Chapter 23
A month went by, it was now the middle of summer, and Sven was still at the vineyard. Ever since the Allies had landed at Normandy, the Germans had been on high alert.
It was too dangerous to leave now.
One morning he was out pruning the vines just as Hugo had shown him.
The sun was rising slowly, appearing as a burning hemisphere on the horizon as Sven moved along the rows, working with a knife that was getting pretty blunt.
The Germans had only visited a couple of times since they first asked why he was staying with the family.
These days they didn’t bother with him at all, but because they were more nervous than before, and unfortunately also more aggressive, there was a risk that he would be caught if he left.
Questions would be asked, papers checked, and he might be arrested if they had even the slightest suspicion about him.
The more time went by, the more he felt torn between his desire to return to the Legion and his preference to stay here.
He had recently extended his contract by another five years.
A legionnaire was not allowed to break his contract early, and in times of war, desertion was particularly serious.
Maybe the Legion already regarded him as a deserter.
The thought was terrifying. He had heard tales of penal servitude on Devil’s Island, even rumors of execution.
Whatever the truth of those stories, desertion was unthinkable.
Once the war was over—he believed that France would be liberated—he would have to go back. He couldn’t live with Hugo and Juliette forever, and he felt like a traitor when he realized how grateful he was that he had been allowed to stay at the vineyard for so long.
Mathieu came out, crossed the lawn, and helped Sven for a while before taking a break and sitting down among the vines. “‘When a vine is standing firm with its feet in gravel and can see the Gironde estuary, it gives its best wine.’” Mathieu gazed out across the field.
Sven looked at him inquiringly.
“It’s a saying that describes where the Cabernet Sauvignon grape grows at its best. We can almost see the estuary from here, it’s just beyond the forest. That’s why our wine is so good.” Mathieu smiled.
Sven had tasted the wine that the Germans allowed the producers to keep.
He had enjoyed it, but he doubted he would be able to tell the difference between that and a more sophisticated wine.
That was why he loved the division of labor.
He completed the practical tasks, tending the vines and the earth under Hugo’s supervision, and this gave Hugo more time to focus on the production itself, along with Juliette and Mathieu.
Together they worked on the blends—deciding when the grapes were ready to harvest, how long they should be stored in oak barrels, how long the bottles should be stored—and made sure the vines were nurtured so the grapes were at their happiest.
“Thousands of years ago, sandy gravel was washed down here from the Pyrenees by the rivers Garonne and Dordogne, and it formed these fields.” Mathieu nodded toward the vines, then picked up a handful of the gravelly soil and let it trickle through his fingers.
“The drainage is fantastic. The water drains away quickly, leaving the earth warm and dry.” When he talked like this, it was like beautiful music to Sven’s ears.
He loved it when Mathieu told him about his precious Médoc region and about his wine.
They continued on along the rows, working methodically. At times like this, Sven existed entirely in the present, focusing only on the vines that needed his care.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. There was one other thing—he couldn’t stop thinking about Mathieu, couldn’t stop watching the young man’s slender figure as he moved ahead of Sven. Spending time with Mathieu made life at the vineyard better, even if Sven’s feelings about him were conflicted.
Mathieu had an effect on him. His carefree attitude made Sven’s heart lighter.
Sven was learning to develop a more positive view of life, and also to take pleasure in the moments he was able to enjoy—like these conversations about grapes and the history of Bordeaux.
They also discussed culture and literature.
Sven wasn’t used to talking about books, or reading for enjoyment.
Mathieu had taught him to do that, to live in the moment.
To find pleasure in a book, but also in simple things like the feel of the morning sun’s first rays caressing his face, or the afternoon breeze cool on his skin after a hard and sweaty task.
As a result, now when Sven was working, he focused on what he was doing, just as before, but he was also able to contemplate nature’s simple beauty.
Things like the dewdrops on the green leaves of the vines, sparkling in the morning sun.
He mustn’t think about the attraction he felt for the man beside him.
Quite the reverse. Suppress, suppress, suppress.
Push aside. That was the only thing that helped.
Never give in.
That afternoon Sven sat down to do some more drawing.
As soon as he had the opportunity, he took out his pad and the pencils Juliette had managed to acquire for him.
He realized this was the only time of day when he didn’t think about Mathieu; drawing absorbed all his senses.
He had continued to draw the oak; this particular sketch was taking longer than the rest, and he was sitting by the wall concentrating hard when Mathieu appeared in front of him. Sven stopped and looked up.
He wanted to draw Mathieu.
He was the most beautiful man Sven had ever seen.
There were imperfections, certainly—his eyes were slightly too large, his nose wasn’t completely straight—but this gave him character.
It was his aura, though, that really captivated Sven.
There was something dreamy about him—that tousled hair, the gangly body.
The melancholy in his eyes. And yet he could be so carefree, laughing and telling his stories. Sven wanted to capture all of that.
He blinked a few times, didn’t want to stare. “Should you really be out here?”
Mathieu didn’t answer, but looked at the pad instead. “So you’re still drawing the oak?”
Sven nodded.
“You miss home.”
Sven had told him about the oak tree back home, and the fact that it resembled the one at the vineyard.
“I don’t know, but I do think about my family a lot.
Especially my mother. We’ve written letters to each other the whole time I’ve been in the Legion.
I’m afraid she’ll be worried about me.” He knew she was worried about him.
Sven and his father had always had a special bond, but it was Mom who had given him and his sister all her love.
