by Ann Mah
But this makes me wonder about another possibility, so frightening that I scarcely dare to speculate about it. Is Papa one of them? Could he be working with the movement . . . la Résistance? Oh, see how my hand trembles as I write these words. Calm yourself, Hélène. Calm. There is an enormous divide between circulating one mocking little article and actually joining the Resistance. And Papa has never breathed a word about these activities to me, either in support or criticism. As far as I know, he continues to passively wait out this war—like all of us in this family, silently enduring.
Later
This idea still eats at me. I cannot sleep. Instead, I have spent these last hours analyzing all my recent interactions with Papa, scouring them for clues. There are so many discrepancies, so many occasions when I thought he was fibbing, but I couldn’t understand why. Truthfully, I thought he was hiding so that he could drink in secret. Now I am not so sure. Oh, please, please let Papa be safe. I admire what that group does, but if something happens to Papa, my heart will completely break in two.
Even later
Still awake. It occurs to me that I have just endangered all of us by recording these thoughts so plainly. I must find a better hiding place for this journal.
Chapter
9
After we found the secret cellar, Heather stopped coming downstairs to help me. She said she’d lost her heart for the project, and I didn’t blame her. Still, it was lonely down there without her, and—even though Nico had run extension cords through the wardrobe, plugging in a pair of high-watt, halogen work lamps—it was spooky, too. Here in this hidden space, which had remained untouched for so many years, the air breathed sharp with a persistent edge of mold. Shadows pooled in the corners, and gathered along the walls and below the wine racks, magnifying shapes and sounds, faint scratches and scrabbles that hinted at mice, spiders, roaches. I threw boxes of poison in the corners and tried not to think about it. And, anyway, once I started working with the wine, I stopped thinking about anything else.
Because the wine . . . oh the wine! Even enclosed within glass it bewitched me, this potion lying in fairy-tale slumber, waiting for a spell—the twist of a corkscrew, a breath of air—to make it vibrant once again. The heavy bottles lay on their sides, covered in thick, fluffy grey clouds of mold, a product of microbes and moisture that thrived in cool, damp conditions. At first, I worried that almost eight decades of neglect had ruined these bottles but after inspecting several, I found them still perfect, the corks intact and lightly bathed in liquid, which prevented any oxygen from penetrating and spoiling the precious vintages. After all, I reasoned, the ancient walls of these cellars had been built for this very purpose—to preserve wine.
Though we still didn’t know who had hidden the bottles, the one thing I knew for certain was that an expert had selected them. The collection took my breath away: La Tâche, Clos de Vougeot, Chambertin. The spectacular years: 1929, 1934, 1935, 1937, the stratospheric vintages, as Jennifer would have called them. And it was alive, this wine. Even trapped inside the glass, it would continue to change and evolve until the moment it was drunk. Any of these bottles would be worth a fortune, valuable even at the beginning of its life, but decades of aging had transformed them into something almost sacred.
I tried not to touch the bottles too much as I counted and catalogued them, recording the numbers by hand in a notebook and later transcribing the information into a spreadsheet on my laptop. I was afraid of disturbing the liquid—wine doesn’t like movement—and, more than anything, I was afraid one of them would slip through my fingers and break. But by the end of the third day, I had catalogued only a tiny portion—maybe a thousand bottles—and I estimated there were at least ten thousand more stored in the secret cave. Ten thousand precious bottles resting like so many sleeping beauties.
“Big. With Minions. And a yellow cup. But mostly big. He claims one of the kids at school pulled out a hot slice of pizza during lunch.”
“From a thermos?” I started to laugh.
“Thibault swears it’s true.” Heather maneuvered the shopping cart around the corner of an aisle.
We gazed at the ravaged shelves.
“Not much choice,” I observed, picking up a lunch box covered in rainbows and unicorns.
