by Karen Hill
Meanwhile, Bruno was preparing the pastry. “I will make four large pies,” he said. “We will have tomato salad, a green salad and plenty of bread to go along with it all,” he continued. “Come watch while I do the fraisage.” Ruby had read about the art of blending butter and flour in her Larousse Gastronomique at home. She loved making pastry and was thrilled to watch Bruno in action as he tossed bits of chilled butter with the flour, always lifting them in the air as his fingers moved quickly to break them down.
“Here, Ruby, why don’t you try? The pastry needs air—just use a constant motion of lifting as you lightly squish the bits with your fingertips.”
Ruby put her hands into the large stainless steel bowl and started in. She couldn’t believe she was actually working in a kitchen in France. It wasn’t long before her hands tired of the repetitive motion, but she kept going, lost in her thoughts.
“Ruby! Stop dreaming. You must be quick and not overwork the dough and let it get too warm.” Ruby watched, impressed, as Bruno took over again and added a dollop of Dijon mustard to the mix. “It’s all about flavours,” he said. “Next we will brown some flour to mix into the onions. Find the caraway seeds in that corner there with the spices and then grab the mortar and pestle and grind some up for me. Toast them first.”
Ruby toasted the seeds in a small pan, fanning their scent into the air to breathe in. Then she crushed them and put them aside. Bruno put the pastry aside in the fridge to rest and then came to the stove, where he placed three tablespoons of flour in the pan Ruby had just used. “You have to be careful not to let this burn. We just want it light brown and nutty in flavour.” Bruno kept careful watch over the flour, which was on medium heat and was ready in five minutes. Then he divided the caraway seeds and the flour between the three pans of sweet caramelized onions.
Half an hour later they took the dough out of the fridge. Sighing with pleasure, Ruby dusted the work table with flour. She flattened the dough with the heel of her hand and then took the rolling pin to it, gently moving the dough in a clockwise fashion. She loved the feel of the rolling pin as it barely slid across the surface of the dough, lifting at the edges, stretching it just a little more each time. She slipped it into the tart pan, crimped the edges, pricked the pastry and brushed it with egg white. Bruno cooed, “You do this very well. You’ve had practice, I see.” Then Ruby repeated the steps, till all four tart pans were filled. Bruno slipped the onions into the pastry shells. Then he whisked up some crème fraîche, eggs and Gruyère and poured it over the onions, topping off each tart with more Gruyère. He slid them into the oven. “Voilà! There’s dinner. Now let’s get those salads done.” The two of them went out to the garden to get lettuce and tomatoes. Few things made Ruby happier than cooking with friends, and when the friends were French, it was perfection indeed.
One evening after supper, about a week later, as Ruby and Emma were wandering back to the tents, they passed by Jean-Claude, who was arguing fiercely with Ranier. The deal was that the workers were to be paid every two weeks, but Jean-Claude said he needed an advance to take care of some business.
“That’s the deal!” Ranier shouted. “No work, no money.”
Jean-Claude shot back, “No! No money, no work!” Then he gave Ranier a shove.
“That’s it. Tomorrow morning you must be gone. You want your money, you will get it now.”
Ruby was pissed. Jean-Claude’s behaviour tainted them all. If he left, they would all have to leave. She snarled at Emma, “Do something about him. He’s nothing but trouble.”
Emma shook her head and said, “Listen, you do what you want, but I’m with him for now.”
Ruby felt deflated. If she wanted to get away from Jean-Claude, it would mean leaving Emma behind, and she’d have to look for another place to work on her own. Emma put her arm around Ruby’s shoulder. “Ruby, you should stay with us. You’ll see, it’ll be fine. I know he’s a bit of an arse, but we’ll find more work.”
“I’m not as sure about that as you are, but I’ll stick it out with you. I’m not ready to go home yet.”
“Not ready to be married, perhaps? Are you stalling for time?”
