The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

  “Come see me after school, ma choupinette,” he said quietly. “I want to talk to you.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, I worried that Papa was cross with me. After school, I hurried through my exercises for the baccalauréat exam so that Madame Grenoble would let me go a few minutes before the other pupils, bicycling back to the domaine as fast as my legs could pedal. At home, I found Papa alone in his office.

  “Coucou, choupette,” he greeted me absently, glancing up from his book.

  “Papa, I wasn’t trying to upset anyone at lunch today. It’s not my fault the boys got excited.”

  “Hmm, did they? I didn’t notice. Though we do need to remain calm around Benoît, of course,” he added hastily, as if Madame might be listening. “But I wanted to talk to you about something else. About this.” He pushed the book forward, its pages fluttering.

  I picked it up and glanced at the cover. “Le Comte de Monte-Cristo?” The Count of Monte Cristo is Papa’s favorite book, but I haven’t read it since I was a little girl.

  “What do you see?”

  I read a few sentences and smiled. “Dantès has just been thrown into the sea by the prison guards . . .”

  “No. Look closer.”

  My eyes skipped forward several paragraphs. “He finds an island and comes ashore?”

  He gestured for the book. “Here.” He pointed at a word. “And here, and here.” His index finger moved down the page.

  And then I saw: Faint pencil marks hovered between the lines. “There are . . . dots,” I said.

  “Oui.” He smiled. “It’s a code.”

  Papa showed me how to place the dots over certain letters and numbers, to spell out messages. “My father taught me the same code during La Grande Guerre, right before he went to the front. My brothers . . . well, they had already passed. I was left to take care of Maman. Papa needed me to be able to send secret messages, if I had to.”

  “But,” I protested, “nothing is going to happen.”

  “I know, la drôle de guerre,” said Papa. “Still, we must be prepared. Dieu merci, the situation will dissipate. But if the war begins in earnest and I have to leave suddenly . . . well, it’s always good to have a private way to communicate, n’est-ce pas?” His voice was cheerful, but his eyes stayed on my face until I nodded.

  I cleared my throat. “Have you shown Virginie?”

  He hesitated. “Not yet. She has so many concerns; I don’t like to add to her worries. Your belle-mère, she is more delicate than she looks. Oui, c’est vrai,” he said, in response to my silent skepticism. “If I am not here, you will need to be strong for her and the boys.”

  “But Papa—”

  “Listen to me, Hélène!” His voice was sharper than I had ever heard it. “If something happens, and I go away, I am leaving you in charge. I need you to stay here at the domaine. It’s the deserted houses that will be most vulnerable to looting. No matter what happens, you must stay. Can you promise me that?”

  I nodded.

  “I need you to say it. Promise me.”

  “I promise, Papa.” My voice croaked and I cleared my throat. “I will stay here and keep the domaine safe.”

  “Good girl.” He relaxed slightly. “Now, here is what we need to do in les caves . . .”

  We would build a wall in our private cellar, he told me, and hide our most valuable bottles behind it. As négociants, our family has amassed a remarkable collection of wine, not just from our domaine, but a selection of fine vintages worth a considerable fortune. “Even if we can hide just a few cases of Les Gouttes d’Or, it could be enough for your future.”

  “But what if they find it?”

  He shrugged. “The cellars are dark and they extend for kilometers. I suppose it’s possible, but I get lost down there myself sometimes!” We both laughed because it’s true—a few months ago Papa went down to look for a rare grand cru, forgot his lamp, took a wrong turn, then another, and spent several panicked moments hunting for the stairs. Our caves are like a labyrinth, built by monks in the thirteenth century, the low ceilings and arches leading to strange twists and dead ends.

  “No one else must know about this project. You understand? Personne,” said Papa.

  “What about my belle-mère? And the boys?”

  “Virginie . . .” He blinked. “Yes, I will tell her. Eventually. But not the boys—they are too young. It’s too risky.” When I nodded, he added, “We’ll work in the afternoons, after school, while there’s still a little light from the windows.”

