“When Chablis is good, it’s excellent. And this one is fantastic—dry, with a mineral flavor.” Bente tasted again, let the wine roll around in her mouth before she swallowed, then sniffed the bouquet as she swirled the glass. “Some people insist they would never touch Chardonnay, only Chablis. My mother, for example. Although Chablis is made from only Chardonnay grapes,” she explained.
Didrik laughed. “Lovisa says exactly the same. ‘Only Chablis!’” He imitated her voice.
Bente smiled. “It’s a common misconception, and it’s not really surprising. Chablis is the actual place where the wine is produced, and it has that typical minerality, fresh and with elements of citrus, while American Chardonnay is stored in oak barrels, which gives flavors like butter and nuts. Some link the name Chardonnay with those wines.”
He tasted again, noting the freshness and the hint of citrus. “So you didn’t inherit your interest in wine from your mother?”
Bente shook her head. “Mom’s drink of choice is my sister’s Manhattan cocktails, which are revolting. But they love them, for some reason. I have no idea how my sister manages to mix perfectly reasonable ingredients and end up with something that resembles a witch’s brew.”
Didrik grinned. “So where does your interest come from?”
Bente’s expression grew serious, as if she was thinking about something.
“From my father,” she said after a moment.
“Is he a sommelier?”
“No. He was an accountant. He and my mother ran an accounting firm together.”
“Ran?” He felt as if he was having to drag the words out of her. Bente could be so chatty and sociable, asking him questions with interest, but right now it was as if she had completely shut down.
“Yes. He died when I was thirteen.”
“Oh . . . I’m so sorry.”
She managed a small smile. “Thanks. It was tough.” She sipped her wine, turned away, and gazed out across the street.
She couldn’t have given him a clearer signal that the conversation was over.
19
1944
Mathieu now had breakfast with the others. Sometimes he went outside to get a little fresh air before going back in to continue working on the maps. Sven usually went out with him, and they would sit and chat for a while on the stone bench by the house.
Sven told Mathieu what it had been like when he joined the Legion, and when he was sent into battle for the first time. Sven had fought the Germans at Narvik. It had been a weird feeling, he said, to be in the country that bordered his own and to be fighting. He confided that he had helped injured civilians, but then he fell silent. Mathieu understood; he had met so many men who couldn’t talk about the war.
In turn Mathieu told Sven about the vineyard and tried to teach him the basics of wine production. Sven listened with interest.
Mathieu had quickly realized that Sven came from an agricultural family. There was something about those broad shoulders. He saw how efficiently Sven worked when he was helping Hugo. As a soldier he was strong, of course, but the kind of raw strength he displayed when it came to physical work, the strength it took to run a vineyard, could come only from years of hard physical toil. He also had a sure hand in repairing and maintaining the tools and machinery. As for the vines, he worked with incredible care and meticulousness. Mathieu would oftensit and watch him, before raised eyebrows from his mother would send him back indoors.
They had also gotten into the habit of having lunch together, with Sven joining them at the table. A simple snack, then dinner in the evenings. Sometimes Mathieu would sneak out in the afternoons to watch Sven work. He hadn’t seen anything so wonderful for a long time.
Even more wonderful, perhaps, was watching Sven when he talked. When they chatted over dinner, Mathieu would catch himself being utterly captivated by Sven. Those full red lips. The way he spoke broken French, that fantastic accent that made the words strangely sensual.
A week or so after Sven’s arrival, two German soldiers came to the vineyard.
The Nazis showed up at regular intervals to “buy” wine at such insultingly low prices that the whole thing was nothing more than pure theft.
Apart from the wine, the family had little of value left. They had hidden the silver in the cellar, but the linen cloths from Hugo’s parents, the lace cloths that Juliette’s mother had ordered from Paris—the Nazis had taken them all. There was nothing here to interest the Germans except the wine, and they had scheduled the pickup times so they didn’t have to wait around while Hugo searched the wine cellar for the best bottles, so what were they doing here now? They weren’t due for another week.
As soon as they heard the car, Mathieu ran down into the cellar, while Juliette went outside to call Hugo.
When the Nazis came by, Mathieu could always hear every word from his hiding place, because the soldiers spoke loudly. His parents did the same so that he would know if he needed to flee along the secret corridors.
He heard his father speaking German to their visitors. They liked it when he spoke their language. He had learned it when he fought in theFirst World War—the war he had hated, the war that had changed him. That was what he always said, that the war had changed him, which was why he had wanted Mathieu to avoid it for as long as possible. But of course Mathieu had been called up. He hadn’t had time to do much of anything, let alone fight, before the French government capitulated. He had never witnessed those terrible battles, which in hindsight he was very grateful for. He already had too many dreadful thoughts about the fate that must have befallen Gerard.
He loved Gerard.