“I don’t think so, but I have to admit that I am uneasy about getting married. It’s just not something that I ever wanted to do. And Werner isn’t always easy to be with. On the other hand, I care for him, and I can’t stay in Germany unless I marry him.”
“And you don’t think he’ll mind you fooling around with other guys while you’re here?”
“Come on, Emma.”
“I want you to have a good time. I’m just wondering how you’re feeling about it. If you’re really comfortable.”
“I am, pretty much. I do think of Werner and feel a little guilty, but not enough to stop me. Anyhow, he always said he was open to this kind of thing.”
Ruby scouted around for Jean-Pierre to say goodbye. He was very hesitant about talking to her and it turned out that his girlfriend had arrived for a few days. He was embarrassed and distant, and Ruby knew that all she would have was a fond memory of their late-night skinny-dip.
The next morning, the foursome drove north to Champagne, in search of new work. In the back seat of the crazy red car, Ruby fell silent, wondering how she was going to survive with Jean-Claude at the wheel.
The red car wound its way northeast over several hours and endless rolling hills until they reached the town of Épernay, where they quickly found work at a vineyard just outside of town. With no place to pitch their tents, they had to sleep in the dormitories. Because there were no other women, Ruby and Emma were assigned separate quarters from the men. The fields were densely planted with rows of grapevines with yellowing leaves. The manager, Monsieur Tellier, a short, lean man wearing a bright red cap, paid particular attention to Ruby and Emma, as it was their first time picking grapes. They were each given clippers and a bucket, and Tellier supervised them for the first half-hour.
“Be careful when you’re reaching deep into the vines,” he warned, “as you may clip the hand of the person working on the other side. If you see any rotting grapes, leave the cluster behind. They will be collected for making vinegar later on. When your bucket is full, put it under the vines and a gatherer will come around to pick it up.”
Ruby found the work strenuous. A few minutes after she’d placed her full bucket under the vines to be picked up, another one was tossed down the row. Gatherers came along with twenty-gallon tubs strapped on their backs into which they emptied the grapes from the buckets. From there they would take the full tubs to a tractor waiting at the end of a group of rows. The tractor had its own vats placed on the back, and the gatherers would empty their tubs into the vats. From there they were hauled down to the pressing station. After an hour’s work, Ruby’s back started to ache, so she tried stretching for a minute.
At lunch back at the dining room, Ruby watched a beefy guy practically bury his face in his plate, gulping down mouthfuls at a time, then chasing them back with swallows of wine. When he came up for air, the man said loudly, “Who has the crazy red car in the lot?”
“That would be me,” answered Jean-Claude.
“You might want to get a new paint job.”
“I don’t take kindly to people telling me what I should or shouldn’t do.”
“People don’t want to look at that naked woman. It’s offensive. It doesn’t belong on a car.”
“Aw, shut up and leave me alone. I’m busy driving all these foreigners around the country. I don’t need this shit.”
Willie quietly interjected, “I’m French, Jean-Claude.”
“Now don’t be silly. I’m not trying to put you down.”
None of the other men responded to the “foreigners” crack, but Ruby noticed that some were eyeing Willie and her with suspicion.
“Have any of you ever picked grapes before?”
“Many times,” said Willie.
“So the others are all virgins?”
“That may be,” Ruby pip
ed in, “but we know how to work hard.”
“Why all the questions?” asked Jean-Claude. “You’ll see that we pull our weight.”
Ruby moved away from the table. She had eaten too quickly and wasn’t feeling well. A young man in a knitted cap who had been sitting on her right stepped out of the shadows in the hallway and joined her with a pleasant hello.
“Comment tu t’appelles?” asked Ruby. He said his name was Jean-Yves. Ruby choked on her breath.
“Are you okay? Is my name funny?”
“No, it’s just that you’re the third Jean-something-or-other that I’ve met on this trip.”
Jean-Yves smiled into her dark brown eyes. “Can I join you outside?”
“Sure. Why not?”
In the evening air, they lit up cigarettes and stared up into the night sky.
