Tangled Vines (18 page)

Finally Claude took a sip of the wine, drawing it into his mouth in a thin stream, stroking it with his tongue, then using his tongue to push it into every crevice of his mouth, chewing it the way a taster did, the way his grandfather had taught him. It was strong and hard, yet without the balance it needed, Claude thought.

At this point, his grand-pere had always had him spit out the wine. But nothing had been provided into which he could spit it. Claude looked around uncertainly, then swallowed it in a noisy gulp. The taste of it stayed in his mouth a long time. His grand-pere would have said it had a long finish, he thought, remembering the correct term.

Both the madam and her husband took their time in tasting the wine in their glasses. Afterward, she briefly placed her fingers against her lips, then lowered them.

“It is strong,” she told the baron. “It made my mouth pucker a little.”

“That is the tannin you taste,” the patron explained. “It is what gives the wine a long life. Yet there cannot be too much or it will taste bitter, like tea that has steeped too long.”

“I can see that.” The madam nodded, then translated the baron's remarks to her husband.

In the days and weeks that followed, Claude saw the madam frequently. She and her husband were always somewhere about, looking at this, asking questions about that, curious about everything around them. Sometimes Claude accompanied them; at others, he could only watch while he performed some task his grandfather had given him.

But he learned much about the madam, most of it from his conversations with her and the rest from other workers on the property. In America, she lived in a place called California where inferior American wines had once been made, before that country passed an absurd law that forbade the making and selling of wine, or any alcoholic beverage.

She had become friends with the baroness some years ago when they both had attended the same school in Switzerland. According to gossip from the house servants, she had brought her two young sons to France with her; the youngest was called Gilbert, and the oldest had an English name Claude found difficult to pronounce Jonathon. He had never seen them. He was told the madam had brought along a woman to look after them and see to their needs.

Also he learned that both the madam and her husband believed the day would soon come when it would be legal again in their country to make wine. When it did, they would make wine from grapes grown on their own California land that would rival the best wines from the great chateaux of France. An impossibility, of course, their soil was not French. Yet Claude secretly hoped the beautiful madam would fulfill her dream.

Still, as much as he had learned about them, as much as he adored the madam, he doubted he would ever understand these Americans. They were very different from the guests who usually stayed at the chateau. They were definitely very different from his patron, the baron.

The patron would regularly inspect the vineyards, examine the vines for disease, the grapes for ripeness. Just as often, he came to the chai and consulted with Claude's grand-pere on the wines aging in the barrels and bottles, checking their progress. But for the patron to associate with the workers, to be at their side hour after hour, to learn their work, to do it himself – it was unthinkable!

Yet the madam's husband did it almost as a matter of course. As vintage drew near and the time came for the old leaves to be snipped away to let more sun reach the ripening grapes, he was in the vineyards with the workers, watching what they did, finding out why they selected certain leaves over others, then copying them.

His French was so bad, his sentences inter-spliced with English, that most times the madam was with him. Claude thought she took as much interest in the work as her ruddy-faced husband.

Even though he didn't know what to make of her husband, like the rest of the workers Claude grew to like him. Not as much as the madam, of course. She was special; her husband was unusual. He wanted to do everything, know everything.

On the dawn of the morning when the first grapes were to be picked, her husband arrived at the vineyard in shirtsleeves. He collected a basket and a knife with a curved blade from the foreman and went to his assigned row. More astonishing than that, he worked as long as the other pickers did.

The next day, instead of going to the vineyards, he went to the winery and learned how the grapes were stemmed and crushed. The madam stayed with him the whole time, conveying his endless questions to Claude's grand-pere and relating the answers.

Day after day it went on like that. Many times Claude's grand-pere grumbled that the man was a nuisance a plague to him. But Claude had seen the glint of approval, of respect, in the eye of his grand-pere and he had heard the patience in his voice when he explained something, frequently in lengthy detail, to Monsieur Rutledge.

