CHAPTER TWELVE
Lost in Translation—and
Found Again
To-Do list:
B
y the time the last of the Cabernet Sauvignon has been pressed, it’s the middle of October. I’ve been working at Château de la Chapelle for four weeks and the harvest is now over. Across the region, only the occasional harvesting machine can still be seen sailing ponderously up and down the vineyard rows, bringing in the late-harvested Sémillon grapes at the chateaus where they make the sweet wines for which Monbazillac and Sauternes are famous. The bunches are furred with a blanket of noble rot and will be made into a golden nectar that is as mellow as the autumn sunlight.
The final job for us in the
chai
is to decant the fermented and pressed red wines carefully into barrels. Universally acknowledged as the best in the world, the wood comes from ancient forests in the middle of France. Englishmen may lay claim to hearts of oak, but France’s heart truly is made of oak and each year she generously sacrifices a little to help finish off the wines that her sons and daughters have laboured so hard to create. The Cortinis replace about a third of their barrels each year, so Jacqueline and I are unwrapping the bulky, curved parcels that have been delivered from the barrel-maker. I love the smell of the wood and stroke the smooth fineness of its grain as I peel off the plastic covers. We roll the barrels into position in the cellar and wedge chocks under each one to hold it in place. Then, closely supervised by their father, Thomas and Robert connect up the pumps and pipes that will lead the wine from the vats into each
barrique
, where it will stay for up to a year while the deep red liquid is suffused with the smooth vanilla flavours from the wood, which help to add depth and balance to the mix of fruit and tannins.
Patrick gently knocks a silicone bung into the top of each barrel. These will be removed at regular intervals so that the levels can be kept topped up to prevent too much air getting in and spoiling the wine.
The barrels exude a delicate breath, filling the cellar with faint perfumes of fruits and flowers. The wines are shaping up nicely, but the Cortinis will only really know what this year’s vintage will taste like when the time comes for the final blending next year.
‘And now,’ says Patrick with a smile, ‘we breathe a sigh of relief and have a small pause.’
‘Yes,’ grins Thomas. ‘Before we have to do it all over again.’
‘And of course in the meantime there’s the small question of pruning the vines, replacing those that are damaged, replanting the areas that are past their best, ploughing and spraying,’ adds Robert. ‘Not to mention bottling, labelling and actually selling the wines...’
Patrick raises his bushy eyebrows and shrugs. ‘
Ah, oui
, my dear sons, but that is business as usual in the world of wine. Whatever else could you possibly wish to be doing instead?’
♦ ♦ ♦
In the vineyards bordering my garden, now that the fruit has been harvested, the leaves turn a glorious gold, a final flourish before the vines transform themselves into black, wizened stumps for the winter. Magpies balance on the wooden posts that support the trellis of fine wires on which the vines are trained. Mostly the birds are in pairs (oh, joy!), but occasionally these coalesce into larger groups, fluttering and squabbling as each tries to assert its territorial rights. Distracted from my reading, I count them over and over again as the birds group and regroup and I try not to think of the photo in the silver frame.
At long last, Cédric phones. I’ve almost persuaded myself that I’ve stopped wondering when he’ll call. I’ve got used to lying in bed at night gazing blankly up at the silver-covered insulation and the rough laths of the roofing. I’ve tried hard to push away any thoughts of attraction between us and just about managed to convince myself that I’m so focused on my studies now that there’s no room for anything—or anyone—else in my life. But when I pick up the phone and hear his voice, there’s a distinct quickening of my heartbeat, and I try hard to maintain an air of calm detachment in my voice as I reply to his questions. Yes, I’ve been fine; yes, I enjoyed working the harvest at Château de la Chapelle; yes, the studies are coming on fine. And the work on the church at Les Lèves?
‘Finished, thank goodness,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to come and see it one of these days. It’s turned out well we think. I’d be pleased to show you what we’ve done.’
And Raphael’s hand?
‘Better now, he’s back in action. He and Florian are finishing dismantling the scaffolding on the church tower. So Pierre and I can come on Monday morning to get started on the work on the ceiling for you, if that’s convenient? We’ve got a couple of things we need to do in the afternoon, but we should be able to get the job finished on Tuesday morning at the latest. It’s not going to take us long.’
