Terroir (3 page)

André had been into town for some spare pressure bolts for the wine press, returning late afternoon, just as Raymond was wheeling his bicycle down the path, limping slightly as he always did when he was tired. Then the boys careered past, waving from their old Cleo with its cracked sunroof. When he pulled up outside the house, Ghislaine was watching from the kitchen window. André cut the engine and unstrapped his helmet. He felt a sudden flush of sweat under his jacket. The day's heat was pulsing back from the walls of the house, from the glare of the gravel path. She walked out to greet him. Neat steps like a deer. There were freckles across her nose and her skin was tanned. Her top was low
-
cut showing the parting of her breasts. He could see her legs through the thin skirt as she moved.

– Do you have a spare?

André looked at the bike, stooping to switch off the petrol.

– You mean tyre?

She laughed and jabbed him in the midriff with her finger.

– I mean helmet.

There was a hollow sensation in his stomach.

– You like bikes?

– I don't know. I've only been on a moped, when I was a teenager.

– It's a hundred horsepower. Sixteen valves. It's not a moped.

Ghislaine rolled her eyes in mock amazement.

– Well, it's a big one, I'm sure.

He was thinking about Gaspard. First his wife was working the land like a labourer, now this. Her green eyes glinted. He could smell her scent, feel the subtle emanation from her skin as she stood close, radiating the day's sun.

– Not here. I've got an old one at home.

– If I buy one will you take me out? Tomorrow?

His mouth went dry. He already knew the answer, which was the wrong answer.

– OK. Get something decent in town. Full face. Go to Lafarge's.

She laughed, showing her teeth.

– Don't worry, I won't leave it lying around.

They had a secret. He felt a squirt of acid in his gut. That evening, they ate quietly, lost in separate thoughts. He asked about her children to break the silence. Françoise and Joelle, seven and nine. They were at a private boarding school. She shrugged, as if she didn't know why. André told her about his parents, about his younger brother, Antoine, studying to be a vet in Poitiers. He noticed her deft gestures as she ate salad, examined the dimple above her collarbone and wanted to drink from it. He watched her piling dishes, each movement making the dress cling to her thighs. His mouth was parched. He gulped water, clinking his glass against the jug. When she turned and smiled, meeting his eyes, dropping the tea towel on the table, he rose, avoiding her gaze. He needed a drink.

André set off to walk into the village, noticing how raw and unfinished the house seemed. There was the scent of soil as it cooled, a sappy odour from the vines. He picked up a caterpillar and watched it crawl over his hand. Its hairs were spikes of glass. He paused to examine the grapes, bloomed with dusky yeast, then crushed one against his tongue. It was tannic and bitter. There were slugs coupling on the path, slugs eating slugs. It was hard to tell which.

The football was showing on the big screen – Manchester United against Real Madrid. He knocked back a few beers with the crowd in the bar. They were getting to know him now. The girls looked curiously at him, but they all had boyfriends and he knew better than to try anything here. When he returned to the house it was after eleven. He tried to step quietly on the gravel so as not to wake her, but Ghislaine had the lights on and he could hear faint voices from the television. He had no idea what she did in the evenings. Sometimes he heard her talking to Gaspard or the children on the phone. She had a different voice for each. A dry tone for Gaspard, a little weary, without surprise, but a bright, questioning tone for the kids, the two little girls who were away at school.

André let himself into the annexe, cleaned his teeth and dropped straight into bed. The little room was hot and it was hard to sleep. He dreamed of motorbikes. Not the smart BMW he had now, but the old Kawasaki 125 he'd learned on. In his dreams it never fired, the starter motor howling in smoking oil. He had to push it home, past fields of maize and tightly braided vines.

He woke at 2.00am, the numbers on the alarm clock glowing green. It was weird how dreams always seemed to take you back home. His head was thick. He needed to piss. Floor tiles were cool underfoot as he padded to the bathroom. He drank a glass of water and thought of the grapes swelling out there in the night, of pressure building in their dark skins. André lay awake for an hour then dozed lightly. When he woke it was to an erection and the beeping of the alarm. The room was smitten by a glowing bar of sun where he'd forgotten to draw the curtains.

At breakfast Ghislaine wasn't dressed for work. She was wearing cream trousers, a damson silk halter
-
top. A grey jacket was hanging from the back of a chair. There was a vase of freesia on the table and the room was full of their scent. He must have looked surprised, though he tried not to. She looked beautiful. André avoided her eyes, pouring black coffee, pushing away the jug of hot milk she made for him. The coffee tasted oily and bitter.

– I have to go into town to the bank.

She said it casually, as if it was nothing to do with anything. He drank his coffee slowly, breaking a croissant and dunking it. There was a gold cross on a fine chain between the rise of her breasts. He had a slight hangover. Not bad, but too much to put up with in the sun.

– OK

– No problem. We'll manage.

She pulled a little face as if he was mocking her.

– I'm sure.

– Do you have any Aspirin or Paracetamol?

– Yes, here.

She rummaged in her handbag, pulling out her mobile phone and checking it quickly for messages.

– Thanks, I didn't sleep much.

She placed her hand on his forehead, a cool touch, then brushed back her hair with mock seriousness. Her armpits were shaved, but dark with stubble. He wanted to put his tongue there. To lick against the bristles. He could never understand why women shaved there. Or elsewhere, for that matter. He preferred the scent of skin to the smell of perfume.

– You seem OK.

– I'll live.

André swallowed the tablets then tipped the milk onto the last of the coffee and gulped it. He walked out, lacing up his boots against the low garden wall, aware of her watching behind the kitchen blind. Or maybe that was his imagination. A thrush hopped ahead of him and the grass was thick with bluish dew. He loved this time of year, when there was just a hint of autumn, when the vines were maturing, the grapes swelling. Swallows gathered on the power lines, yearning to make the journey they'd inherited through their genes. Like desire. Or land. Like
terroir
. The air yielded wood smoke, burning leaves, the scent of change. The season was turning on shortening days.