Several people in the village said that she spoiled the two of them with her hugs and kisses, but Mom said that was nonsense, and always hugged them a little too tightly for a little too long.
Even after they were grown up, she had still been there with those hugs.
He missed her and her unconditional love so much.
Somehow it had become even stronger after Sven and the other man had been exposed.
Did she think he was dead? His heart broke at the thought of it, of her anxiety.
“You could send her a message.” Mathieu’s eyes were sparkling.
“It’s impossible, the Germans check everything.”
“I don’t mean a letter, I mean a bottle of wine. With a message only she will understand.” Mathieu paced up and down, thinking. “Does she know you draw?”
Sven nodded. “I’ve drawn and painted lots of things for her over the years.”
“Okay. Well, we have brass plaques, round plaques that are embedded in the glass bottles for our finest wines. You can etch the oak onto the plaque, and when she sees it, she’ll know it’s from you.
Maybe you can send a letter, too, if we make a box with a secret compartment?
And if she opens the box, she’ll find the letter.
” He walked around in circles and raised his arms in the air as he spoke, as if they were making epic plans, which made Sven smile.
“I don’t know if I dare write too much in a letter in case the box is confiscated and the Germans go through it. That could put us all in danger. If they find out I’m a legionnaire and I’m here . . .”
“You’re right. But how about a note with a short message telling her to open the bottle? We can put something inside the cork, maybe an address?” Mathieu’s face had lit up with excitement. He sank down on the bench next to Sven and took his hands. “She’ll realize you’re alive.”
Sven’s eyes filled with tears. His beloved mother. Quickly he blinked away the moisture. What would Mathieu think of him? A man crying!
“I’ll set aside a brass plaque.” Mathieu got to his feet, ready to hurry away and make a start on the project right now. Sven stood up, too, and stopped him, placed a hand on his arm.
“Thank you. For helping me.”
“It’s not a problem—I can see that you miss your family. I can see how much it means to you. I’ve lost a great deal, but at least I still have my family.” Mathieu looked at him for a long time. Placed his own hand on Sven’s. This time his touch burned.
After Mathieu had gone, Sven sat down again, thinking over what had happened.
He had expected Mathieu to say that he was returning the favor because Sven was working in the vineyard, but in fact he wanted to help Sven contact his family because he cared about him. Then there was the touch, the look.
The whole thing took Sven’s breath away.
No. He couldn’t read anything into this. Just because Sven suffered from this . . . affliction, it didn’t mean that Mathieu suffered the same urges. Sven was seeing something that wasn’t there.
After a while he went back to the vines, driving himself hard in order to numb his feelings. He mustn’t act on his impulses. The emotions that had blossomed recently simply proved that he had to get back to the Legion soon to cleanse himself once more.
He couldn’t stay here for much longer.
It was in the evenings when they were drawing the maps that Mathieu got to know Sven better. Sven would tell stories about his nieces that made Mathieu laugh so loudly that on at least one occasion, his mother ran into the kitchen, thinking that someone was hurt.
In the afternoons Sven always took his break on the stone bench in the shade, sketching away while Mathieu read aloud.
Sven listened, and would pause his drawing to discuss the passages.
Mathieu loved having someone to talk to like this, because neither of his parents had any interest in literature.
Mathieu always tried to be around when Sven was drawing. He liked to watch him, to see the way the muscles in his wrist moved as he swept his hand across the paper.
In the evenings, as they worked in the candlelight, Mathieu tried to sit close to him.
He wanted to feel Sven’s proximity, to inhale the smell of him, yet at the same time he was careful not to make his approach too quickly.
He found it difficult to interpret Sven’s intentions, and didn’t want to scare him off.
He didn’t want to destroy their friendship.
And yet he had seen the way Sven looked at him, gazed at him. But then it was as if he always caught himself, turning away or pretending to be busy with something else.
One evening after they had finished a map, Sven continued working on the brass plaque. He completed the trunk of the oak tree and held the plaque up for Mathieu to see.
“What do you think?”
Mathieu took a step nearer. He was only a couple of inches away from Sven.
He took his hand and pulled it closer even though he could see perfectly well.
Ran his thumb over the plaque to remove the tiny brass shavings, caressed Sven’s finger, saw Sven’s entire body tense at his touch. He seemed to be holding his breath.
Mathieu continued, gently moving his thumb along Sven’s hand, then his forearm, over the tiny blond sun-bleached hairs.
Over the fabric of his shirt on his upper arm, along his throat.
He could feel Sven’s pulse beating fast beneath the warm skin.
Oh God. Mathieu had to fight hard not to throw himself at Sven.
But Sven still stood there, holding out the plaque, as if he had been turned to stone.
Mathieu kept going, stroking Sven’s cheek. Then he placed his other fingers on Sven’s cheek and drew Sven toward him, closing the distance between them. Kissed him cautiously, hesitantly.
Sven didn’t recoil, but neither did he press his body against Mathieu’s. He simply stood there, parted his lips, and allowed Mathieu to insert the tip of his tongue. After a while he responded, meeting Mathieu’s tongue with his own.
It was a slow, tentative kiss.
A second later Sven dropped the plaque on the floor. The thin metal made a loud clang, as if a glass had fallen onto the hard stone. He made an initial attempt to tidy up everything on the table, then left it and hurried toward the door.
“Sven, you don’t have to go!”
But Sven ran up to his room without a word.
Mathieu understood that Sven needed to process what had happened.
He let him go.