Pinot Noir

by Lorraine Evanoff

  T W E N T Y – T H R E E

  January 7, 2002

  Her visibility was hindered by the mist, but the horse led the way. Louise pitched forward, riding bareback, clutching the mane, her body rocking with the pace. Her spirits soared as she jockeyed faster and faster, following the whisper of Jean-Philippe’s voice, but the words he uttered were confusing.

  “Karen? Karen?”

  She awoke from a paralyzing slumber. The dream state had suppressed laughter and tears, both of which now burst forth in stifled sobs.

  “Karen?” Matthieu repeated from outside.

  She calmed down, her throat relaxed, and she felt her heart rate show back to normal. She wiped the sleep from her eyes. “Oui?” she managed to say.

  “Breakfast is ready.”

  She threw the covers aside, the cold snap fully awakening her. She got up and opened the door without thinking of her usual sleepwear – or lack thereof – and saw Matthieu on horseback. The horse shuddered in response to Matthieu’s involuntary leg clench upon seeing her in shape-revealing tank top with matching panties with mussed-up hair and ruddy cheeks.

  Matthieu looked her up and down. “Tu viens?” he muttered.

  “Oui, j’arrive.” Louise finally noticed what the stupefied Matthieu was taking in and closed the door. Then, she smirked remembering the French expression, J’arrive, held the same sexual double entendre as English, I’m coming. She shrugged, knowing she would never have gotten anywhere in life without pushing the boundaries of decorum. Besides, it had been a couple of months since Captain Robert had called and she had a tremendous appetite for Matthieu’s intensity. But, right now, she had to get to the bank.

  She hurriedly dressed, putting together business casual attire wearing a burgundy knit pencil skirt, black turtleneck, charcoal Wolford thigh-high tights, and Sonia Rykiel Mary Janes. After brushing her teeth, she combed her hair to match her passport photo. She grabbed her bag and went to the main house.

  “Bonjour!” Louise said. Wood burned in the fireplace, and an appetizing breakfast was set out on the farmhouse table.

  “Bonjour,” Magali said. “Bien dormi?”

  “Yes, I slept too well.”

  Suddenly Matthieu’s voice boomed too loudly from the table. “It was difficult to wake you!”

  Louise eyed him warily. “A lot of dreams,” she confessed.

  “Tu as fait de beaux rêves?” Luke asked.

  “Yes, very good dreams. There were horses and flowers.”

  “And puppies?” asked Luke.

  “Yesterday I met a very cute puppy,” Louise said. “His name was Perceval.”

  “Like from King Arthur!” Magali said. Louise couldn’t help but chuckle to herself at yet another reference. Luke ran to his toys and came back wearing his plastic helmet and brandishing his little plastic Excalibur.

  “Allez, à table mon ange,” Magali said. “Finish your breakfast. We are going to the market in Beaune today.”

  “Would you like to drive into town together?” Louise asked, finishing her café au lait and bringing her dishes to the sink. “I have an appointment at Crédit Agricole this morning. With an account manager, Yves Renard.”

  “Yves Renard is our account manager,” Magali said.

  “What a coincidence!” Louise was not entirely surprised.

  “You go on ahead without us,” Magali said. “I have some things to take care of here first.”

  “Okay, merci for another incredible meal.” She meant it.

  Louise left and Matthieu followed her to the car, opening the door for her. “Thanks.” Louise felt his intensity, so she got in and lowered the window to let him talk.

  “How was your trip yesterday?” Matthieu asked.

  “It was very interesting.”

  “Yes, you just happened to get an appointment with our bank manager the next day. That is very interesting.”

  Louise distracted him with a more enticing subject. “Would you mind taking me on a tour up north tomorrow?”

  His attitude immediately changed from suspicious to dutiful, “À votre service.” He gave a salute as she drove off.

  When Louise entered the bank, all eyes were on her. Even in her more conventional attire, she stood out at the rural bank where everyone in the community knew each other. Banking there was deeply rooted in tradition, with the first local banks having been set up by town elites and farmers playing a minority role. But that had all changed with the Act of November 5, 1894 by the Minister for Agriculture to promote lending to small family farms and paving the way for the creation of Crédit Agricole’s local banks. The Green Bank thrived, and by 2001 had gone public, listed on the Paris Euronext Stock Exchange under the name Crédit Agricole S.A.