‘Yes, that’d be fine’ I reply. ‘But there’s no rush. Come whenever suits you, if you have other work you need to get done first.’
How cool am I?
‘No, Monday will be fine. You’ve been very patient. We’ll be there around nine. We need to go to Lacombe first to get the materials we’ll need.’
‘Okay, if you’re sure. That’s great then. Have a good weekend. See you Monday.’
And I sit back down at my desk, feeling just a little wistful for something that feels like it’s now over. Before it had ever even begun.
♦ ♦ ♦
I’m still glad to see the blue pickup, closely followed by the red motorbike, roll up the drive on Monday morning. I’ve shut myself away from the outside world since the harvest, politely declining the occasional invitation from Celia to come for lunch or dinner, my only other human contact—apart from sporadic trips to the supermarket—my phone calls to my mother once a week and cheery emails from Annie full of news and jokes and how busy she is at work. My replies, in comparison, seem stilted and dull. So it’s good to have Cédric and Pierre here, for a day or so at least, and to have some noise and activity in the house. Lafite winds himself round Cédric’s green overall-clad legs and he crouches to stroke him.
Straightening up, he catches sight of me standing in the doorway and comes to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘Gina, it’s good to see you again,’ he says warmly.
As he smiles, the lines around his eyes crinkle as usual in that way that makes my heart lurch, and my stomach does a double backflip at the touch of the rough skin of his cheek against mine.
Honestly woman, get a grip. What is it about this man? I’m absolutely resolved not to waste any more time on impossible, unattainable relationships and I reply briskly, with a brightness that sounds brittle to my ears.
‘Lovely to see you both. Come on in. You know the way...’
They bring in tools, sections of a small scaffolding platform and large sheets of grey plasterboard, and carry everything upstairs. I’ve managed to push the bed into a corner away from the open area of ceiling that they’ll be working on. They quickly cover everything in clean plastic sheeting and set to work.
I feel more light-hearted than I have done in weeks as I hear the two men chatting and laughing easily as they work in the room above me. It’s just that it’s nice having company in the house, I tell myself cheerily.
At midday they come down the stairs. ‘Well, we’ve got the boards up,’ says Cédric. ‘I’ll pop back tomorrow morning to tape the joints and skim them and then the ceiling will be ready for you to paint. It’s going to be as good as new when you’ve finished.’
He busies himself putting tools into his pickup. Do I imagine it, or is he playing for time?
Pierre puts on his helmet and gives a wave as he roars off down the drive, leaving a cloud of white dust hanging in the air behind him
‘We’ve left the bed in the corner for the time being,’ Cédric says. ‘Otherwise we’d just have to move it again tomorrow. I hope that’s okay?’
‘Fine,’ I say.
‘Gina,’ he says. And hesitates, suddenly awkward. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’ He sounds nervous, something I’ve never heard in him before.
‘Yes?’ I ask. And suddenly I find I can’t swallow because my throat has constricted. With hope? Or is it despair?
‘If you aren’t busy, would you come and have dinner with me tomorrow evening?’
A bombshell.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted and all I don’t. Handed to me on a plate after all these months of wondering, dreaming, hoping. He must see written clearly on my face the conflicting emotions that crowd in as I take on board what he is asking. What he is offering.
It’s everything. And nothing at all.
I clear my throat. ‘Just to be clear,’ I say cautiously, ‘who else would be there?’
He looks confused.
‘Nobody. Just you and me. We can go wherever you like...’
As he tails off, a red rage floods my veins like liquid fire, flushing my face with its righteous heat.
‘How dare you,’ I say coldly, but my voice is shaking with emotion. ‘What the hell is it with you Frenchmen? No, never mind you French—just men in general. You all think you can play games with women. The fact that someone is in a serious relationship seems to mean nothing at all to you. Well, I can tell you, I’m not interested in cheating. I want no part of it. So thank you very much for your terribly kind invitation,’ I’m getting into my stride now and my voice is stronger, sarcastic, my French gratifyingly fluent, ‘but I don’t think I want what you are offering. Affairs are just not my style.’
He drops his eyes, ashamed. And so he should be. Poor Marie-Louise. Poor Nathalie and Luc.
