The rustle of the drying leaves in the soft breeze.
Turning my face up to the full moon shining above us. Stillwondering if Émile might be looking up at the same moon, somewhere, somehow.
That is what I remember.
I heard a loud pop and saw a boy fall. The sheer terror, the taste of metal in my mouth. In the dim light, I couldn’t tell who it was—Édouard or Charles or little Marcel? I turned to go to him, only then realizing the pops were continuing. Another child fell.
I grabbed Topette’s arm roughly in my panic, and threw her to the ground, covering her with my body, hoping the vines would hide us.
As I lay there, I tried to envision the sniper. Had he once been a sweet red-cheeked boy? Did he have a doting mother and a warm hearth waiting for him in a charming gingerbread-decorated Bavarian hamlet? Did his loved ones fret and pray for his safe return? Did they realize that he lay in wait, exhibiting the patience of a spider, until women and children crawled out of their holes, emerging from their underground refuge in search of grapes, and in that moment, he took aim and fired hot lead into the vulnerable body of a child?
I thought of my precious Narcissa with her rosebud mouth and bright eyes so like her father’s. I thought of my dear Topette, crushing her as I was. I thought of joining my beloved Émile, holding his hand as we ascended the steps, toward the light, toward a world without war.
I wondered if I would forever wander these vineyards, meander through these caves, remain a friendly spirit haunting these beloved lands.
That was all I wondered.
Chapter Fifty
Why Saint Vincent?” Rosalyn asked Jérôme as they made their way to the designated meeting spot for the marchers. Reims had been decorated to the nines, with banners, flags, ribbons, and flower baskets hanging from lampposts and telephone poles. They stopped short as half a dozen excited children dressed in colorful aprons and caps ran by them, screaming and laughing.
“Pardon?” Jérôme asked.
“Why is Saint Vincent the patron saint of wine?”
“No one knows, exactly. His saint’s day coincides with the lunar phase for commencing the new growing season, but the explanation might be even simpler: he has avinin his name, as in ‘wine.’”
Rosalyn nodded, feeling mellow from the champagne she had enjoyed with breakfast. “As good a reason as any, I suppose.”
“The festival is held in a different part of the region each year—last year it was in Épernay. So obviously theRémoisare excited to host this year. It was organized by theArchiconfrérie de Saint Vincent des Vignerons de Champagne.”
“That’s a mouthful. Gaspard is proud of being on the committeethis year. He’s mentioned it a few times. But isn’t that a lot of infrastructure for a regional festival?”
“We French excel at bureaucracy,” said Jérôme. “But it’s not just for the festival, of course. The officials set the standards for pruning, dictate the amount of reserve each vintner must carry, determine how long we can pick, and when.... They do important work for an important industry. You’ll see groups from every town and part of Champagne represented here today.”
In her red skirt and headgear, Rosalyn felt like a woman from another time and place. She thought of Lucie, and wondered where she had been buried; she thought of those thousands of small white crosses sprinkling the landscape in Châlons-en-Champagne. The losses of war were enormous, yet too easy to forget.
But Gaspard was right: Lucie had died over a century ago, and she would have been long gone even if she had lived a full life. Still... What had happened to the baby? Had Émile been reunited with his child?
At long last they found the group from Cochet and the surrounding area, who would be marching together in the parade. Gaspard and several other local growers were there; Michel Bonnet and Dominique and Dani, and Pietro and his wife. Blondine was chatting with several friends her age, and André—who also looked very good in tights—was pushing Emma in her wheelchair. Rosalyn spotted other familiar faces, including those of Gilbert Schreyer and Valérie Trepot, whom she had met at Dominique’s shop the first day it opened after the holidays. That day seemed a lifetime ago, though it had been a matter of only weeks.
“Where’s Laurent?” asked Blondine.
“He’s with my mother,” said Jérôme. “He’ll join us later, when the parade begins. He likes the marching part, but not so much the standing-around-waiting part.”
“A boy after my own heart,” said Emma.
It took another hour to get organized, but at long last, the parade commenced, led by a marching band, with a cohort of costumed dancing children following behind.
Four men from Cochet hoisted up a stretcher carrying a carved wooden figure of Saint Vincent, dressed in humble brown robes and sitting on bunches of grapes, and Laurent ran to join them just as the group from Cochet began to march. Despite Jérôme’s warning that there would be few to witness the parade, the streets and squares were full of hundreds of celebrants. Most of the men wore red capes similar to the women’s, but their caps were black. Some people carried old-fashioned cone-shaped baskets on their backs, reminiscent of the historical photographs of the region, and a few even sported wooden shoes.
Two women filled small plastic glasses with champagne from a massive oak keg, handing them out to the cheering crowd—and to the grateful marchers.
A large tractor rumbled by, towing an old-fashioned woodenpressoirlike the one Rosalyn had seen in Jérôme’s cellar. Another trailed a massive wine bottle—Rosalyn tried in vain to remember the name: Jeroboam? Methuselah? Balthazar? Madame Bolze would have known. Some floats were strewn with flowers and grapes, and topped with kegs of wine, while others featured mounds of bread, old-fashioned beehives, and miniature windmills.
It was raucous, silly, good-natured fun, and as Rosalyn marched alongside Jérôme and Laurent and the others from Cochet, waving and throwing candy to the bystanders, she felt it again: that sense of not-quite-unhappiness. Her smile muscles didn’t even ache.
At last the marchers ended up in the large square in front of the cathedral. As each group arrived, they stopped and sang songs from their region. Rosalyn did her best to sing along, though she had noidea of the words. Finally, they took their seats at one of the long lines of tables set for an elaborate feast.
