Terroir (4 page)

He wondered what kind of business Gaspard had there. He liked to spread his assets, keep on the move. He'd made it back three or four weekends so far. They'd worked together on Saturdays, catching up on progress, even doing some maintenance jobs together. André had kept out of the way beyond that, making his own breakfast and eating at the local bar or
créperie
most nights. It had become a routine. He'd even started to like the guy. He had charm, made himself interested in things. Like he said himself, he was a quick learner and André had enjoyed teaching him about the vines, showing him the new barrels and explaining how they'd been scorched for the wine. He was good with his hands, confident with any machine.

It was Friday and it had been a long week. André decided to work the morning, then take the afternoon off to do some personal stuff. He needed some new clothes and a haircut. He'd ride into town and take a little down time. What Antoine called
me time
. But just before lunch Ghislaine appeared, dressed in cut
-
down jeans, a tee shirt and work boots.

– Changed your mind?

He was cleaning the leaves from a blocked drain at the winery as she came up behind him.

– I got everything done.

– I'm going in to town. Would you like me to cook tonight? I could get some things?

Ghislaine gave out a little spurt of laughter, leaning against the winery wall. Down among the vines Raymond had stopped working and was pretending to clean something from the blade of his hoe. He lit a cigarette and spat.

– So you're not just a mean biker. You're a mean cook?

– I can do most things.

– OK. Surprise me!

It was carelessly said. Thrown back over her shoulder as she turned away and approached Raymond with a bright greeting. He noticed she had a tiny dark birthmark on the back of her right leg, how brown her skin had become where the sun had touched it. He remembered that first formal meeting when she'd worn a dark skirt and cream blouse. She was like another woman, then. Now she seemed to glow, lit by the summer.

At two o'clock he sent Eric and Paul home early. They were touchingly grateful. When he spoke to Raymond he noticed how unmoved his eyes were, chipped from river pebbles.

– I'm going into town for a haircut and a few things. Knock off early. We've done a lot this week and it's too hot.

He pointed down the rows of vines where the weeds they'd pulled were withering in the sun. Raymond was taking a bunch of grapes off a laden vine, the curved knife glittering. He tossed them in the basket beside him, his boot crushing one like a cockroach as it rolled towards him.

– We're wasting a lot of fruit.

– No we're not. It'll make a better wine. Trust me.

– It's not me who has to trust you, it's Hubert.

– Don't worry, we've got back
-
up, we've got Arnault.

Raymond laughed. He took the stub from his mouth to gob a ball of phlegm after the grapes.

– That ponce? Do you think Gaspard'll beat up on that monied bastard if things go wrong?

He chuckled coldly, far
-
off water in a well.

– That's not how it works. Believe me. Watch your back, son, that's all.

The old man patted him on the shoulder, passing in the smell of garlic and sour sweat, grunting as he lugged the half
-
full basket.

André gave a wave to Ghislaine as he turned to go. Her tee shirt had fallen away from her shoulder as she stooped at the vines. Her skin gleamed where she'd put on sun cream. She wore a baseball cap to shade her eyes and worked like a country girl now. You'd think she'd been born to the land and not to … but André realised that he had no idea what she'd been born to. Who she was or where she came from. He knew less about her than he knew about Gaspard. Apart from her touch. He knew that. She'd touched him, lit another mystery. Gaspard had said that hadn't he? About women being mysterious. Like wine. He fetched his gear and fired up the bike. The jacket smelled faintly of perfume.

André got back at five
-
thirty with short hair, a couple of new tee shirts and some groceries. There had been grey strands in with the brown that fell onto the barber's sheet. He'd wandered the town square wondering about flowers, but that had seemed ostentatious, risky. When he got to the kitchen it was deserted, but there was a bunch of blue campanula in a simple glass vase on the table. The Peugeot was parked outside, but the house seemed deserted. He'd bought fillet steak and shallots, broad beans and baby carrots, cous cous and two good bottles of Bergerac, a white and a red. Then some cheese: a blue Fourme d'Ambert, some Epoisses and some fresh Chevre. With wine, cheese was half the story. For starters he'd toss a green salad with olive oil and anchovies. He made the salad first, pouring in the oil from the anchovies as a dressing, prepping the vegetables and dicing carrots to mix with the
cous cous
. He popped out the broad beans into a pan and got the skillet ready. Then he put the white wine in the fridge and went for a shower, washing away the dust and pomade, putting on a clean shirt and jeans.

When André got to the kitchen, he expected Ghislaine to be dressed for dinner, but she was wearing combat trousers and a cotton sweatshirt and carrying the helmet.

– Can we ride first?

It wasn't really a question. Still, he hesitated.

– Please? I need to cool down.

– OK.

He put the salad and steak back in the fridge. There was already a big moon rising over the village when he fired up the bike and she climbed behind, clunking helmets. A flock of jackdaws puffed out from the church steeple like smoke from a censer. Swallows darted over the vines. A dark ribbon of cloud rose at the horizon. André remembered that he'd missed the weather forecast that evening. They rode towards the cloud, feeling the air cool, following the ridge of the valley as it rose from the river. Ghislaine's hands were light around him, tensing as they cornered, relaxing as they pulled clear.

This time he stopped near a forest trail. The bike smelled of hot metal and oil and cow shit that had caked onto the exhaust. He leaned it on the side stand and they laid their helmets down. She unzipped the jacket, smiling, her lips glossy. He wanted to put his mouth to hers, to feel her hands on his neck. She was wearing a perfume he hadn't noticed before. Faint honeysuckle. It reminded him of something. Someone. She shook her hair out, fluffing it with her fingers. They walked the woodland path, past stands of primroses and cowslips where shadows deepened between the trees. They didn't speak. Silence arced between them like stifled lightning. They paused to watch the sunset and his breath was tight in his chest. He saw her swallow awkwardly and tried to meet her eyes, but she was already heading back, walking casually with that neat turn of the hips. They reached the bike, tilted and cooling on its stand as a furtive breeze was whipping at the larch boughs. By the time they were halfway home, drizzle was darkening the road.