  I bit my lip. “I have a chemistry laboratory after school. With Madame Grenoble. For the bac.”

  “I am so sorry, ma choupinette.” He looked down at his desk, silent and completely still, so that my heart fluttered. “Given the situation, I’ve decided you should wait to apply to Sèvres.”

  I felt like all the air had been punched from my chest. “But nothing has even happened!” I protested. “I saw a newsreel at the cinema last week and everyone in Paris was out on the street without a care in the world!” Tears pressed up behind my eyes. “Please, Papa,” I pleaded. “Please let me apply.” When I saw him begin to shake his head I hastily added, “Or—or, at least wait to decide. Until the examination.”

  I held my breath as Papa considered. “D’accord,” he said finally. “You can continue preparing for the bac, if Madame Grenoble allows you to do the work early, before school.”

  The next afternoon, we started in the cellars. Papa showed me the portion of the cave that he wants to wall off—it’s actually quite big, as large as the kitchen—and we began sorting through the cases of wine, setting aside the grands crus and rare vintages. I think we’ve placed about twenty thousand bottles in there. It took Papa ages to find bricks with the right kind of patina, as well as all the other bits and pieces he says he needs. We’re finally going to start building tomorrow afternoon.

  I have hated missing the extra chemistry lessons after school, especially since Rose told me the other day that they got to flare up different compounds in a methanol flame. At least Madame Grenoble has been accommodating about my absences, allowing me to use the laboratory before school and encouraging me after class, and in her comments on my assignments. I pray that it’s enough to allow me to qualify for Sèvres.

  You see, cher journal, I absolutely must matriculate at Sèvres in the fall. I cannot imagine my future any other way. I know that we have declared war on Germany, and that all the young men have been mobilized, and that there’s a blackout after dark, and we have to bring our gas masks everywhere, but honestly it doesn’t feel like anything has really changed at all. In Beaune, people are taking coffee on the café terrasses, and my classmates are swapping patterns for new spring dresses, and last week Madame Laroche told me she planted seventeen new rosebushes in her garden. Is this the behavior of someone anticipating a war?

  No, I simply must continue to believe that nothing will happen. Because if there is a real war, I will have to keep my promise and stay here at the domaine with Madame and my brothers. I don’t believe that I am strong enough for that, I truly do not.

  Chapter

  5

  “Shhh.” Heather hobbled down the last three steps and threw a hard glare around the dim cellar.

  “I didn’t say anything,” I protested.

  “No, not you.” She placed her hands delicately on the sides of her head. “When the stairs creak . . . it’s just . . . agony. Is it possible to have a two-day hangover?”

  “After that party? Not just possible. Probable.”

  La Paulée had ended just as the soft golden light of dawn began to streak the sky. I had stumbled to bed as the sun rose, waking with a splitting headache when Heather started shouting for Thibault, who was missing from his room. She eventually found him asleep in a pillow fort he’d constructed in the front hall. Later, we all ate leftover roast suckling pig for breakfast—tearing at the carcass with our hands—before embarking on the Herculean task of cleaning up the house and garden.
After two days, we were still finding half-drunk cups of wine in overlooked corners, paper plates covered in crumbs—and Thibault discovered an entire apple tart tucked in the bottom of the hall closet.

  “We don’t have to start now,” I said. “We could declare today a mental health day, and go eat poached eggs on toast and drink Bloody Marys.”

  “That sounds a lot like yesterday.”

  “Yesterday part two?”

  She shook her head very gently, as if trying not to rattle the contents. “It’s tempting . . . but no, no, we’re finally making progress, don’t you think?” She lifted a hopeful eyebrow.

  I glanced around the cave. Piles of junk loomed in the shadows, as massive and hulking as ever. “We’re getting there,” I hedged.

  But as I moved toward my side, I noticed that the cellar did feel slightly more spacious than when we had started. There were paths running through the mounds, and we had cleared the area around one of the windows, which allowed a glimmer of natural light to trickle into the room. I had almost tunneled through to one of the walls, and I could see the sides of a massive battered wardrobe standing against it, its doors blocked by more cartons.