She sighed. “Bad mom. I waited too long. All the good moms came to Carrefour three weeks ago. Now there’s a ‘ rupture’ in stock, and even though they say they’re reordering, there won’t be any new thermoses until next August.”
“Aw, poor Thibault,” I clucked. “Denied hot pizza from a thermos. Just remember—childhood trauma makes for a compelling life story. This is all great material for his memoirs.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.” Suddenly she stiffened, teetered up on her toes and snatched something from a high shelf. “Yes!” She brandished a thermos adorned with small bug-eyed creatures. “But the question is”—she unscrewed the yellow top and peered inside—“can I get a slice of pizza in here?”
“You’ve got competition,” I murmured, nodding at the woman beside us—skinny jeans, chunky boots, smoky eye makeup, the works—who was ogling the thermos like a cat eyeing a fishbowl.
“I swear, shopping in this country is a blood sport,” Heather muttered, throwing the thermos into her cart and making a sharp turn to the refrigerated section.
“This entire aisle is yogurt?” My jaw dropped at the small containers, stacked five rows high and stretching for several yards.
“Come on, you’ve been to the grocery store in France a million times.” Heather placed two twelve-packs of plain in her cart.
“Yeah, but I’ve never shopped for dairy products before. This is hardcore.” I snapped a photo on my phone and posted it to Instagram, where it was immediately liked by Walker.
Heather paused to complete some mental calculation and slowly reached for a package of yogurt mousse. “I guess after a while you start to forget the stuff that’s weird. Like why can’t you buy canned chicken broth? Why is the baking sugar flavored with vanilla? Why are the peanuts and potato chips always in the booze aisle?”
We wheeled to the next aisle and sure enough, nestled by the bottles of wine were jars of salted nuts and packets of potato chips boasting flavors like cheeseburger and roast chicken. I inspected a few of the wines, grocery store labels, most of it produced in mass quantity, a world apart from the rarefied appellations of Burgundy’s Côte d’Or.
Heather plucked a bottle of Sancerre from the shelf. “Eek, don’t look,” she said, placing it in the cart. “Sometimes I just want to drink something crisp and light, you know?”
“Don’t be silly. Wine doesn’t have to be expensive to be delicious. It all depends on the right situation. Like on a hot summer day, I’d definitely prefer a glass of rosé with ice cubes to the finest vintage Champagne.”
She added a couple of glowing pink bottles to the cart and we both laughed.
“Hey, at least you have options. I was glancing at the domaine’s old account books and back in the day the family used to set aside a couple of barrels of vin de table once a year—and that’s all they drank . . .,” I faltered, remembering too late Heather’s feelings about the secret cellar and everything related to it.
We started moving again, more slowly now, past a section labeled États-Unis, the shelves filled with American products like Tabasco, peanut butter, and marshmallows, all at vastly inflated prices. “It’s okay, you know,” she said. “You can talk about the cave. I was really angry, but I’m coming to terms with it. As Nico pointed out, we don’t even know how much his father knows—and I’ll never know unless I ask him. And I’m definitely not ready for that conversation.” She pressed her lips together.
“Yeah, me neither.” I shivered at the thought of Uncle Philippe’s formidable demeanor.
“But if I separate my own feelings from the cave . . . well, this is obviously the most exciting thing that’s ever happened at the domaine. And the domaine is Nico’s life—so of course I want to be a part of it
.”
She mustered a smile, and I gave her arm a squeeze, admiring not for the first time my friend’s loyalty. “Nico’s a lucky guy,” I told her.
“Believe me,” she said, “it’s taken me a while to get here. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about responsibility and what one generation owes to the next.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if Anna and Thibault blame me and Nico for what Hélène did all those decades ago?”
“But that’s completely unfair!”
“So you see? I can’t blame my father-in-law for what Hélène did—only for keeping it from us.”
I glanced away. “You’re right,” I said finally. And I was surprised to find I meant it.