‘I’m... I’m sorry, Gina,’ he stammers. ‘I didn’t realise... I didn’t think...’
‘That I’d mind? Well, I do. You picked the wrong girl I’m afraid. Sorry. Let’s just not mention this again, okay?’
And I turn on my heel and stalk into the kitchen, firmly closing the door behind me.
Through the glass I see him climb into the cab of his truck, his shoulders sagging. He sits staring out through the windscreen for a few seconds before starting the engine and driving off. And I collapse into a chair and bury my fingers in my hair, clutching both sides of my head in anger. And not a little frustration. And, if I’m being perfectly honest, total disappointment and despair. If even Cédric, this quiet, strong, capable, warm, family-loving man wants to have his cake and eat it too, what hope is there for womankind?
I groan, reliving the scene that has just taken place, cringing with embarrassment and humiliation. How awkward is it going to be when he comes back tomorrow?
If
he comes back tomorrow—maybe he won’t now and my bedroom ceiling will remain forever unfinished and I’ll have to lie in my lonely, spinster bed every night and look up at it as a reminder of what could have been. Am I being a prude? Do other women merrily leap into bed with married men all the time at the drop of a hat? (Or rather a pair of trousers.) How awkward is it going to be when I run into Mireille? Or, oh, God, Marie-Louise?
What a disaster. And I’m never going to meet anyone living here. But I can’t go back to England yet. Unless I sell the house. That’s what I’ll have to do. Who in their right mind would want to live here anyway? Where my father most probably betrayed my mother with her own sister. Where I’ve been coming all these years ignorant of that fact, thinking I loved this place, believing I was loved by my aunt. Now the tears are rolling down my face, and I let them come, crying until I am emptied out. And afterwards, spent and exhausted, I go upstairs and lie down on the bed in the corner of the bedroom and gaze blankly up at the neatly patched ceiling until I fall asleep.
♦ ♦ ♦
I’m up early the next morning. I didn’t sleep much anyway, inevitably. I’m determined to be brisk and businesslike when Cédric arrives. It’s not going to take him long to finish up and I’m keen to get him out of both the house and my life as quickly as possible. I sit studiously at my computer, trying to convince myself—and anyone who should happen to come up the drive—that I’m terribly busy with some important research. The clock in the hall ticks ponderously and the minutes stretch to hours. No one appears. Well, what did I expect? He’s obviously gone off in a huff, his male ego wounded by my rejection, and now the damn ceiling’s never going to be finished.
It’s early afternoon when I hear the sound of an engine in the courtyard. I glance towards the window and the wind is taken out of my sails somewhat when I see it’s Pierre’s motorbike that’s arrived instead of Cédric’s pickup. I go to the door.
‘Hello,’ I say politely.
Pierre is distant, preoccupied. ‘Hello, Gina,’ he says. ‘I’ve come to finish things off. Sorry I couldn’t get here this morning; Raphael needed me on another job. May I come in?’ He shrugs a small rucksack off his shoulders.
‘Of course.’
We both sound stilted and self-conscious. Clearly he knows what’s happened and has come in his brother’s place, to save him any further embarrassment. Well, at least Cédric must have a guilty conscience—that’s something, I suppose.
Pierre busies himself upstairs, his silence a stark contrast to yesterday’s cheerful banter. Apart from a somewhat stony request for water with which to mix the filler that he’s going to skim over the joints, there’s no conversation. I try to concentrate on my work, but the atmosphere is as oppressive as the build-up to a summer thunderstorm and my head feels hot and heavy. I push aside a pile of notebooks with a sigh. Honestly, why should I be made to feel like this? I’m the innocent one here. Who knows what Cédric has told his brother... Maybe he said I tried to make a pass at him. Ha! That really would be rich.
I make a cup of tea, not bothering to offer Pierre one as I can’t face the cool rejection that I’m sure the offer will elicit. I take it outside to sit on the step in the late afternoon sunshine, to try and clear my head.
Eventually Pierre comes down the stairs, packing tools and his rolled-up green overalls into his rucksack as he goes, evidently in a hurry to get out of my house and away as quickly as possible. I get up from the step, still clutching my mug.