he poured me a slug. It was young, still sharply tannic, but full of fruit, the color of rubies. I ate my sandwich in quick bites, washing it down with the wine. In the distance, a mass of clouds bruised the horizon.
Nico pushed the last crate of fruit onto the truck and walked toward me. “Storm’s coming,” he said, nodding at the sky. As if in agreement, a great rumble rolled across the bucolic calm. I flipped my hood over my head, expecting rain. But the sound grew until I realized it was not thunder, but an engine chugging up the slope. After what seemed like a long wait, a tractor finally appeared, grinding to a halt near the truck. The orange door opened, long legs swung down, and the gaunt figure of Uncle Philippe emerged. He surveyed the proceedings, noting the laden crates stacked in the truck, the empty picnic basket, the vendangeurs who stood smoking and chatting.
“Nicolas!” he called to his son, who moved quickly to his side. They spoke in low voices, punctuated by the jab of an index finger as Uncle Philippe pointed at various parcels of vineyards in the distance. Nico nodded, making notes on the clipboard. The wind gusted, shaking the grape leaves into a hiss, and I looked down at the mesh tops of my running shoes, wondering if they’d survive a thunderstorm.
“Kate.” Nico beckoned, and I rose to join the two men.
“Bonjour,” I greeted my uncle.
“Bonjour, Katreen,” he said with a nod. His eyes, shielded by rimless spectacles, were difficult to read.
“Listen, Kate,” Nico continued in French. “Our stagiaire didn’t show up this morning and we need help in the cuverie. Can you go with Papa?” His voice was casual, but—was I imagining things?—did he give an almost imperceptible shake of the head?
“Um, I, er . . .,” I faltered, glancing surreptitiously at Uncle Philippe. He was frowning at the clipboard, exuding such an air of cold formality that I felt clumsy. And yet working in the winery wo
uld give me an intimate view of the winemaking process—and wasn’t that why I had come here in the first place? “Bien sûr,” I said. “Of course.”
“D’accord,” said Nico, though he seemed antsy. “You go back to the domaine now with Papa, and I’ll take the tractor to the next parcel.” He turned to round up the team, but before he moved away, he shot me a look of encouragement. Or was it concern? I couldn’t tell.
Uncle Philippe and I climbed into the truck. I hunted desperately for some morsel of small talk—anything to break the awkward silence blanketing the vehicle. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been alone with my uncle. In fact, had I ever been alone with him?
A blinding flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. I gasped without thinking, my hand shooting out to grab my uncle’s arm. He looked over at me in surprise. “Sorry,” I croaked, clearing my throat, and removing my hand. “That just surprised me. We don’t have this kind of storm in California.”
He smiled thinly. “You’re not scared, are you?”
“No, no, of course not,” I stammered, crossing my arms. Through the windshield, I saw the other vendangeurs scattering for cover.
“I should hope not.” He reached to turn the key in the ignition. But before he could switch on the engine, the rain began to fall, fat, heavy drops that hit the windshield with a brittle clatter, turning quickly to hail.
It was only a summer storm. Still, a shiver ran down the length of my spine.
For most of the year, Domaine Charpin’s three mighty grape presses—enormous, antediluvian contraptions made of thick wooden staves circled by metal hoops—lay dormant, covered in dustcloths, surrounded by farm equipment. During les vendanges, they came alive, their large iron plates descending with limb-crushing strength on mountains of grapes, releasing a torrent of liquid that ran into underground vats. The birth of wine, I thought, crouching near the stream to fill a glass. The fresh grape must had a brisk, raw tang that would eventually mellow with fermentation, but even now, pure and untouched, I could taste the balance of acid, sugars, and tannins that heralded a remarkable year.
Uncle Philippe circled between the pressoirs and the cuverie, observing everything with a critical eye. By late morning, I was slightly regretting my offer to help him. He stalked from task to task, his narrow frame moving in a purposeful stride that precluded questions.
My mother and her brother had grown up here at the domaine, but while she had left France for college, Uncle Philippe had spent his whole life in this same place; now in his mid-fifties, he was many years from retiring as chef vigneron. He and my aunt Jeanne lived outside the village, in the house where she’d grown up; they raised most of their own vegetables, tended chickens and a pig. Their frugality extended to the vineyard, which sagged under battered equipment and scuffed surfaces and, I suspected, was the source of some intergenerational tension.
“May I invite you to clean les cuves?” Uncle Philippe tapped my shoulder and indicated a row of towering cylindrical vats. He spoke in a highly refined French, addressing me with the formal form of you—“vous”—which he preferred and used with almost everyone, including his own daughter-in-law. I had always been expected to vouvoyer him—even on those long-ago visits with my mother, when I was just a little girl with broken French struggling to keep my verb conjugations straight—until finally I gave up and started speaking to him in English (when I spoke to him at all).
“Of course.” I followed him into the cuverie. He inserted his upper body into one of the towering steel vessels, wielding a high-powered hose with confidence, emerging with his white hair sparkling with mist. Following his example, I fitted my head and torso into the tall, narrow cuve—which was dark and cave-like, echoing with intermittent drips of water—lifted the hose, and sprayed the sides and ceiling. The jet of water jolted me backward.
“With enough practice, you’ll get the hang of it,” Uncle Philippe said, leaving me with the hose and a row of empty vats to clean.
