Cafe Babanussa (10 page)

“Be careful when you're reaching deep into the vines,” he warned, “as you may clip the hand of the person working on the other side. If you see any rotting grapes, leave the cluster behind. They will be collected for making vinegar later on. When your bucket is full, put it under the vines and a gatherer will come around to pick it up.”

Ruby found the work strenuous. A few minutes after she'd placed her full bucket under the vines to be picked up, another one was tossed down the row. Gatherers came along with twenty-gallon tubs strapped on their backs into which they emptied the grapes from the buckets. From there they would take the full tubs to a tractor waiting at the end of a group of rows. The tractor had its own vats placed on the back, and the gatherers would empty their tubs into the vats. From there they were hauled down to the pressing station. After an hour's work, Ruby's back started to ache, so she tried stretching for a minute.

At lunch back at the dining room, Ruby watched a beefy guy practically bury his face in his plate, gulping down mouthfuls at a time, then chasing them back with swallows of wine.
When he came up for air, the man said loudly, “Who has the crazy red car in the lot?”

“That would be me,” answered Jean-Claude.

“You might want to get a new paint job.”

“I don't take kindly to people telling me what I should or shouldn't do.”

“People don't want to look at that naked woman. It's offensive. It doesn't belong on a car.”

“Aw, shut up and leave me alone. I'm busy driving all these foreigners around the country. I don't need this shit.”

Willie quietly interjected, “I'm French, Jean-Claude.”

“Now don't be silly. I'm not trying to put you down.”

None of the other men responded to the “foreigners” crack, but Ruby noticed that some were eyeing Willie and her with suspicion.

“Have any of you ever picked grapes before?”

“Many times,” said Willie.

“So the others are all virgins?”

“That may be,” Ruby piped in, “but we know how to work hard.”

“Why all the questions?” asked Jean-Claude. “You'll see that we pull our weight.”

Ruby moved away from the table. She had eaten too quickly and wasn't feeling well. A young man in a knitted cap who had been sitting on her right stepped out of the shadows in the hallway and joined her with a pleasant hello.

“Comment tu t'appelles?”
asked Ruby. He said his name was Jean-Yves. Ruby choked on her breath.

“Are you okay? Is my name funny?”

“No, it's just that you're the third Jean-something-or-other that I've met on this trip.”

Jean-Yves smiled into her dark brown eyes. “Can I join you outside?”

“Sure. Why not?”

In the evening air, they lit up cigarettes and stared up into the night sky.

“I can tell from your accent that you must be Canadian. But you don't look like a Canadian.”

“Tell me, in your opinion, what does a Canadian look like?”

“Well, they don't have frizzy black hair and light brown skin.”

“Oh yeah? The first Canadians were all brown-skinned.”

“What do you mean?”

“The indigenous people were the first on the North American continent and they are brown.”

“Maybe you're right, but that's not what I meant.”

“Well, I'm just telling you that I am definitely Canadian and I'm not white. Look.” Ruby grabbed his hand and held it up against hers. The difference in colour looked clear to her. When she let go of his hand, a big smile spread over his face.

“Any time you want to go for a walk, let me know,” he said.

“How about tomorrow?”

He agreed and bid her goodnight.

When Ruby entered the little dorm room, Emma was stretched out on a bed, thumbing through a magazine.

“How are you?” Ruby asked.

“A little tired and a little bummed. I'm missing the pear farm.”

“Aha! I knew it.”

“You don't have to gloat about it.”

“I didn't mean to gloat. I miss it, too.”

“And Jean-Pierre, I guess.”

“Yeah, he was nice. But I didn't know him long enough to really miss him. And there's a guy here now who's really cute.”

“You don't waste any time.”

“Well, that's easy for you to say. You've got someone lined up for the duration of the trip.”

“Speaking of that, what's with you and Willie?”

“He's sweet, Emma, just way too young for me. I mean, what is he, sixteen?”

“He says he's eighteen.”

“And you believe him? That's a stretch. Anyway, I'm way older.”