  A front desk clerk greeted Louise. “Bonjour. Comment allez-vous?”

  “Tres bien, merci,” Louise replied in her faultless French. She wanted to signal that she wasn’t a lost tourist. “J’ai rendez-vous avec Monsieur Renard.”

  “C’est de la part de?”

  “Karen Baker.”

  “Un moment s’il vous plaît.”

  Louise sat in the lobby with sterile furnishings and flipped through an issue of Santé Magazine. She was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the articles in the Crédit Agricole publication. Fifteen minutes later, a pasty but well-dressed gentleman in his forties greeted her.

  “Madame Baker?” he put out his hand and introduced himself. “Yves Renard.”

  She was face to face with the very man named in Gérard’s legal documents who had attempted to illicitly sell the Château du Chastenay on behalf of Gérard’s uncle.

  “Monsieur Renard. Thank you for meeting with me,” she said in French, shaking his hand.

  “Please follow me.”

  Renard led her to a small office with a glass wall and door, providing no privacy or confidentiality. He motioned for her to take a seat in front of his desk. “You are interested in opening a bank account with Crédit Agricole?” He asked, looking at her through rimless glasses.

  “Yes, I’m thinking of buying a summer home in this area and would like to have the funds readily available when the time comes to make the deposit for the three-month waiting period.”

  “You have done your homework,” Renard observed.

  “Yes, I’m a schoolteacher, so I am used to homework.”

  Unimpressed, he began to explain the process anyway. “It is fairly straightforward. As you pointed out, once your loan is approved, you make a ten percent down payment, there is a mandatory seven-day cooling-off period and then a ten- to twelve-week waiting period. How much were you thinking of spending on your vacation home?”

  “Well, I have set aside 25,000 US dollars for the down payment, plus whatever costs to make any necessary updates, up to 50,000 US dollars total.”

  Seeing an opportunity, he began to warm up to her. “There’s a lot you can do with that kind of money,” he said. “Loans up to eighty percent of the property value are generally permissible. With a ten percent deposit, you can leverage a mortgage to acquire a very special property. This is an exceptionally opportune time to buy right now.”

  “That’s good to know. Would you be able to refer me to a local realtor?”

  “Of course.” He pressed his fingertips together making a fleshy steeple. “Leave it to me to assist you every step of the way.” His spongy pale complexion and beady eyes completed the picture. “Will you be depositing the full amount today?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Louise reached into her handbag and pulled out her wallet.

  Renard picked up the handset and pressed the call button. “Oui, madame Baker will be opening a premium checking account today. Please prepare some temporary checks for her.” He opened a drawer and took out several forms and handed them to her. “Please fill these out. Also, I’ll need to make a photocopy of your passport and one other form of identification.”

  “Of course.” Louise opened her wallet. “Will my passport and driver’s li
cense work?”

  “That’s perfect. I’ll be right back.” He took the IDs and walked out of the office, leaving her alone. She seized the opportunity to scan his office for any clues. A framed photo on the desk of what appeared to be Renard with his wife and two young daughters on holiday somewhere in the south of France was the only personal item. Hanging on the wall was a small, framed corporate portrait of Renard with the title of Branch Manager emblazoned below. Looking closer, she noticed something on his lapel, a kind of pin that reminded her of a Rotary Club insignia. But she didn’t recognize it.

  Renard entered, handed her the photo IDs and sat at his desk. She effortlessly completed the application from memory, including her new social security number, and handed the document to him.

  “Merci,” he said, looking at her expectantly. In response to her quizzical look, he said, “Would you like to deposit the 50,000 euros now? That gives you the premium checking account, which includes a one-point-five percent annual interest rate and free checking.”

  “Oh, sorry. Yes, of course.” She opened the checkbook and filled in the amount of 50,000 euros, signed it, and gave it to him.

