Cafe Babanussa (9 page)

Ruby was caught off guard. She had no real stories to tell about her country and felt ashamed, as if she'd let her family, especially her father, down. Her father and her sister were consummate storytellers, but that gift hadn't been passed down to her. She was habitually shy about speaking in public.

Everyone started to call out to her.
“Oui! Oui! Contez-nous une histoire!” Yes, yes! Tell us a story!

Ruby finally decided to tell them about her idyllic summers spent in Trois-Pistoles, Quebec, where she had learned French.

When she was finished, Jean-Pierre said, “I hear that you handle a tractor pretty well.”

Ruby blushed. “I tried my best.”

The farmer's wife put down several warm pear tarts on the table, with lattice crusts and what looked like an apricot glaze. Ruby was stuffed, but she knew she couldn't leave without trying dessert.

As she and Emma prepared to leave, Jean-Pierre said, “After dinner I'll show you around the farm.”

“Sounds good.”

Emma snickered. “Good. It's about time you were getting some.”

Back in the fields, the sun blazed high above the surrounding hills. Leaving the tractor to someone else for the afternoon, Ruby joined the others in gathering fruit. Picking pears was simple enough: strap on a flat with a wide, beltlike contraption that hung over the shoulders, scale a stepladder and snap the barely ripe fruit from the branch.

They climbed up and down the ladders and moved up the rows. The trees looked beautiful, covered with small gifts of sweetness. Though Emma was working in the same row, she was too far away to carry on a conversation. When they loaded their flats onto the back of the tractor, they usually saw Willie and Jean-Claude working the other side of the row. Jean-Claude was often grumbling something about “the fascists and their work ethic” and then smacking Emma on the bum.

At dinner that evening, Ruby took her place next to Emma. Then suddenly Jean-Pierre sat down on her other side.
Willie and Jean-Claude sat on the opposite side of the table. Jean-Claude shouted out loud for everyone to hear, “Watch out. You're not likely to get much out of her. My boy Willie has tried already. Don't waste your time.”

Ruby wanted to kick him in the groin, but he was too far away. Jean-Pierre smiled but kept silent. Willie's smooth face contorted with anger and embarrassment.

After they had all finished their main courses, a man named Jacques stood up and announced that he had some songs to sing and would love some company. He singled out Ruby, who blushed and demurred, claiming her voice had rusted over the years. Jacques began to sing with great fervour, moving from person to person around the table, addressing each one with a song. To Emma he sang, “You are the bright English redhead that loves French men, but who will leave them far behind.” To Ruby he crooned, “To the Canadian who doesn't look Canadian, come from afar to steal our men.”

Soon a wondrous array of cheeses spread across wooden platters arrived at the table, accompanied by samplings of the farm's own poire Williams spirit. The singers calmed down long enough to eat again, but when the drinking began, voices lifted into the air once more, this time in unison, and Ruby felt confident enough to join in.

“I never knew you could sing,” Emma whispered. “Your voice is so sweet and pretty.”

“Oh, I love to sing to myself, but to others not so much,” said Ruby.

She mulled over her meagre repertory of French-Canadian songs. She recalled an Acadian song by Zachary Richard, “L'Arbre est dans ses Feuilles,” that was easy to sing. She gulped down her wine, hoping to calm her nerves. As she opened her mouth, the first sounds were squeaky and engulfed by a cloud of breath. She closed her eyes to focus on her breathing. Then her voice opened up and she felt the warmth of other voices joining in. As she signalled everyone to repeat the verses, her quaking subsided and her voice flowed out strongly in the company of others. Her face flushed and a feeling of elation washed over her.

After dinner, Jean-Pierre slipped his hand on Ruby's shoulder. “C'mon. Let's go for a walk,” he said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. “You're very sweet, you know. But I detect a little mischief behind all that sweetness. Anyone who can sing a song like that—so goofy, but loads of fun.”

Ruby laughed. “Yeah, that's true. I take after my father. A part of me likes to do really silly things.”

Suddenly she kissed him on the lips. They lingered for a few moments, tasting each other's mouths. Then Ruby broke away and looked at him. “You don't have a girlfriend?”

