The Lost Vintage

by Ann Mah

  “We need a doctor,” she said this afternoon, as I was leaving to fetch Albert from school.

  I buttoned up my cardigan, and then pulled a second sweater on top of it, hoping it would stop the cold seeping through the holes in the elbows of my coat. “A doctor?” We haven’t had one in the village for years, not since old Docteur Gaunoux passed just after the War began. And now that our men have been sent to work in Germany, there’s no one left in Beaune, either. “Where on earth would we find a doctor?”

  Her face closed over, secretive. Before I could press her, the clock in the hall chimed four o’clock and I was obliged to rush out the door.

  4 DÉCEMBRE 1943

  Oh, God, oh God. Benoît is worse. His breathing has become very shallow, and he is delirious from fever, crying out for Papa, and sometimes for Pépita, our dear, fat cart horse requisitioned months ago to the Eastern Front. Madame kneels on the floor next to his bed, her lips moving constantly in prayer. It is very late, past midnight; Albert is curled up in my bed—the poor darling cried himself to sleep—and I sit at my desk, scribbling this in the dim lamplight.

  What if the worst happens? What if Benoît . . . No. I cannot bring myself to actually write the words. And yet, without a doctor, what hope do we have?

  Later

  Very, very late. The clouds are thick tonight, and the darkness so dense it seems as if even the moon and stars have abandoned us. I woke with a start a few minutes ago, for I think the idea came to me in a dream: Stéphane. Could he help us? The Maquis network must have a doctor, n’est-ce pas? I know Stéphane loathes Madame but surely he would not deny a child?

  Voilà, here is my plan: After I drop Albert off at school, I will go to the boulangerie in town, and beg the woman behind the counter to help me get a message to Stéphane. I will . . . Wait, wait. What is that?

  A car is in the driveway. Wheels crunching on the gravel. Peeping through the blackout shades I see twin slivers of light from shaded headlamps. . . . Is that Madame stepping from the back seat? Did she slip from the house when I was sleeping? Who is watching over Benoît?

  They are entering the house. Now there are voices in the hallway. Madame and a man. No, no, there are two men. They are following Madame up the stairs. Through the keyhole of my bedroom door I can see their polished boots reflecting the hallway lights. “Merci d’être venus,” Madame is saying, close to tears.

  “Come, come, Virginie, you should have called me earlier.” He speaks in a light, youthful tenor, his French fluent but unmistakably accented.

  “I didn’t want to bother you . . .”

  “Darling girl, I hope you know that I am always at your service.”

  I strain to catch a glimpse of their faces as they pass my door, but they move too quickly and the angle through the keyhole is bad. Then I hear the rough, uneven footsteps of someone stumbling. “MEIN GOTT!” cries a different man’s voice, rougher, older.

  “Herr doktor!” says the younger man, followed by a question—I can’t understand the words, but the tone implies concern.

  “Ja, danke schön,” says the older man. Then a few quick words, of which the only one I recognize is “gut”—good. The party proceeds down the hallway and into Benoît’s room.

  Germans. There are Germans in this house.

  Still later

  They were in Benny’s room for about an hour, emerging just as the first streaks of light appeared in the sky. I stayed upstairs until I heard their car moving across the driveway. When I went to the kitchen, I found Madame arranging various bottles on the table. “He needs two of the small pills every three hours, and one of the large pills every four. Can you remember that?” she asked without greeting me.

  “Where did you get all of this?” I asked, feigning ignorance of our wee-hour visitors.

  “His fever has broken,” she murmured, as if she hadn’t heard me. “Dieu merci, his fever has broken.”

  Chapter

  14

  “Are any of these gluten free?” The customer flicked her gaze to me, then to the wine list, tossing back a hank of magenta hair. She was in her midsixties, clad in leather trousers as tight as a second skin, though they—along with the eccentric hair dye—did little to counteract the lines furrowing her face.

  “Yep! All of them!” I said with false cheer.

  “Are you absolutely sure? Because I’ve got a severe gluten sensitivity—”

  “Mo-om!” her daughter—midtwenties, slim, heavily mascaraed, and exasperated—broke in. “Please. If you’re not celiac, you shouldn’t say you can’t have gluten. It just makes things worse for people who really do have it.”