We wheeled toward the checkout area, joining a queue that snaked halfway up the pet food aisle. I sighed and crossed my arms, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “You don’t think . . .” I frowned. “We didn’t miss anything important in Hélène’s stuff, did we?”
“Nah. There was nothing in the suitcase except the clothes and photos.”
“What about that other box?”
“What other box?”
“The one with her diploma? Didn’t you find that in a different box?”
“Yeah, that was just a bunch of old schoolbooks, notebooks, stuff like that. Nothing interesting.”
“But now we know about the secret cave.” I chewed the inside of my lip. “What did we do with that stuff anyway? Did we get rid of it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Was it charity shop? Or dump?”
“Not sure.”
The line inched forward. “I think probably charity shop,” she said eventually.
I tried to picture the contents of the box. Biology textbooks. Chemistry. Physics. Had there been a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo? A stack of notebooks with thick, brown covers, the pages filled with copperplate handwriting. I remembered flipping through the first one, finding row after row of grammar exercises, and setting the others aside.
“The notebooks.” An odd feeling began scrabbling in my chest.
“Yeah?”
“There was a stack of them in the box. But I only looked at the first one.” I crossed my arms, and uncrossed them again. My skin had begun to prickle. “What time does the charity shop close?”
“Five? I think?”
The clock on my cell phone read 4:26.
“We can see if they’re still open on the way home.” She gave me a reassuring smile and pulled out her grocery list, mentally checking off the items.
“Heather,” my voice emerged, strangled. “I think—we need—this is going to sound crazy, but can we just go there now?” For some reason that I couldn’t explain, a weird feeling had started crawling up my spine.
“Right now? This very minute? What about the groceries?”
“We can come back for them. Please. I just have this . . . feeling.”
She must have seen the panic on my face, because her smile disappeared. “I would just leave, except for the thermos. There’s no way it’ll still be here when we get back—and Thibault’ll be crushed if I come home empty-handed.”
“Can we hide it somewhere?” I looked wildly around me. “Like on that shelf behind the kitty litter, or something? No, wait. We can hide it in that aisle with the American foods. I’d bet my hat that no one ever shops there.”
Heather reversed out of line, snatched the thermos from the cart, and we raced over to the États-Unis section, still as empty as it had been ten minutes earlier.
“Here, I’ll do it. I’m taller,” I said. She handed me the thermos and I stretched to the top shelf, tucking it behind a row of blinding-yellow taco kits emblazoned with the words “Old El Paso” that appeared untouched by human hands since the day they’d been stocked.
“You’re sure it’s safe here?” Heather said anxiously.
“Come on.” I shot her a sly smile. “When’s the last time you heard of a French person eating tacos?”
We ran to the car. Heather peeled out with a squeal of tires, pushing the speed limit all the way to Beaune, where she squeezed into a parking spot right outside the charity shop. We flew to the door, just in time to see a silver-haired woman flip the sign to “fermé.” Spying us through the glass, she shrugged and pointed at her watch.
Heather peered through the window. “There are people in there! She still has customers! What time is it?”
I checked my phone. “Four forty-six.”
Heather rapped on the door. “Bonjour? Bonjour?” She twisted the knob and it opened. I followed her into the store.
“Mesdames. Mesdames! On ferme.” The silver-haired woman appeared before us.
“There’re still fourteen minutes until you close,” Heather said in French, smiling at her sweetly. “And you have other customers.”
“Yes, but they’re just paying,” she protested, throwing a glance to the back of the shop, where two people were squatting over some open boxes.
“Oh my God,” I whispered to Heather. “It’s Walker . . . and Louise.”
Heather dodged around the woman and walked toward the pair. “Hey, guys!” she called.
Louise’s head jerked up. “Oh, Bruyère! Katreen! Quelle surprise!” She appeared slightly rattled.
“Hey!” Walker greeted us with a smile, bright and bland.
“Find anything good here?” Heather loomed above them.
“Just a bunch of old books.” Louise closed the flaps of one of the boxes and stood. “How much for all these?” she asked the silver-haired woman in French.