Yes, his grand-pere liked this man. And he liked the madam, too, though he never said so.

When crush was over and the vineyards donned their red and gold coats of autumn, Claude expected the couple to leave. Yet they stayed, although a few times, they did, as they had on occasions during the summer, climb into their touring car and motor off to Paris or to visit another winery in the Medoc. Why? Claude didn't know. There was none that made better wines than Chateau Noir. Some were as good, perhaps, but none was better.

That winter they were on hand for the first pruning. What a sight it was to see the tall monsieur bent almost double as he worked, cutting away the unproductive wood from the vine. At the end of the day he showed the madam the blisters on his hand, with some pride in them, and both laughed.

With the approach of spring, both went to the vineyards for the second pruning, the green pruning, the critical one both in timing and extent. Albert Girardin, the chateau's horticulturist, took them from plant to plant, and taught them to imagine the bare cane fully grown. From that mind picture, the plant was pruned so the branches and leaves matched the root area.

Albert later told Claude's grand-pere that he wished the other workers learned as quickly as these Americans. He also admitted, with some embarrassment, that the madam showed a remarkable affinity for the vine, unusual in a woman. Claude was very proud of that.

That summer was a joyous time. There were many guests at the chateau, many parties. Sometimes at night, when he was sure his grand-pere was asleep, Claude would sneak out of the cottage and slip through the moon-silvered vineyards to the chateau, aglow with elegance from dozens of windows.

Lively music from within filled the night air; jazz, they called it. The guests would be assembled in the grand salon, the men resplendent in their black tailcoats, worn open over double-breasted white waistcoats and sharply creased black trousers, their hair gleaming with brilliantine. And the ladies in their slim gowns shimmering with beaded fringe and trailing satin ribbons and chiffon scarves, ropes of pearls hanging from their necks to below the waist. How beautiful they all looked, how sophisticated with their long cigarette holders and crystal glasses of champagne. Always, always Claude was relieved when he located the madam among the guests, and saw again that none were as beautiful as she. Only then did he sneak back to his cottage and his bed.

Autumn came, with no hint of the tragedy it was to bring. On a crisp September morning, the monsieur drove away from the chateau. He waved to Claude and shouted that he was off to select cuttings to take home to America with them. The madam was not with him. Their youngest son, Gilbert, was ill with a fever; a doctor was coming to treat him.

How unfortunate to be unwell on such a glorious day, Claude thought, looking at the mist sparkling on the Gironde. Somewhere a lark trilled a greeting to the rising sun, its golden light glinting on the dew-wet leaves in the vineyard and casting deep shadows between the rows. The air smelled good, fresh. It was indeed a glorious day.

It wasn't until late that afternoon when Claude returned from school that he learned the terrible news the American monsieur had been killed in a motoring accident. He had swerved to avoid a horse-drawn cart and lost control of his vehicle. It had careened off the road-and overturned, killing the monsieur instantly.

A pall hung over the estate that not even the bright sun could penetrate. That evening, when the day's work was done, the workers gathered, men, women, and children collecting in small groups, tongues clicking at the tragedy of it, heads shaking, everyone remembering....

“The monsieur, he must have been traveling too fast. He was always in a hurry, wanting to know everything, wanting to know it immediately.” “Oui, the monsieur and his endless questions.” “The poor madam, how she must be grieving. She went with him everywhere.” “Oui, they were always together...until today.” “If she had gone with him, their children would have lost both their parents. It was the will of God that her youngest should be sick this day of all days.” “The malady is not a serious one. Already the fever has come down.”

Claude stood among them, listening. He was too big to cry. But he wanted to, for her, his beautiful madam. Who would look after her now? Who would protect her and keep her from harm?

A private Mass was held the following day for the American monsieur Clayton Rutledge. The families of every Worker assembled at the pebbled courtyard of the chateau's front entrance and waited for the madam to return. Shawls covered the women's heads, their clothes as somber as the gray skies above. Like the other men, Claude wore a black arm band around his sleeve as a symbol of mourning.