André rode carefully. Light rain was always the worst, the most treacherous. It raised a patina of grease on the road without washing it away. He was a fool not to have checked the forecast. It was probably just a summer shower, but the last thing he wanted was rain when the vines needed a few more days of sun. Luckily, the shower was localised and hadn't reached Place de l'autel. When they turned the driveway and approached the house Ghislaine's hands tightened around him. The downstairs windows were brightly lit against the dusk and Gaspard's Mercedes was parked in the driveway. He was sitting on the low garden wall with his legs crossed smoking a cigarette, watching the clouds gather.

André parked the bike with exaggerated care. Ghislaine took off her helmet and handed André the jacket. Then she ran towards Gaspard and kissed him lightly on the cheek, her short hair falling over his face. André's heart was hammering at his throat. He stroked away the goose pimples on his arms.
Shit, shit shit! What a fucking mess!
By the time André had got his helmet off and walked over to where they were sitting, Gaspard was smiling.

– What have you done to Ghislaine? She's put on weight.

André smiled and took his hand. It was sweaty at the palm and the scars on his arms seemed suddenly livid where they'd been stitched.

– Oh, she's been working with the rest of us. Tending the vines.

– Well, it suits her.

Ghislaine laughed, putting her hand on his shoulder and touching her head to his.

– You always wanted a woman who was some use didn't you?

Gaspard said something in reply, but André was only half listening. Gaspard would have seen the food in the kitchen, the wine in the fridge. Not that anything had happened. Had it? Something and nothing, maybe. They'd ridden up with his wife's arms around him. He realised he was being spoken to.

– André's cooking tonight. Will there be enough for three?

– Sure. I'll just clean up and make a start.

She made it sound normal. Easy. It was weird Gaspard hadn't mentioned them riding the bike together. Unless he'd said something to Ghislaine in those first few seconds. André was going to have to tread very carefully from now on.

At the house, he rinsed his hands and face quickly. Ghislaine and Gaspard were still in the garden, seated on the wall, her head resting on his shoulder. André washed the steaks, patting them dry, then fried them with thinly sliced shallots. He'd de
-
glaze the pan with a little wine to make a sauce, then steam the
cous cous
, mixing in butter and steamed baby carrots. He called them to table and they started with salad and bread, following it down with white wine as André updated Gaspard on the harvest. As the evening went on, André gradually started to relax, avoiding Ghislaine's eyes, trying not to see her hand touching against her husband's as they ate and passed things to each other. Like man and wife.

It was a bright morning with a fresh airstream, but no rain. André caught the early forecast on the television. They were in for a few days of high pressure. Gaspard was helping André strip down the tractor engine, changing the oil and filters. He was surprisingly deft. He noticed André watching him.

– I started out as a mechanic. Trained at a Citröen dealership in Lille.

– I'm impressed.

– Don't worry. I like to get my hands dirty.

They knocked off at lunchtime and André took the bike for a long slow ride, following the river towards the coast, studying the other vineyards, the harvest that was ripening everywhere. He imagined Ghislaine on the back, clinging to him, her legs apart, her body warm under his leather jacket. He shook the thought off, focusing on the harvest that could make or break him. So far it was looking good. But he couldn't figure out Gaspard. He couldn't really understand why Raymond had taken such a dislike to him. Instinct? Prejudice or envy, more like. It was no use telling himself they'd done nothing wrong, he and Ghislaine. They'd come so close that the air was thick with it. The road swept away under the bike and that feeling nagged at him. A feeling that wouldn't go away: desire and fear mixed together.

Gaspard left on Sunday afternoon and on Monday he and Ghislaine had breakfast as if nothing had happened. Mealtimes became more formal, as if she was holding something in check. She still came to work in the vineyard, but she spent more time with Raymond or the brothers. There was a subtle avoidance of André's company. It was a relief. It felt as if every day he could put between himself and that last bike ride would wipe away what had nearly happened. Sometimes he thought he saw Raymond watching them with a kind of cynical amusement. Fuck him. It was time to get his head down, to work on the harvest, to pull clear of all that stuff.

By late August the new barrels were delivered and stood ready. By early September the wine press had been serviced and cleaned. They'd sterilise it again before pressing. Gaspard had hired a local man to supervise crushing the grapes, whilst André would keep an eye on the whole operation, moving from the fields to the winery. They had casual labour lined up to pick and load. Raymond would drive the tractor, Gaspard would be on hand as a gofer and Gaultier would drop by once the first fermentation was under way.

By mid October the final growth hung heavy on the vines, carrying its bloom of wild yeast. Mornings began with a pall of mist that burned away under the autumn sun. There'd been a run of clear weather, then three days of showers and distant thunder had made everyone in the valley nervous. Every day André sampled grapes from different points in the vineyard. The sugar content was running at an average of 22 parts. That would yield an alcohol content of about 13%. But sugar wasn't everything. Every day he tasted the grapes too, testing the thickness of the skins against his palate, looking for the appearance of noble rot. On October 28 a run of hot weather was forecast, followed by a weather front from the west. The grapes had begun to take on a slightly wrinkled appearance, like raisins. Now sugar was peaking at 24 parts. Raymond watched André crush grapes in his mouth and spit out the skins.