By the time the grape presses had quieted for the lunch hour, I was exhausted. I was hoping to sit with Heather at lunch—I couldn’t wait for a break from Uncle Philippe’s gimlet-eyed gaze—but before I could cross the courtyard, my uncle called to me.
“Come sit next to me at lunch, please,” he instructed.
I inwardly groaned, but managed to arrange my features in a pleasant expression. “D’accord,” I agreed.
In the kitchen, I washed my hands, scrubbing at the stubborn stains on my cuticles.
“How’s it going? Can you cut some bread for the table?” Heather, flushed from the stove, bent to remove a cast-iron pot from the oven.
“Uncle Philippe invited me to sit next to him at lunch,” I said quietly. “I don’t suppose I can refuse?”
She pulled a face. “Probably not. Sorry. I’ll try to sit down at your end.”
But by the time I had helped her distribute the bottles of wine and pitchers of water, the breadbaskets, mustard pots, butter dishes, jars of cornichons, plates of charcuterie, and terrines of homemade pâté de campagne, there was only one seat left for me. I found myself wedged beside my uncle, with Nico across from me and members of the domaine staff filling the rest of the seats at the table.
“Do tell me,” Uncle Philippe said, filling my glass with wine. “How is my sister?”
“She’s fine.” I fiddled with the napkin in my lap.
“Still in Singapore? I can never keep track of her.”
My mother had lived in Singapore for more than fifteen years. “Yes,” I said simply. “She’s very busy,” I added, which always seemed to be the case to me, at least. It wasn’t that we didn’t get along, but more that she seemed disinterested in me—her career as an investment banker, along with her second husband’s charitable foundation, left little room for anything else.
This seemed to satisfy Uncle Philippe. “Du saucisson sec?” He speared a thin slice of salami and placed it on my plate. “You haven’t become a vegetarian, have you?”
The others paused midbite, forks piled with cured meat, knives loaded with mustard, their eyes swiveling toward me.
“Non, non,” I assured him. “Not at all.”
“You can never be sure with Americans,” he said. “Last year, we even had a—what do you call it? A virgin?”
I choked on a sliver of sausage. “A what?”
“You know, she ate only vegetables—not even eggs or cheese!”
“Oh, a vegan!” I coughed into my napkin, stifling a laugh.
“C’est ça. Un végan. Can you imagine?”
“Only vegetables!” said Nico, slicing off a wobbly mass of headcheese. “Crazy! C’est dingue !” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Actually,” I balanced my knife and fork on the edge of my plate, “a plant-based diet is a superhealthy lifestyle—not to mention good for the planet.”
Everyone stared at me as if I had started to declaim a verse from the Bible.
“Such a creative spirit, les américains. I do admire that,” said Uncle Philippe at last. “I suppose it makes up for your country’s complete lack of culture. Me, I prefer Europe. Not just France—though, of course, I favor France—but Italy, Spain, Austria. Even the smallest villages are filled with charm.”
“But America has so much space, Papa.” Nico made an expansive gesture with his hands. “Big skies, open roads. Opportunity.”
“Too many opportunities, if you ask me,” his father huffed. “Americans are always trying to change things. Make improvements.”
“Is that wrong?” I asked lightly.
“No, of course not. But here in France, it is tradition that we value. I make wine the same way as my father, who made wine the same as his father. Yes, perhaps we’ve made a few technological advancements here and there, but otherwise the domaine has remained unchanged for several generations. We don’t need any marketing”—he threw out the word in heavily accented English—“or design or a site-web.” He gave a small shud
der.
“But why not?” I responded without thinking. “Why not create a website to introduce more people to your wine? Why not redesign the labels to give them more shelf appeal? Or package the honey that you gather from the beehives in your vines? Or even start a bed-and-breakfast here at the domaine? I know so many Americans who would absolutely love to stay at a real Burgundy winery.” An image of the domaine flashed before me, freshly painted and beautifully maintained, its rooms restored to their original grace, the courtyard filled with flowering plants . . .
Across the table, Nico was staring at me, his face stricken. Beside me, my uncle heaved a sigh. I realized that I had overstepped a boundary.
“Mais non, Katreen. Don’t you see? That is what I am trying to express.” He puffed his chest with benevolent chauvinism. “We are not here for tourists. We are here to ensure that the domaine continues to another generation. Perhaps you do not understand, because your mother has chosen to turn away from this life. But my obligation is to share this with my grandchildren—this land, this heritage, this patrimoine.”
“Along with saucisson sec, of course.” Nico, his composure recovered, gave a wink. “Pork is also our patrimoine.” Everyone burst into laughter, including his father.
At the other end of the table, Heather began to clear away the first course, and I rose to help her carry the lard-smudged plates into the kitchen. I found her dishing up pot-au-feu, frowning a little as she arranged chunks of braised beef and marrow bones on a platter.
“He’s an old goat, isn’t he?” she remarked conversationally.
“Stubborn.” I opened the dishwasher and started fitting plates into the slots.
“You know, when we first started living here, I had a million ideas for this place. We were even going to—” A cube of meat tumbled off the platter and she bent to retrieve it from the floor.
“What?” I prompted. “You were going to what?”
“Oh, you know. Just a bunch of silly ideas. Like cleaning out the cellar. You haven’t mentioned that to anyone, have you?”