  “Honey, I ate a sandwich last week, and I was bloated for three days. We can’t all be toothpicks like you.”

  I waited for her to select a wine, carefully maintaining a pleasant expression. Internally, however, I couldn’t stop myself from contrasting her concerns with the plight of Rose Reinach. Though a couple of months had passed since I’d received Heather’s email, Rose’s tragic death still haunted me. I found myself scrutinizing my thoughts, wary that I would discover some ingrained bias, some inherent prejudice, some evidence that I was genetically predisposed to moral weakness. And I often considered what Uncle Philippe had said that afternoon on the mairie steps. Our problems were frivolous in comparison. My uncle had been right, I understood that now, but he had been wrong, too—for this was life, no less meaningful than generations past, and though our problems were trivial that made them no less real.

  “So”—the customer glanced up at me again—“you’re saying all these wines are gluten free?” She leaned toward me slightly, tilting her face up with a broad smile. “We’re celebrating my one-year anniversary of beating breast cancer,” she said conspiratorially. “I just want to keep feeling as good as possible.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. “In fact—” I took a deep breath, ready to gently explain that all wine was naturally free of gluten—along with vodka, tequila, rum, and every other spirit—but before I could finish my sentence, out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the hostess leading a customer to table 12. Something about his shape—tall, thin, with a loping stride—made my heart move to my throat. “Um, actually, Chef is very sympathetic to gluten sufferers. Have you decided on a wine? The Russian River chardonnay? I’ll bring it out to you right away. And two glasses of Champagne to start. On the house,” I added, smiling as they shrieked with delight.

  I raced from the dining room through the kitchen, and straight into the walk-in cooler at the back of the restaurant, leaning against a metal shelving unit and gulping cold air. The refrigerator’s engine hummed, and the fluorescent light overhead bleached color from the shelled English peas, turning them sallow in their clear quart containers. Why was Jean-Luc here? I hadn’t spoken to him since that day in the cemetery when we had argued. Now, the sight of him was unleashing a flood of adrenaline so intense I found myself clenching my jaw to keep myself from shaking. My hands fiddled with the strings of my apron, tying, untying, tying, untying.

  The door of the walk-in flew open. “Oh, there you are.” It was Becky, with a face like thunder. “I just covered you on table 3, and now 24 wants you. Get your ass back out on the floor.” She slammed the door behind her without waiting for me to reply.

  I crossed the dining room, ignoring the customers at table 24 waving at me and calling “Somm! Somm!”

  “Kat!” Jean-Luc exclaimed as I approached, and he half rose to greet me.

  “Please, sit,” I said, as he hovered over the table. He was halfway through a glass of wine, I noticed, and the screen of his cell phone displayed an online French-English dictionary.

  “C’est délicieux!” His eyes had followed mine to the glass. “Round, deep, beautiful malolactique notes . . . a wonderful example of the California chardonnay.”

  “What are you doing here?” The words burst from me. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I just . . . didn’t expect to see you.”

  His smile falt
ered. “I had a meeting with my American distributors. Bruyère told me you were working here.” He gestured at the menu. “What’s green papaya carbonara?”

  “It’s a warm salad of slivered green papaya with guanciale and a coddled quail egg—you know what? Skip it.” I lowered my voice. “The food here is bizarre. Not in a good way.”

  “Non, non,” he insisted. “Je veux bien essayer. I want to try this California cuisine I have been hearing so much about. Please, I will take the carbonara papaye verte, and then . . .” He frowned at the menu.

  I looked up to see Becky shoot me a murderous glare. “I’ll just have them bring out the papaya,” I said to Jean-Luc in a rush. “I get off at ten—we can grab a bite to eat then. Can you wait that long?” Becky was striding toward me. “I’ve got to go. Meet me out front, okay? Dix heures.”

  “D’accord,” he nodded, surprised, and I hurried off to attend to table 24.