“I can tell from your accent that you must be Canadian. But you don’t look like a Canadian.”
“Tell me, in your opinion, what does a Canadian look like?”
“Well, they don’t have frizzy black hair and light brown skin.”
“Oh yeah? The first Canadians were all brown-skinned.”
“What do you mean?”
“The indigenous people were the first on the North American continent and they are brown.”
“Maybe you’re right, but that’s not what I meant.”
“Well, I’m just telling you that I am definitely Canadian and I’m not white. Look.” Ruby grabbed his hand and held it up against hers. The difference in colour looked clear to her. When she let go of his hand, a big smile spread over his face.
“Any time you want to go for a walk, let me know,” he said.
“How about tomorrow?”
He agreed and bid her goodnight.
When Ruby entered the little dorm room, Emma was stretched out on a bed, thumbing through a magazine.
“How are you?” Ruby asked.
“A little tired and a little bummed. I’m missing the pear farm.”
“Aha! I knew it.”
“You don’t have to gloat about it.”
“I didn’t mean to gloat. I miss it, too.”
“And Jean-Pierre, I guess.”
“Yeah, he was nice. But I didn’t know him long enough to really miss him. And there’s a guy here now who’s really cute.”
“You don’t waste any time.”
“Well, that’s easy for you to say. You’ve got someone lined up for the duration of the trip.”
“Speaking of that, what’s with you and Willie?”
“He’s sweet, Emma, just way too young for me. I mean, what is he, sixteen?”
“He says he’s eighteen.”
“And you believe him? That’s a stretch. Anyway, I’m way older.”
“Oh come on. He’s so lonely . . .”
“God, why don’t you do him, if you’re so concerned? I’d spend an evening talking to him, but he doesn’t talk. Get up, let’s go for a smoke,” she said.
Outside they were joined by Jean-Claude and Willie. Jean-Claude wanted to plan a strategy for the next day, but Ruby didn’t want to hear about it. Perhaps if it had been another person, she would have listened, for she came from a family that supported workers’ rights and unions. But she resented Jean-Claude for taking Emma away from her, for his dangerous driving and his pseudo-anarchism. She didn’t really know what anarchism was, except that Werner had tried to thrust it down her throat. But Werner’s anarchism was all intellectual—reading books or going to movies. In practice, he pissed on ecologists and Germany’s green-loving alternatives, insisting that she not associate with the “tree huggers” living in their building.
Ruby finished her cigarette and returned upstairs to the dorm. She lay down and pulled out Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch. It had been her bible in her last year at university and she had brought it to Berlin with her. She had read only a page or two when she looked up to see Willie standing in the doorway.
“Will you go for a walk with me?”
“Sure—what’s up?”
Willie suddenly dragged her up off the bed, grabbed her shoulders to pull her into him and kissed her. As Ruby struggled free, his lips brushed across her cheek. She pushed him gently away, shaking her head.
“Willie, usually you ask for permission before you kiss someone.”
“I just wanted to taste your lips. I know you think I’m too young, but I’m not.”
“‘Taste my lips’? Are you kidding? What have you been reading? Willie, you’re a nice guy, but I’m just not interested.”
“Okay, forget it. This is a waste of time.”
“Anytime you want to talk, Willie, let me know.”
“Aw, just forget it.”
Ruby sighed and went back to her book. Emma came into the room and closed the door.
“What the hell did you say to Willie?”
“I just said no. I’m just not interested. Can’t you get that through your head?”
“For chrissake, he’s crying. You must have done something.”
“He tried to kiss me and I pushed him away. Now will you please back off?”
“You’re a stubborn wench. For the life of me, I don’t get you. We came here to have fun.”
“Listen, Emma, I don’t like Jean-Claude, but you can have him. I’m not interested in Willie, but I’m having fun with other guys, okay? Isn’t that good enough?”
“Stop going on about me and Jean-Claude like it’s the end of the world. You know it’s just a fling. We both have other lives in Berlin.”
“You got that right.”