  He examined the check, “Ahh…”

  “Is there something wrong?” Louise feared she might have accidentally given him a check drawn under her real identity from her Cayman Islands account. She looked at the checkbook to verify that it was indeed drawn on the JP Morgan Chase New York City account of Karen Baker.

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I just noticed this is drawn on a JP Morgan Chase account, which usually requires quite a large minimum balance.”

  Louise reminded him what every banker should know. “No, that was JP Morgan. After the merger with Chase Bank, they no longer require a million-dollar minimum balance and have a much broader clientele now.”

  “Ah, yes, now I remember,” he said, in a way that indicated he did not. Renard handed Louise a short stack of checks. “Here are a few temporary checks.” Reading her application, he said, “You have given a local address in Pommard and a permanent address in Arlington Heights, Illinois. Would you like your new checks and documents sent to the Pommard address?”

  “Yes, please. I will be there for at least a month. I’ll provide my new mailing address if it changes.”

  He regarded the address. “This is a lovely vineyard.”

  “You know that place?” Louise asked.

  “Yes, it has been in the same family for many years.” He stood to walk her out.

  “They are wonderful hosts and the property is charming.”

  “Excellent wines too,” Renard said.

  “Well, thank you for your help,” Louise shook his hand.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I have news about the loan,” he said. “It should come through fairly quickly. À très bientôt.”

  “À bientôt.”

  When Louise got on the road back to the vineyard, she felt a crick in her neck and overall fatigue. The meeting at the bank and her recent adventures by boat and bicycle had left Louise tense and achy. As she drove up, the vineyard appeared deserted, with Magali and Luke at the market, and Matthieu working in the fields or meeting with wholesalers.

  She parked and went to the cottage to change into yoga clothes. Stepping outside into the fresh air and picturesque views produced a visceral reaction. Nature’s beauty offered the promise of something, a sense of hope. Her mind wandered to the most positive and uplifting person she had ever known, her mother. Mary’s revelation to Louise just weeks ago had given her new respect for her mom. Mary had refused to let an unspeakable horror defeat her. She had made a new life, buffered by the love of an honorable man, finding dignity and grace. She was a fighter.

  Louise fell forward landing on her hands and kicked effortlessly up into a handstand, for a new perspective. She came back down into plank pose, arms extended, straight back and legs aligned. She bent at the elbows, lowering her body, then lifting her head and chest into a cobra pose. She lowered her head and drove her hips upward, straightening her arms and legs, making an inverted V in downward dog. She continued, doing three sun salutations, each with a slight variation, using different poses to open each chakra. She finished in tree pose, her left foot pressing against her right inner thigh, hands together at her heart.

  Sensing a presence, she gazed through relaxed eyelids. On the immediate horizon she made out the silhouette of a man on horseback wearing a weathered Barbour coat and a wide-brimmed hat. Her memory defaulted to the quixotic moment when she had first met Jean-Philippe, like a vision, briefly obscured by her scarf billowing in the breeze. A cloud of dust rose from the pulverized granite of the Paris Tuileries Gardens as his horse reared to a sudden stop.15 Louise lingered in the memory while Matthieu waited at a distance, patiently sharpening the antique clippers. She relaxed into standing pose and he rode closer.

  “Impressionant.” Even from under the hat, Matthieu’s azure eyes pierced her soul.

  Normally, Louise looked people straight in the eyes. But looking into his triggered anxiety, like the dream of falling and then startling awake. She felt the blood rush to her face.

  “Were you watching long?”

  “Long enough to know that you have a black belt in yoga.”

  “There are no belts in yoga. It’s not a competition.”

  “That’s too bad. Because if it were, you’d be winning.”

  “There’s no winning or losing, either. It’s about balance.” Louise said, waving him down. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  “I could never do that.” Matthieu came down, placing the reins on the fence post and his hat on his horse.

  “Just give it a try.”

  “Couldn’t I just watch you?”

  “Come on.” Louise guided him to stand next to her, facing the vineyard. “Breathe. Tune into your breath. Know that you are perfect as you are. Try a simple mountain pose. Stand with your feet slightly apart and press the palms of your hands together in front of your heart.”