  We got slammed around seven o’clock, the customers piling three-deep at the bar, their eyes shifting like sharks as they watched hopefully for a positive sign from the hostess. I had been counting the seconds to ten o’clock, but in the heat of service, time disappeared until, finally, on my fortieth trip up the cellar stairs, I was surprised to see that the restaurant had almost emptied, with just one last table lingering over small glasses of Chef’s special-distilled Mekhong grappa.

  Amy, the bartender, stopped me as I was heading to the kitchen. “Have you seen anyone using the coffee machine when I’m not around?” she demanded, swiping behind the heavy equipment with a striped rag.

  “Sorry, no. Why?”

  “They’ve been leaving spilled coffee grounds all over. Slobs.” She frowned and lowered her voice. “Do you think it’s Becky?”

  “Hmm. Seems unlikely?” I liked Amy, but she enjoyed gossip far too much for me to trust her.

  Amy shot a dark look in our manager’s direction, then threw the rag into a sink of soapy water. She leaned across the counter, plucked a bottle of Austrian Riesling from the ice bucket, and dangled it before me. “The usual?”

  “No, thanks. Can’t tonight.”

  “You got plans?” She emphasized the “you”—as if I never had plans!—raising an eyebrow so that the light overhead glanced off her piercing. “Wait, lemme guess. Is it that hot guy from table 12 who was in earlier?”

  “Um, what?” I lifted the strings of my apron over my head, feigning a nonchalance I did not feel.

  “It IS! You sly dog, Elliott.” She laughed. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she called after me as I backed away from the bar.

  Polishing. Scrubbing. Mopping. It was ten thirty by the time I clocked out. I went out the back door so that my colleagues, relaxing at the bar over their shift drinks, wouldn’t notice me sneaking away. Jean-Luc was leaning against a bench in front of the restaurant, hands shoved into his pockets, a cotton scarf wrapped loosely against the night’s chill. We touched cheeks, exchanging a brief hug.

  “You hungry?” I asked, leading Jean-Luc to my car, which was parked a few blocks away.

  “Ouais, j’suis crévé! It’s breakfast time in France.” He glanced at his watch. “Where are we going?”

  I buckled my seat belt and put the car in drive. “You wanted to try real California food, right? I’m taking you to the best spot.”

  By some miracle, I found a parking spot right outside the restaurant, squeezing in between a Prius and a pink moped. Fluorescent light spilled from the windows, and twin blasts of steamy air and loud music greeted us as we opened the door. For a moment Jean-Luc stood in the entry, silently taking in the red Formica tables, the tipsy crowd, the sombreros dangling from the ceiling, the smell of cumin, onions, and sizzling meat permeating the air.

  “We order there!” I raised my voice above the din. “The menu’s up there.”

  His face tipped up toward the sign on the wall, frowning over the list of unfamiliar words. “Uh . . . what are you taking?” he asked.

  “I’ll order for both of us, okay? Why don’t you grab that spot by the window.” I pointed at a table covered with litter-strewn trays. “Beer okay?”

  He nodded and moved to the table, clearing the debris to a trash bin. I placed a double order for my usual, along with a couple of Sierra Nevadas. At the table, I sat across from Jean-Luc, handing him one of the icy bottles of pale ale.

  “Cin!” he said, and when our eyes met, my cheeks began to flush. “I’m very happy to see you, Kat. But—”

  “Fifty-seven!” boomed a voice from the loudspeaker and both of us jumped. “Fifty-seven, your order is ready.”

  “That’s us.” I pushed back my chair. “I’ll get it.”

  When I returned with our trays, Jean-Luc stared at the food, craning his head to inspect it. “Um, how do you . . .” He mimed using a fork and knife.

  “Just use your hands. Look.” I pinched the top of the taco and scooped up the bottom with my other hand, angling it toward my mouth for a bite. The crunchy fried shell contrasted with creamy refried beans, followed by the punch of hot salsa. “Mmm, so good,” I mumbled.

  Jean-Luc’s eyes widened with mild shock but he followed suit, lifting a taco to his lips, and unleashing an avalanche of shredded iceberg lettuce onto his lap. “Ohh!” he said thickly. “C’est shshhehsh!” He continued chewing, making appreciative sounds. “Mmm. What’s this thing called again? Le tay-ko? ”

  I laughed. “It’s a taco. Well”—I glanced at the menu on the wall—“this is actually a super vegetarian taco.”