  “Okay. Okay,” Heather muttered to herself. “Let’s get started.” She seemed preoccupied this morning, rearranging stacks of boxes instead of actually sorting through them.

  I tore open a carton and found a pile of high school yearbooks from Nico’s lycée. “Awww.” Heather plucked one from the stack, leafing through its pages. “Look at les garçons.” She showed me a photo of two scrawny teenagers, Nico and Jean-Luc, wearing matching top hats, bow ties, and goofy grins. “They were in the tap dancing club?” She began to laugh, raising the book to inspect the other pictures on the page. “Oh!” she sucked in a breath. “There’s Louise.” I recognized the foxy features of the girl from La Paulée. Despite myself, I felt a jab of jealous curiosity, sharp as a pointed stick.

  “Are she and Jean-Luc dating?” I tried to keep my voice casual.

  Heather lowered the book. “Yeah. I think it might be serious,” she said eventually. “She owns an antique bookshop in Beaune.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not exactly sure how she stays in business, but I suspect she gets help from her parents. Have you heard of Maison Dupin Père et Fils? Her family owns some of the choicest vineyards in the Côte d’Or. I think she’s had her eye on Jean-Luc for years, but they only started dating about six months ago.”

  Apparently Louise was both beautiful and rich. “Do you like her?”

  “She’s okay, I suppose. She’s very glossy and polished, pointy little chin. Reminds me of a hazelnut.” She bit her lip. “But . . . she makes these comments. Like the other day at lunch, Thibault didn’t want to share the last piece of cake, and she told him, Ne mange-pas comme un juif—don’t eat like a Jew. I was so shocked I almost choked. Nico didn’t say anything—you know how he is; always the pacifist—but finally I told her, you know, I’m Jewish. And she just shrugged and said I was being too sensitive. She told me, ‘It’s just an expression!’”

  I gaped at her. I knew anti-Semitism lurked in France, as it did everywhere in the world, but to hear it expressed so overtly stunned me.

  “I know, it’s horrifying the first time you hear it, right? These little phrases pop up sometimes, but I’ve gotten used to it, I guess.” She closed the yearbook with a snap, and returned it to the box. “Obviously, Jean-Luc’s relationship is none of my business. But I really hope he’s not making a mistake.”

  I shifted my weight to my heels. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” I said, smoothing the flaps of the box so that they lay perfectly flat. When I looked up again, I found her regarding me with a speculative gaze.

  “Look,” she began. “I don’t want to pry. But can you tell me what happened between you guys? When you split up, it was so sudden . . . he kept saying you were coming here, but then you never came. And then Nico and I had Anna—she was so colicky—and by the time we emerged from that fog, it felt weird to start asking questions.”

  “He—” I cleared my throat. “Jean-Luc never told you what happened?”

  She shook her head. “I kept meaning to email you. But we didn’t have internet at home back then, and . . . well, I’m full of excuses, aren’t I?”

  An awkward silence hung between us. “It wasn’t really one thing in particular,” I said finally. “We were just too young.” A memory flashed before me of the last night we had spent together in Paris. My chambre de bonne swept and clean, my suitcases by the door. Sitting on the floor, drinking Champagne, talking about our plans for the future. Jean-Luc’s sudden declaration: “I don’t want my wife working outside of the home. Maman has never done that.”

  “Your mom also makes her own jam, and bottles her own pickles. She and I couldn’t be more different.”

  “And if we have kids?”

  “I’ll take time off. Or you will. Or we’ll take turns. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Moi? Do cooking and childcare? Mais non—that’s the work of the women.”

  “Or there’s the crèche?”

  “And have them sick all the time?”

  “It’ll only be for a couple of years.”

  “Probably longer than that!”

  “Well,” I had laughed. “I guess it depends on how many kids we have.”

  “Four?”

  “Four? One.”

  “Only one? Won’t he be lonely?”

  “Noooo. She will have all the kids in the crèche to play with.” I poked him in the side.