“Okay, okay. I just hope you figure something out with this new guy you’ve got on the go.”
Ruby turned on her side, the book still in front of her, and closed her eyes. The next morning, both women woke up to aches and pains they’d never imagined.
“How are we gonna get through the day like this?”
“I dunno. We’ll drink a lot at lunch and see if that kills the pain.”
They got their wishes early. After two and a half hours in the fields, Tellier told everyone to assemble at the end of a row. The sun was high in the sky and though clouds were drifting by, it was another beautiful day. The tractor stood at the bottom of the row, set up with pâtés, cheeses and baguettes for all. There was a bottle of crème de cassis and a couple of bottles of Champagne so that everyone could imbibe.
Jean-Yves came over to Ruby and said, “We got a date tonight?”
“Yup, we do.”
“So, I’ll see you after dinner, then?”
“Okay.”
Ruby enjoyed the taste of the sweet fizziness in her mouth as she sipped at her kir royale. The Champagne and cassis mingled nicely on her tongue. But she didn’t for a moment think it would numb the pain she was feeling all over.
Ruby and Emma resumed working on the other side of the row, with Willie and Jean-Claude behind them.
“You look beautiful in the morning light,” Jean-Claude cried out to Emma.
“Why, thank you, kind sir. I’ll take a compliment from you any day.”
Ruby thought she would throw up. But she stayed quiet and listened as she picked.
“Your eyes are sparkling, your lips are glistening . . .”
“Aw goddammit, would you quit it,” interrupted Ruby. “Save it for tonight when you’re alone.”
“You have no appreciation for love in the light of day,” Emma retorted. “No one has touched your loins recently—your engine’s getting rusty.”
“Oh, please,” Ruby flared. “Have some respect for the people around you.”
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport.”
Ruby fell silent and concentrated on picking. She liked looking at the triangular clusters of grapes and feeling their weight in her hands, imagining them being squished in a press to turn out a bottle of wine like the one they had just drunk.
The day passed away and the pickers drifted into the dining room, stiff and sore. The table was laden with vegetabl
e salads and a selection of quiches. The men gathered around the table, Jean-Yves sandwiching himself in between Ruby and Emma. Dinners here were much more sombre than at the pear farm—no Jacques to liven everyone up.
Someone across the table called out to Ruby, “Where are you from?”
Ruby sighed. Ah, the never-ending question. She looked up to face her questioner, a plump, ruddy-faced man who looked a little rough around the edges. “Mogadishu.”
“Where on earth is that?”
“Somalia.”
“You don’t look African.”
“Well, you don’t look French.”
“I’m not.”
“What are you, then?
“Belgian.”
“Well, you don’t look Belgian.”
“What do I look like, then?
“You look like you’re from Lapland. You just need a reindeer . . . I’m just joking. The truth is, I’m Canadian.”
“I knew it. You have a Québécois accent. But you don’t look Canadian.”
Ruby shook her head. Back to square one. It shouldn’t have been such a big issue to be asked where she came from. But it was the accumulation of questions over the years that bothered her. It never ended.
When dessert arrived, Jean-Yves nudged her in the ribs and said, “Let’s get some fresh air.”
“After I try some of that,” she said, pointing at the plum cake.
Soon they were standing outside in the cool night air.
“Why don’t I take you to the building where they press the grapes?” he said.
They walked down a road till they came to a barnlike structure surrounded by a thicket of plane trees. They pushed the door but it was padlocked. Jean-Yves pointed to a row of windows, some of them open. “Let’s try to get in that way.” On the grass was a long table with a few chairs scattered around it. They dragged the table under the window and grabbed a twenty-gallon tub from the tractor, which they placed upside down on the table. Jean-Yves climbed up first. He stepped on the tub, which was a little wobbly but seemed strong enough to hold his weight. Ruby stepped quickly onto the tub and then squirmed her way up Jean-Yves’s back until she was kneeling on his shoulders. When she was finally able to stand up fully on his shoulders, the tub creaked under their combined weight.