“Oh come on. He's so lonely . . .”

“God, why don't you do him, if you're so concerned? I'd spend an evening talking to him, but he doesn't talk. Get up, let's go for a smoke,” she said.

Outside they were joined by Jean-Claude and Willie. Jean-Claude wanted to plan a strategy for the next day, but Ruby didn't want to hear about it. Perhaps if it had been another person, she would have listened, for she came from a family that supported workers' rights and unions. But she resented Jean-Claude for taking Emma away from her, for his
dangerous driving and his pseudo-anarchism. She didn't really know what anarchism was, except that Werner had tried to thrust it down her throat. But Werner's anarchism was all intellectual—reading books or going to movies. In practice, he pissed on ecologists and Germany's green-loving alternatives, insisting that she not associate with the “tree huggers” living in their building.

Ruby finished her cigarette and returned upstairs to the dorm. She lay down and pulled out Germaine Greer's
The Female Eunuch
. It had been her bible in her last year at university and she had brought it to Berlin with her. She had read only a page or two when she looked up to see Willie standing in the doorway.

“Will you go for a walk with me?”

“Sure—what's up?”

Willie suddenly dragged her up off the bed, grabbed her shoulders to pull her into him and kissed her. As Ruby struggled free, his lips brushed across her cheek. She pushed him gently away, shaking her head.

“Willie, usually you ask for permission before you kiss someone.”

“I just wanted to taste your lips. I know you think I'm too young, but I'm not.”

“‘Taste my lips'? Are you kidding? What have you been reading? Willie, you're a nice guy, but I'm just not interested.”

“Okay, forget it. This is a waste of time.”

“Anytime you want to talk, Willie, let me know.”

“Aw, just forget it.”

Ruby sighed and went back to her book. Emma came into the room and closed the door.

“What the hell did you say to Willie?”

“I just said no. I'm just not interested. Can't you get that through your head?”

“For chrissake, he's crying. You must have done something.”

“He tried to kiss me and I pushed him away. Now will
you
please back off?”

“You're a stubborn wench. For the life of me, I don't get you. We came here to have fun.”

“Listen, Emma, I don't like Jean-Claude, but you can have him. I'm not interested in Willie, but I'm having fun with other guys, okay? Isn't that good enough?”

“Stop going on about me and Jean-Claude like it's the end of the world. You know it's just a fling. We both have other lives in Berlin.”

“You got that right.”

“Okay, okay. I just hope you figure something out with this new guy you've got on the go.”

Ruby turned on her side, the book still in front of her, and closed her eyes. The next morning, both women woke up to aches and pains they'd never imagined.

“How are we gonna get through the day like this?”

“I dunno. We'll drink a lot at lunch and see if that kills the pain.”

They got their wishes early. After two and a half hours in the fields, Tellier told everyone to assemble at the end of a row.
The sun was high in the sky and though clouds were drifting by, it was another beautiful day. The tractor stood at the bottom of the row, set up with pâtés, cheeses and baguettes for all. There was a bottle of crème de cassis and a couple of bottles of Champagne so that everyone could imbibe.

Jean-Yves came over to Ruby and said, “We got a date tonight?”

“Yup, we do.”

“So, I'll see you after dinner, then?”

“Okay.”

Ruby enjoyed the taste of the sweet fizziness in her mouth as she sipped at her kir royale. The Champagne and cassis mingled nicely on her tongue. But she didn't for a moment think it would numb the pain she was feeling all over.

Ruby and Emma resumed working on the other side of the row, with Willie and Jean-Claude behind them.

“You look beautiful in the morning light,” Jean-Claude cried out to Emma.

“Why, thank you, kind sir. I'll take a compliment from you any day.”

Ruby thought she would throw up. But she stayed quiet and listened as she picked.

“Your eyes are sparkling, your lips are glistening . . .”

“Aw goddammit, would you quit it,” interrupted Ruby. “Save it for tonight when you're alone.”