Jean-Pierre hesitated, and then confessed he did. But she was away for the summer and this was just for fun, he said.

Ruby nodded and said, “Same here.”

“Where's your boyfriend?”

“In Germany.”

“What? Do you live there? Is he German? I don't like Germans—never have. Nobody here does. Not since the war.”

They wandered down towards the tents. Ruby said, “Well, it's true it's not always easy living there, but they're not all bad. There are lots of interesting young people, and the scene is politically charged.”

“I don't care much about politics. It's all lies anyway.”

“What about Vichy?” Ruby countered. “The French collaborated with the Germans right here. That's part of your history, too.”

“Yes, it's true, it was a shameful thing.”

Ruby took his hand and led him down to the water. Jean-Pierre cupped her face in his hands and kissed her cheeks and forehead.

“You are very beautiful.”

Ruby blushed and stirred a little, uncomfortable with the flattery.

“So,
ma chère
, why don't we go for a swim?”

It was a warm, quiet night and Ruby was still aching from the day's work. “Are we going to strip right here?” she asked.

“Where else? Come on, what have you got to lose?”

They stripped down quickly, and Ruby ran into the water. They splashed playfully at each other, laughing, held each other's heads under the water, swam around each other, kicking up sprays of water. They kissed and fondled and licked while the water lapped at their skin. They decided to race each other across the lake. Ruby was a strong swimmer, but she preferred to swim on her back. She closed her eyes and let the rhythmic arcing of her arms and the kicking of her feet propel
her smoothly forward as the water coursed over her naked body. She beat Jean- Pierre effortlessly.

“You were just lucky,” he sighed.

They stepped out of the water, grabbed their clothes and made a dash for the tent. They dove inside, rolling around to dry off and then tumbled on top of each other. Willie slept in the car once more.

When Ruby woke the next morning, Jean-Pierre was gone. She felt a mild pang of guilt at her infidelity to Werner. But it was he who had insisted that their relationship be an open one. And because she hadn't taken advantage of that possibility before, she was determined to do it now, before she was officially married.

One Sunday about a week later, Ruby had an afternoon off and decided to venture into the kitchen and talk to the chef, Bruno. She was hoping to get in on some cooking action. Bruno was a tall, blustery man with a very big heart. He often stopped to chat with her when he saw her in the dining room. He immediately agreed to let her help.

“We're making onion tarts and tomato salad for tonight. You can help slice the onions for now. Make sure they're nice and thin. You'll find the knives over there.” Bruno busied himself getting out cast-iron frying pans and tart forms. Then he rummaged on the shelves for the flour. Ruby peeled and sliced away and soon tears ran gloriously down her face as
she cut the onions and made mounds of slices on the wooden board. Her sleeves were wet from wiping away her tears. Bruno instructed her to use butter and oil in the frying pans. He said they would let the onions cook for about an hour. Ruby hummed to herself while the onions sizzled lightly on the stovetop.

Meanwhile, Bruno was preparing the pastry. “I will make four large pies,” he said. “We will have tomato salad, a green salad and plenty of bread to go along with it all,” he continued. “Come watch while I do the
fraisage
.” Ruby had read about the art of blending butter and flour in her
Larousse Gastronomique
at home. She loved making pastry and was thrilled to watch Bruno in action as he tossed bits of chilled butter with the flour, always lifting them in the air as his fingers moved quickly to break them down.

“Here, Ruby, why don't you try? The pastry needs air—just use a constant motion of lifting as you lightly squish the bits with your fingertips.”

Ruby put her hands into the large stainless steel bowl and started in. She couldn't believe she was actually working in a kitchen in France. It wasn't long before her hands tired of the repetitive motion, but she kept going, lost in her thoughts.

“Ruby! Stop dreaming. You must be quick and not overwork the dough and let it get too warm.” Ruby watched, impressed, as Bruno took over again and added a dollop of Dijon mustard to the mix. “It's all about flavours,” he said. “Next we will brown some flour to mix into the onions. Find the caraway seeds in that corner there with the spices and then
grab the mortar and pestle and grind some up for me. Toast them first.”