  Matthieu did as he was told. “That’s it? Yoga is so easy.”

  “That’s right! Now reach your arms up over your head like a tree.” Matthieu followed instructions. “Extend your hands upward, tilt your head back, looking up. Feel the stretch in your spine.” Matthieu groaned. Louise moved behind him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Now, bend forward at the hips.” He bent down his arms reaching only to his knees as he grunted. “Breathe,” Louise coaxed.

  “As you can see, I’m not very flexible.”

  “I’ve seen worse. Bend your knees a little and just ease into it. Don’t force it.” She moved her hand up his spine until she reached his neck. She applied gentle pressure coaxing his spine to lengthen. “Let the weight of your arms and head do the work.”

  Matthieu instinctively placed the palms of his hands on his knees and lifted his head. “Are we done yet?”

  “Good! You’re doing a half forward bend!”

  “I’m doing what?”

  Louise placed her hand under his chin. “Press the palms of your hands against your knees and reach your head up, extending your spine.” She stood alongside him and moved her hand down his spine until she reached his outer thigh. “Feel the stretch here in your glutes and outer thigh.”

  “Oh, la la,” Matthieu teased.

  Louise backed off. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  Matthieu straightened up and turned to her. His eyes were glistening. “It’s okay, I like yoga.” He put his hands on her shoulders and massaged gently. Her slight build dwarfed by the grizzly bear of a man, she wanted to roll into a fetal position so as not to be devoured. His eyes took on a stormy cast, jostling her, and she bailed on the lesson.

  “Will you take me to Auxerre tomorrow?” Louise asked pulling away.

  His eyes darkened. “Why do you want to go to Auxerre?”

  “You said not to go north without you, so I suspect there is a plot line to explore there.”

  “If you insist on going to Auxerre, I will take you
.”

  The sound of car tires crunching on the driveway drew their attention to Magali arriving home. She parked and took Luke out of the child seat in the back. He ran to Matthieu, carrying a small container with air holes.

  “Oncle Matthieu, look at my escargots!”

  “They look delicious!” said Matthieu. Luke’s expression combined horror and disgust. Then he giggled.

  “The escargots are his friends,” Magali said.

  “Quelle déception.” Matthieu winked. Louise contemplated the undertones of the French term for how disappointing.

  “Allez, ma lutine!” Magali picked up Luke. “Let’s bring them inside.”

  “It is time to get them drunk,” Matthieu said, taking groceries from the car.

  Louise wasn’t sure if she had heard correctly. “Get who drunk?”

  “The escargots! It is part of the preparation.” Matthieu waved a hand over his domain. “We tried to harvest snails here ourselves, but it was too much work. So, we let the professionals scavenge for them in our vineyards. In turn, they give a share of the harvest to us for free.”

  Louise helped Matthieu carry the groceries. She was grateful for both Magali’s timely arrival and a decided shift in the situation.

  “You mean, we could eat the snails right from your vineyard?”

  “That’s what we are doing. But there is a lot of preparation. We have no idea what the snails have been eating so they could be toxic. The harvesters put them through a ten-day cleansing period, controlling what they eat.” They entered the kitchen and put the groceries away. “Now for three days, we feed the snails only water or wine until they finish digesting any sand or dirt before we eat them. It’s during those three days that they become Luke’s little friends. Would you like to see?”

  “Sure.” Intrigued, she hesitantly followed Matthieu down the staircase to the cellar. “The first person to eat an escargot must have been very hungry,” Louise joked, nervously.

  Matthieu didn’t react to her joke and was diligently back in teaching mode. “Empty escargot shells have been found at prehistoric sites throughout the Mediterranean,” Matthieu said. “They were a luxury food for ancient Greeks and Romans.” They entered the cellar where Magali and Luke were tending to the snails. Matthieu picked up one of the snails and showed it to Louise. “The escargot of Burgundy, Helix Pomatia, are considered the best. They are plump and tender and a good source of protein, minerals, and vitamin C.” He put the snail back into a five-gallon, food-grade bucket with small holes drilled into it. “Like any livestock, snails need water. You must refill it frequently.”