“You have no appreciation for love in the light of day,” Emma retorted. “No one has touched your loins recently—your engine's getting rusty.”

“Oh, please,” Ruby flared. “Have some respect for the people around you.”

“Oh, don't be such a spoilsport.”

Ruby fell silent and concentrated on picking. She liked looking at the triangular clusters of grapes and feeling their weight in her hands, imagining them being squished in a press to turn out a bottle of wine like the one they had just drunk.

The day passed away and the pickers drifted into the dining room, stiff and sore. The table was laden with vegetable salads and a selection of quiches. The men gathered around the table, Jean-Yves sandwiching himself in between Ruby and Emma. Dinners here were much more sombre than at the pear farm—no Jacques to liven everyone up.

Someone across the table called out to Ruby, “Where are you from?”

Ruby sighed.
Ah, the never-ending question
. She looked up to face her questioner, a plump, ruddy-faced man who looked a little rough around the edges. “Mogadishu.”

“Where on earth is that?”

“Somalia.”

“You don't look African.”

“Well, you don't look French.”

“I'm not.”

“What are you, then?

“Belgian.”

“Well, you don't look Belgian.”

“What do I look like, then?

“You look like you're from Lapland. You just need a reindeer . . . I'm just joking. The truth is, I'm Canadian.”

“I knew it. You have a Québécois accent. But you don't look Canadian.”

Ruby shook her head. Back to square one. It shouldn't have been such a big issue to be asked where she came from. But it was the accumulation of questions over the years that bothered her. It never ended.

When dessert arrived, Jean-Yves nudged her in the ribs and said, “Let's get some fresh air.”

“After I try some of that,” she said, pointing at the plum cake.

Soon they were standing outside in the cool night air.

“Why don't I take you to the building where they press the grapes?” he said.

They walked down a road till they came to a barnlike structure surrounded by a thicket of plane trees. They pushed the door but it was padlocked. Jean-Yves pointed to a row of windows, some of them open. “Let's try to get in that way.” On the grass was a long table with a few chairs scattered around it. They dragged the table under the window and grabbed a twenty-gallon tub from the tractor, which they placed upside down on the table. Jean-Yves climbed up first. He stepped on the tub, which was a little wobbly but seemed strong enough to hold his weight. Ruby stepped quickly onto the tub and then squirmed her way up Jean-Yves's back until she was kneeling on his shoulders. When she was finally able to stand up fully on his shoulders, the tub creaked under their combined weight.

“
Merde
, I don't know if this will work,” said Jean-Yves.

“I'm praying already,” said Ruby. Barely reaching the open window, she grabbed onto the ledge as her legs swayed against the wall.

“Goddammit, my arms aren't strong enough. I can't pull myself up!”

As Jean-Yves shoved her up by her dangling legs, Ruby was able to look in the window. Below her was a room with various sizes of presses and many vats for stomping grapes. Next to them lay a pile of hay.

Ruby managed to swing her legs through the window. The drop looked to be about fifteen feet. But she'd come this far, so she decided to just let go. She crashed down on top of the hay and let out a yelp. Her feet and her head went numb for a moment. She tumbled out of the hay and sat down on the floor. Jean-Yves swung over the ledge and landed with a thud next to her.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so . . . just wrenched out of place.” Ruby was lying on the cold floor, breathing slowly in and out, still shaken from the drop.

“Good,” said Jean-Yves. “Pretty soon it will be dark, so I want to show you this stuff while we can still see it.”

In the middle of the room stood a large press with a metal base and a wooden-and-metal vat attached inside. The vat was lined with sackcloth that stretched out over the edges. A gutter ran around the perimeter.

“The grapes go in here,” Jean-Yves explained. “The
sackcloth keeps out skins and seeds and such. The juice runs through here and comes out in the gutter. Then it gets placed in barrels.”

He turned and ran his hand through Ruby's hair and then tousled it.

Ruby smiled and asked, “Have you ever stomped grapes with your feet?”

“
Bien sûr!
Every year they have a grape-stomping contest here.”