  “Hm. I think we have some negotiating to do,” he said with a wink, reaching for another piece of bread. “Though I have always dreamed of a big family.”

  “You just want the free labor,” I said with mock exasperation.

  “Ah, Kat, you know me too well.” And his face had split into a grin, before he threw both arms around me and bestowed a teasing kiss upon my mouth, a kiss that deepened as his fingers trailed delicately down my neck, dipping under my shirt, so that I quickly forgot where I was and what I had been saying.

  Now, I blinked and the memory dissolved. “We were too young,” I repeated, but I said it more to convince myself.

  Heather reached out and put a hand on my shoulder, her eyes dark with sympathy. But I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It had happened too long ago—and I had spent too much time examining those memories—too much time wondering if I should have done anything different. “It’s okay.” I managed to retrieve a smile. “Doesn’t matter now. It’s all turned out for the best.” I shrugged so that her hand fell from my arm. And then I reached for another box because I didn’t want to see the hurt flash across her face.

  We worked in silence. I forced myself to concentrate on the objects before me. A pile of disintegrating dustrags. An ancient box of washing soda. A set of copper jelly molds, dull and speckled with tarnish. An old book—a biography of Marie Curie. I lifted the cover and turned to the frontispiece, my heart skipping a beat when I saw the inscription written in an old-fashioned, looping hand:

  Hélène

  Le Club d’Alchimistes

  I stared at the words, trying to make sense of them. The book was Hélène’s, that much was clear. But Le Club d’Alchimistes? The Alchemists Club? What was that?

  I lifted my head and called across the cellar: “Heather?”

  “Yeah?” Was I imagining things, or did her voice sound cold?

  “Check this out.” Scrambling to my feet, I moved to her side and showed her the book. “What do you think it means?”

  She stared at the handwriting, and then shook her head. “Honestly, I have no idea. It must’ve belonged to her. Whoever she is. Was. Hélène.” She touched the name with her fingertip.

  “What is alchemy anyway? Magically transforming metal into gold?”

  She shrugged. “There’s no such thing as magic. Don’t be silly. That’s just a medieval superstition.”

  “Woowwwww!” Heather exclaimed. “Don’t you look fa
ncy!”

  Three pairs of eyes turned to look at me as I entered the kitchen. “Guys, it’s nothing,” I protested. “I just washed my hair.”

  “And put on shoes with heels. And lipstick!” Heather resumed chopping an onion. “Walker won’t know what hit him.”

  “What do you two think?” I asked Anna and Thibault. “Do I look okay?”

  Anna tipped her head to one side. “Les jeans are good. And I do like the shirt. But you need to tie the scarf like this.” She pulled it from my shoulders, folded it in half, and looped it around my neck. “Voilà. Now it brings out the green color of your eyes.”

  Heather glanced up from her cutting board. “Whoa. She’s actually right.”

  “Tomorrow, I will show you how to do a cat eye with eyeliner,” Anna promised, and slid out of the room.

  “Kat, will you help me build again the Lego cave à vins?” Thibault looked up at me.

  “Oh, the Lego wine cellar . . . that was fun, wasn’t it? How about tomorrow?”

  “Can we make another earthquake?”

  “You bet, kid,” I said, and he resumed scribbling over his Minions coloring book.

  “What time is Walker picking you up?” Heather crushed a clove of garlic with the side of her knife.

  “Around seven.” We both looked at the clock, which read ten past the hour.

  “So, are you prepared for tonight?”

  “Um, I guess? Why, is there going to be a test?”

  “You know.” She raised her eyebrows. “Prepared.”

  “If you mean what I think you do—no! I barely know him.”

  “Hey, I saw you guys talking at La Paulée. There were sparks!”

  “Yeah, the spark two Americans feel when they meet in a foreign country.”

  “Well, when’s the last time you went on a date?”

  “Not that long ago. Sometime in June,” I hedged, shaving off a few months. “I was seeing this tech guy in San Francisco. Though I could never tell if he was really interested in me or just wanted my advice for the wine app he was developing.”

  “I’m just saying, keep an open mind.”