“Attendez—mind if we have a look?” Heather knelt on the floor and reached inside one of the boxes. She pulled out a French-English dictionary and caught my eye. I shook my head as subtly as possible.
“J’sais pas.” The silver-haired woman puffed out her cheeks. “Trente?”
Louise fished into her pocketbook and pulled out two twenty-euro notes.
The woman pulled a face. “You don’t have any change?”
“Do you have a ten?” Louise asked Walker.
He patted his pockets. “Sorry.”
“Putain,” Louise swore under her breath. “I’m going to have to go to the café.” Clutching her handbag, she darted out the door.
Heather dug into another box and held up a red-and-white striped candle. Again, I shook my head, noticing too late that Walker had seen me.
“What are you guys planning to do with this stuff?” I asked him.
“I dunno. Louise wants it for something.”
Heather found a third box and held up a notebook with a brown cover. My heart quickened and I gave her a nod.
“Madame.” Heather approached the silver-haired woman, who was rather pointedly dusting a large brass clock as it chimed the hour. “We’d like to buy this box.”
The woman frowned. “I don’t know—your friend was interested in it.”
“I’ll give you thirty euros.” Heather said firmly.
“I’m only a volunteer here.”
“Forty.”
“I’m not sure we’re allowed to bargain.”
I stole a glance at Walker, who was watching the interaction with a frown.
“Don’t you donate all your profits to charity? Think how many hungry children this could feed.” Heather offered her most persuasive smile, just as Louise burst through the door.
“Mon dieu! Everything was closed!” she said, breathless. “I had to go all the way to the place Carnot!” She caught sight of the money in Heather’s hand. “What is going on here? Mais non, Madame, this box is mine. We had an agreement, n’est-ce pas?”
Madame lifted her shoulders in an elaborate shrug.
“Actually,” interjected Heather, “if we’re really splitting hairs, the box is mine. We’ve been cleaning our cave, and I accidentally threw away some family memorabilia. My husband was terribly upset. You understand how personal these things are, Madame, n’est-ce pas?” She paused significantly. “And of
course I’d be delighted to offer a donation to your organization, in appreciation for all the wonderful work you do.”
“I’ll give you fifty euros.” Louise crossed her arms. “Fifty for everything.”
“Sixty,” countered Heather.
Louise heaved a sigh. “Seventy.”
Heather’s eyes narrowed and I caught a flash of the girl I’d known in college, the one who hated to lose so much, the other junior year abroad students had proclaimed a fatwa against playing cards with her.
“A hundred euros,” she said, gazing at her nails with an expression of deep ennui.
Louise scorched us both with a withering glare. Then she held up her hands. “C’est bon. C’est bon.” She forced a smile to her face, turned, and swept from the shop, trailing Walker in her wake.
“I’ll call you,” he mouthed at me, miming a phone at his ear.
While Heather counted out a sheaf of euro notes at the cash register, I scooped up the box and checked the contents. Yes, Hélène’s notebooks were there, as well as the textbooks. The clamp on my chest began to loosen.
In the car, I clutched the box in my lap, unwilling to release it.
“Sheesh, can you believe Louise? My God!” Heather’s eyes flashed. “Why the hell was she so desperate to buy that stuff? She can’t possibly suspect anything about the secret cave. You haven’t said anything to Walker, have you?”
“Of course not.” I thought back to the day of our hike, and the conversation I’d had with Walker. I’d been discreet—hadn’t I? Unless Walker was a mind reader, there was no way he could know about the secret cellar.
Heather buckled her seat belt and jerked the car away from the curb so that my head whipped back.
“Hey, what’s the hurry?” I asked. “We already got the box, remember? We can breathe easy.”
She gunned the engine through a yellow light. “Are you kidding?” A little glint had crept into her eye. “We’ve gotta get back to Carrefour to buy that thermos! Mama’s on a roll!”