That evening Ghislaine served a guinea fowl casserole with sautéed potatoes and haricot beans. There on a side table was a square box in a Lafarge carrier bag. André had deliberately worked late until the sky was streaked with sunset. It was dusk outside as they finished eating.

– Is it still ok?

André nodded, pushing his plate away.

– Thank you, that was great. You're starting to cook like my mother!

He must have said it on purpose. She didn't look too pleased. She gave a little shrug.

– I didn't mean
that
. Don't tease!

She glanced towards the carrier bag, as if he ought to be pleased. He was.

– Is it still okay?

– Yes, it's still OK.

– I'll get changed.

He nodded, feeling his throat close up again. He went outside to check the bike until Ghislaine appeared in jeans and a tee shirt, carrying a white Bell helmet. She looked at it, frowning.

– Is this alright?

– Yes it's great. Good make. British. Take this.

He handed her his leather jacket and helped her do up the zip. She turned the cuffs back, laughing.

– It's huge.

– It's safer.

He helped her fasten the helmet buckle, then put on his own helmet and gauntlets, showing her how to climb up onto the pillion seat and put her feet on the pegs. His voice was muffled.

– Hold tight to me. Don't lean over on the bends. Just relax.

She gave him the thumbs up. He felt her arms go around his waist and belly, their helmets bumping together. He started the bike and her hands tightened in a little surge of panic. They nosed down the path to the road. The bike felt cumbersome with her weight on it, tricky on the gravel. André took a left, away from the village, twisting the throttle in a show of power. The road was straight and he eased up the gears until they were cruising at sixty, a steady blast of air pushing against his chest. They hit a series of bends and he swung the bike through them, dropping the gears, feeling her hands tighten and relax, watching the hair on his arms ripple into goose pimples.

They came to a crossroads and he paused, then swung the bike left again, away from the river, climbing through pine woods. A few cars passed, their headlights dim in the half
-
light. He thought he saw an owl rising from the road then entering the trees. They passed a boy freewheeling down the hill, no lights, no hands, his face split by a delighted grin. André pulled out of a bend, feeling the brutal power of the bike as it took on the hill in third. Then fourth, then smoothly into fifth, hurling straight as a slingshot. He thought of pistons hurtling, the camshaft turning, the driveshaft, blurred spokes, tyres scorching the road. They approached another bend and he touched the brake, feeling pads grip disks, the bike slow. It was a miracle it all kept working so perfectly.

They rode for twenty kilometers without stopping, sinking into the clotted dusk of the next valley, through hamlets and villages, past lit bars where smokers stood outside, heads turning after them. They caught the scent of tobacco, bread from a bakery, sour dung from a farmyard. Then they were following the silver loops of the river, a thin moon to the east, the swollen sun still falling. The headlight bobbed against walls and trees. They rode in a bubble of golden light. Finally, in the closing dusk, not far from home, he pulled into a layby, patting her thigh. She dismounted awkwardly, catching her knee in the small of his back. She was fiddling with the helmet strap, her eyes dark with excitement or fear. He couldn't tell.

– Well?

She flashed him a little smile, intent on the jacket zip.

– Amazing! I love it!

He laid his gauntlets on the saddle and rubbed his arms. The engine ticked as it cooled.

– You're cold?

– Frozen!

She came up behind him, rubbing his arms gently, electrifying them. He tried not to turn around. He could smell her skin, her hair. His heart fluttered at his ribs like a bird at a window. She smiled, dangling the helmet from one hand like a veteran. They watched the sun dropping into the wooded hillside opposite, then climbed back on the bike.

He woke with the memory of Ghislaine's knees against his thighs, her arms around his waist. They'd parted in silence the night before, almost as if they'd quarrelled, dismounting and removing their helmets, lingering towards the house. They said goodnight casually and she'd thanked him for the ride, then he'd lain awake for hours, imaging her footfall in the corridor outside, bathed in expectation. The slightest sound put him on high alert. Then he'd fallen asleep in the early hours to fitful dreams of the wine harvest. Everything had gone wrong: late workers, the press seizing, rain, and a grey fungus spreading over the grapes. Then vats of grapes fermenting and splitting open in a stink of sulphur.

At breakfast, Ghislaine greeted him with a wry expression, deliberately distant, putting the coffee jug down with a bump. There were dark smudges under her eyes.

– You look tired.

She didn't answer, but sat down, pulling a plate towards her.

– I'm OK. I hope I didn't keep you up late.

Did she mean that? Did she know he'd lain there, expectant, counting hours pass in the chimes of the church clock? Her face was impassive as he ate, dunking her bread expertly in the coffee.

– No it's OK. I didn't sleep very well. Bad dreams about the harvest. Weird.

– You're getting anxious. It's natural.

– Maybe.

He spread a thin glaze of apricot conserve over the bread, dipping the corner into his coffee.

– Do you need me today?

– Only if you want to work. We can manage. And Gaspard will be back this weekend. He usually does enough for two.

That was true. He wasn't just thinking of things to say. The Breton knew how to graft.

– Not this weekend. He has to be in Dieppe for some reason.

– OK. Well, we'll still manage.

André had been to Dieppe with a school trip when he was a teenager. There was a little horseshoe beach where three hundred Canadian boys had died in the war, gasping out salt and blood. There were long wooden groins rotting in the sea and green weed on the pebbles. Then cliffs that overlooked the beach where the German machine guns had been waiting. A diversionary raid, so they'd all been sacrificed.