  He took another large bite, then chased it with a swallow of beer. “The California is amazing! You can eat with your hands . . . you can drink out of the bottle . . . no one cares! I think I love it here!” He grinned at me, and then suddenly yawned, covering his mouth with both hands. “Désolé!” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to do that. It’s the jet lag.”

  “When did you arrive again?”

  “Yesterday morning . . . I think? Seems like a week ago.”

  I picked at the label on my beer bottle. “How’s everyone?”

  He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Heather has told you about the . . . how do you say? Les chambres d’hôtes?”

  “The bed-and-breakfast, yes. I’m really excited for them. I think it’s going to be a huge success . . .” I trailed off, wanting to inquire about Heather’s emotional state, but uncertain of how to bring it up. “Have you seen her recently?”

  He nodded. “I was at their house for dinner a few nights ago.”

  “And she seemed . . . okay?”

  He picked up a plastic fork and began transferring shredded lettuce back into his taco shell. “They told me. About the secret cave. And about Hélène. Don’t worry, they swore me to secrecy,” he said, as I looked away. “Kat,” he continued gently, “I am sorry about that afternoon in the cemetery. If I had known . . . well, I wouldn’t have brought up any of that stuff.”

  “It’s okay.” I thought back to that day, remembering what he’d said about his father. “C’est comme ça, alors,” I added with a shrug.

  He meticulously positioned a cilantro leaf on top of a black bean. “Bruyère is fine,” he said after a pause. “She is not often talking about Hélène, but I think she is always thinking about her. Sometimes we can be having a conversation about— par example—the best boulange rie in Beaune, and suddenly she will burst out with a question about the war—like ‘Were there German soldiers occupying this house?’ She asked that the other day. Questions we have no answers to.”

  “Can you blame her? Hélène’s story has particular meaning for her.”

  “Mais bien sûr!” Jean-Luc’s face creased with empathy. “It is awful. A period of black shame for our country. And for Bruyère—well, her situation is particularly complicated.”

  I stared down at the table. “Yes. It is.”

  “What’s, ah . . . what’s a boo-ree-toh?” Jean-Luc asked several seconds later, and when, glancing up again, I found him squinting at the menu on t
he wall, I felt suffused with gratitude.

  “You’ll love it,” I assured him, reaching for the hot sauce. “You want to split one? The carne asada is really good here.”

  “Sure!” His face lit up. “I’ll get it,” he added before I could rise, returning a few minutes later with a heavy, foil-wrapped cylinder and another round of beers.

  “So, did Heather and Nico show you the secret cellar?” I asked, sawing through the burrito with a plastic knife and transferring half to a paper plate.

  He nodded. “C’est incroyable. Like something out of a film. And Nico was saying that you have no idea who hid the wine?”

  “I think it must have been Edouard. My great-grandfather. But I suppose we’ll never really know. At least we found a cellar log, so I was able to double-check the quantities. Not a single bottle was missing—except for Les Gouttes d’Or.”

  “Nico told me.” Jean-Luc chewed thoughtfully. “Too bad. The collection is superb, of course, but with Les Gouttes d’Or it would be truly magnificent.”

  “Yeah, well, at this point I’m pretty convinced those bottles of Les Gouttes d’Or are just a myth.”

  “Have you asked your mother?”

  “She doesn’t care. And Uncle Philippe said their father forbade them from ever talking about the war.”

  “There is no one else to ask? Your grandfather, Benoît—he was an only child?”

  I thought back to the photographs we had found in Hélène’s suitcase, to the pair of scruffy little boys pictured in some of them. “No, he had a brother. Albert. He became a monk.”

  “Have you tried looking for him?”

  I lifted my hands, the palms facing up. “Don’t they have to take a vow of silence or something?”

  He laughed. “Not all of them.”

  “Well, it seems pretty unlikely we could find him. If he’s even still alive he’d be in his eighties.”