He saw the cars pass through the iron gates and make the long, and slow, return trip down the white graveled drive to the chateau. When they stopped in front of the assemblage, he respectfully removed his cap.

The patron himself assisted the madam from the car. She was draped in black – shoes, dress, gloves, veil, and cloche hat. She paused when she saw the workers who had gathered. She took a tighter grip on the hand of her oldest son, a boy of eight or nine in short pants, his hair a lighter shade of yellow than his father's. He looked confused, and frightened. The youngest, it was said, was still in bed but greatly improved.

Claude passed over the young boy to dwell on his beautiful madam. When she stepped forward to face the large crowd, she didn't bow her head, but lifted it higher. Her shoulders were not curved in grief but squared and proud. Yet, through the veil, Claude could see the shine of wet cheeks, and his heart went out to his poor, brave madam.

When she spoke, her voice never wavered, never broke, but reached out to them clear and pure. “You do my husband a great honor by coming here today. The days he spent with you, learning from you, were among the happiest of his life. I thank you for that. In the days and years ahead, when I remember these times, I promise I will remember the happiness we knew, not the grief, for I have memories I shall treasure always. And when you think of my husband, I hope you will remember him with fondness, as I shall remember all of you.”

Then she went around and shook each hand, save for Claude's. Soon she would be leaving and he could not bear that. He slipped away, unnoticed, and hid in the vineyard. There, among the vines and the purple-black grapes, he let the tears stream down his cheeks and his broad shoulders shake with silent sobs.

Every morning for a week, Claude woke up with a sick feeling of dread that this would be the day she would leave. But the week passed and she was still there, though he had not seen her venture from the chateau once in all that time.

He kicked a rock in front of him, walked dully after it, and used the scuffed toe of his shoe to send it flying again toward the winery, lifting his head only to look at the black spires of the chateau rising above the wall of poplars. It was the eve of vintage, yet Claude felt none of the excitement he'd experienced at previous harvests.

He saw his grand-pere outside the winery, talking with the patron, not a particularly noteworthy event for this time of year. He slowed his steps even more. His grand-pere would not welcome an interruption now, and the evening meal, prepared by the wife of Albert the horticulturist, would stay warm on the cooking range back at the cottage.

Thinking of the madam in seclusion at the chateau, Claude stared at the baron and idly shoved the dry, pebbly soil around with his toe. The baron looked stern, and a little sad. He seemed to be the one doing all the talking; Claude's grand-pere responded with little more than an occasional curt nod. This was not a normal exchange, Claude thought, and looked more closely at his grand-pere. How rigid he held himself, and his face-it was stiff with anger.

This was a curious thing. His grand-pere was frequently impatient, frequently irritated, but angry? Claude could not recall that.

His grand-pere made a stiff bow to the baron and walked off. He came straight toward Claude and walked past him without a word, without a glance. Tears. Were those tears he had seen in the eyes of his grand-pere? For a moment, Claude was too stunned by the sight to move. Then he ran after him, to make certain his own eyes hadn't deceived him.

When he caught up with him, one single tear laid a wet track down his grand-pere's craggy cheek. “Grand-pere. What is wrong? What has happened?”

But he received no answer as his grand-pere opened the door to the cottage and gave it a violent push, sending it banging into the wall. It swung back toward Claude. He caught it and slipped inside, closing the door behind him. His grand-pere stood at the trestle table in the kitchen, his hands braced on the top of it, his head bowed.

“Grand-pere.” Claude took a cautious step toward him, then stopped.

His grand-pere pushed off the table and stalked to the small window, looking out with a scowl on his face. “As of today, I am no longer maitre de chai.” His voice was low and gruff, thick with outrage. “Andre Paschal is to take my place.”

Claude stared at him. This was not possible. “Wh-what?”