Chapter XVII
XVII
Aligned in our hangovers, Ruby and I brush our teeth in silence, toss on T-shirts and denim shorts, and stumble downstairs to pray at the altar of the espresso machine.
Bea is in the kitchen, preparing enough crepes to feed a midsize village, and the smell of browning butter laced with sugar is so warm and enveloping, I, too, could melt. Out the window, the boys are helping Antoine, his hand bandaged, moving the long tables back to their rightful positions.
We down our acrid coffees, slip on shoes, and head out the front door to scour the property for glass bottles to collect in large black trash bags. There are many, and I’m almost grateful for the bout of manual labor . . . as if I won’t know my place here without a physical task.
Around 11:00, when the domaine has been returned to something of its former glory, we all sit down to eat. We drink more coffee, smother our crepes in sugar and jam, eat in a lazy, cozy silence.
Everyone seems smudged and raw in the aftermath of the party, but Henri’s hand is firm where it rests on mine, our fingers woven together on top of the table.
It’s as if he’s reassuring himself that I am still here.
Or perhaps it’s me in need of reassurance.
Something about the gesture, however small, feels certain.
Like we’re playing house, testing the physical boundaries of operating as a unit.
We are relishing existing in our liminal space, facing our fragile reality head-on.
It tastes like homemade preserves spread over the sour brine of hangover—the antidote to indulgence, an indulgence unto itself.
After we clear the table, Antoine assigns us jobs: picking through a final plot of grapes, de-stemming a lingering barrel, handling pigeage.
“Alice, come with me,” he instructs. “I have a special task for us.”
I change into my work clothes and find Antoine, in his beloved rubber overalls, standing outside the cellar with his hands on his hips.
“I spoke to Alec this morning—I can’t believe you’re leaving already.” He tosses an arm over my shoulders. “I feel like you’ve just arrived. Well, and like you’ve been here for years. Both at the same time.”
“Time moves in such odd directions here.”
“Don’t I know it. How do you feel about leaving? Are you ready?”
“Not in the slightest. But that’s a nice thing.” I chew on my lip, deciding how much of the sentiment to share. “Usually, I actually like the leaving part. But this time, I’m not ready to go yet. It’s a strange feeling.”
He smiles, mouth closed. “Something to do with Henri, maybe?”
I blush—even now, Antoine’s acknowledgment of us feels akin to getting caught under the bleachers. “I . . .”
“We don’t have to talk about it. I just wanted to tell you that he and I have discussed it. You, I mean. And the thing is, I know that boy—that man—quite well. And this is the happiest I’ve seen him in a while. He looks a little lighter. So thanks for that.”
“De rien, it’s nothing,” I say. But I can tell I’m beaming. It is very much something to me.
“You know, I always get a bit sad at the end of harvest. Relieved, of course, because the work is done. But the house gets so quiet. We build this little family, this little microcosm of the world, and then it just goes away. One by one, everyone disappears. After a bit, I settle into the quiet, start to enjoy it. But at first, that quiet feels so loud.” Antoine scuffs the toe of his boot against the ground as if in contemplation.
I look up at the sun, then out across the vines.
“It’s hard to imagine how many times this house fills up and drains out.
I mean, every year, all these people come, and it feels so new and large to them—to me—even though it’s all happened before.
This thing, it’s not specific to us.” I try to put myself into context, to let myself be small in the grand lineage of the vineyard.
But I don’t believe myself. Nothing in my time here can be shrunk down into something prosaic or digestible.
“It isn’t, and it is, specific to you all.” He squats down, resting his elbows against his knees. “You know, every year, I tell myself harvest couldn’t possibly be as special as the year that came before. And every year, I’m surprised. Or moved. Or just delighted.”
“Part of me loves that—and the other part of me wants us to be so special. Like, we can’t possibly be repeated.” I blush at my earnestness.
“Of course you can’t,” he says with a laugh. “No repetition, just continuation. Some other link added to the chain.”
I smile. How I adore this monument of a man and his aphorisms, with or without the assurance of his good graces. “You know, sometimes you speak in quotes, Antoine.”
“Ahh, my dear—that’s why I’ve brought you here.
” He pushes his way into the cellar and grabs a legal pad, a plastic beaker, and a sponge from his desk.
He shows me how to siphon wine from each cask—last year’s vintages—using the sponge to clean the nozzle.
“Will you write tasting notes for the four ready for bottling?” he asks with childish excitement.
“To send back to Alec along with the tech sheets. No one talks about wine the way you do—or at least, no one I’ve heard.
So, well, I want you to talk about my wine.
” He winks, hands me a ballpoint pen, and heads into his office.
The first, a Sylvaner, tastes like acid—sharp geometric shapes, antiseptic on a paper cut. It’s lean in the way of women in Manhattan, lovely in the rigidity of its structure. Wine with good posture.
The second, a Muscat, smells like visiting a familiar, fancy, elderly relative—all the perfumy aromatics. Gardenias, French linens, expensive hand lotion.
The third, pinot noir, is fast and loud, with verve. Like the coy urgency of adolescence—too fun to be considered a serious wine, too serious to be considered frivolous.
The last—well, the last is grape juice.
“Antoine!” I call, a mouthful of pure, liquid fruit lacquering my teeth.
He pokes his head out from his office, and I point at the tank. “I . . . something might be wrong. That’s not fermented yet. It’s just pressed grapes.”
He smiles playfully. “Precisely, yes, it’s ‘must.’ But not just any grape juice—that’s yours.
You made that. Picked those grapes, stomped them, sorted them, pressed them.
That’s your vin d’Alice. And if I were you, I’d taste it again.
” He holds the beaker to his nose and inhales.
“You know, if you strip away the poetry, all of this is just grape juice.”
I look at the row of casks behind us with their careful fermentation regimens. Their glass bottles and test tubes. Their native yeasts, their oxidation and pressing protocols, their aging requisites. Grape juice.