Ruby toasted the seeds in a small pan, fanning their scent into the air to breathe in. Then she crushed them and put them aside. Bruno put the pastry aside in the fridge to rest and then came to the stove, where he placed three tablespoons of flour in the pan Ruby had just used. “You have to be careful not to let this burn. We just want it light brown and nutty in flavour.” Bruno kept careful watch over the flour, which was on medium heat and was ready in five minutes. Then he divided the caraway seeds and the flour between the three pans of sweet caramelized onions.

Half an hour later they took the dough out of the fridge. Sighing with pleasure, Ruby dusted the work table with flour. She flattened the dough with the heel of her hand and then took the rolling pin to it, gently moving the dough in a clockwise fashion. She loved the feel of the rolling pin as it barely slid across the surface of the dough, lifting at the edges, stretching it just a little more each time. She slipped it into the tart pan, crimped the edges, pricked the pastry and brushed it with egg white. Bruno cooed, “You do this very well. You've had practice, I see.” Then Ruby repeated the steps, till all four tart pans were filled. Bruno slipped the onions into the pastry shells. Then he whisked up some crème fraîche, eggs and Gruyère and poured it over the onions, topping off each tart with more Gruyère. He slid them into the oven. “Voilà! There's dinner. Now let's get those salads done.” The two of them went out to the garden to get lettuce and tomatoes. Few things made
Ruby happier than cooking with friends, and when the friends were French, it was perfection indeed.

One evening after supper, about a week later, as Ruby and Emma were wandering back to the tents, they passed by Jean-Claude, who was arguing fiercely with Ranier. The deal was that the workers were to be paid every two weeks, but Jean-Claude said he needed an advance to take care of some business.

“That's the deal!” Ranier shouted. “No work, no money.”

Jean-Claude shot back, “No! No money, no work!” Then he gave Ranier a shove.

“That's it. Tomorrow morning you must be gone. You want your money, you will get it now.”

Ruby was pissed. Jean-Claude's behaviour tainted them all. If he left, they would all have to leave. She snarled at Emma, “Do something about him. He's nothing but trouble.”

Emma shook her head and said, “Listen, you do what you want, but I'm with him for now.”

Ruby felt deflated. If she wanted to get away from Jean-Claude, it would mean leaving Emma behind, and she'd have to look for another place to work on her own. Emma put her arm around Ruby's shoulder. “Ruby, you should stay with us. You'll see, it'll be fine. I know he's a bit of an arse, but we'll find more work.”

“I'm not as sure about that as you are, but I'll stick it out with you. I'm not ready to go home yet.”

“Not ready to be married, perhaps? Are you stalling for time?”

“I don't think so, but I have to admit that I
am
uneasy about getting married. It's just not something that I ever wanted to do. And Werner isn't always easy to be with. On the other hand, I care for him, and I can't stay in Germany unless I marry him.”

“And you don't think he'll mind you fooling around with other guys while you're here?”

“Come on, Emma.”

“I want you to have a good time. I'm just wondering how you're feeling about it. If you're really comfortable.”

“I am, pretty much. I do think of Werner and feel a little guilty, but not enough to stop me. Anyhow, he always said he was open to this kind of thing.”

Ruby scouted around for Jean-Pierre to say goodbye. He was very hesitant about talking to her and it turned out that his girlfriend had arrived for a few days. He was embarrassed and distant, and Ruby knew that all she would have was a fond memory of their late-night skinny-dip.

The next morning, the foursome drove north to Champagne, in search of new work. In the back seat of the crazy red car, Ruby fell silent, wondering how she was going to survive with Jean-Claude at the wheel.

The red car wound its way northeast over several hours and endless rolling hills until they reached the town of Épernay, where they quickly found work at a vineyard just outside of town. With no place to pitch their tents, they had to
sleep in the dormitories. Because there were no other women, Ruby and Emma were assigned separate quarters from the men. The fields were densely planted with rows of grapevines with yellowing leaves. The manager, Monsieur Tellier, a short, lean man wearing a bright red cap, paid particular attention to Ruby and Emma, as it was their first time picking grapes. They were each given clippers and a bucket, and Tellier supervised them for the first half-hour.