“The Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Reims,” said Emma as André pulled up by the vast church. “It is as impressive a Gothic tour de force as the Notre-Dame in Paris, in my view. It even has a similar, massive stained-glass rose window and the lacy stone details common to the style. Lord, I hope they’re able to repair Notre-Dame de Paris as well as they did this one. André, let us out here, if you don’t mind, and we’ll get the wheelchair out of the back. Rosalyn simply must see inside.”
Climbing to the top to see the gargoyles, the winding stone staircase with grooves in the center of the treads from centuries of footsteps, Dash right behind her. Goofing around on the wooden staircase that led to the great bell, imagining the hunchback hanging from the rope. Kissing while overlooking all of Paris, feeling—literally—on top of the world.
The memory brought the familiar pang of loss and regret, but it also made her smile.
“Hard to imagine it was destroyed in the war,” Rosalyn said a while later, as she pushed Emma in the wheelchair down the main aisle of the cathedral. “It looks so whole.”
“It was a wreck,” Emma said. “I’m sure there are photos in the gift shop, but just imagine it without a roof, or anything else made of wood. It all burned.”
Rosalyn studied the ornate ceiling overhead, the intricate woodwork forming the choir loft, and the ornate pipe organ.
“The main structure remained basically intact because it was made of stone,” Emma continued. “But it was just a shell. After the war the Rockefeller Foundation stepped in and contributed a lot of money for it to be refurbished. Don’t know if you noticed, but wedrove by a Carnegie library on our way into town. Rockefeller and Carnegie, two millionaires who used to compete in philanthropy. Those were the days, huh?”
Rosalyn imagined the scene as Emma had described: the molten lead raining down, setting the thresh on fire; the wounded men, the nurses, and the townspeople scrambling for safety. What utter, horrifying mayhem.
“And all these stained-glass windows had to be replaced, of course,” Emma said as they reached the apse in the back, off of which radiated several small chapels. Late-afternoon sunlight spilled through the glass, splashing bright jolts of color onto the gray stone floors. “This group was designed by Marc Chagall, and those are by Imi Knoebel.”
“Beautiful,” Rosalyn murmured, her mind not on the stunning stained glass but on what it must have been like within the cathedral during the bombardment that smashed through the glass.
“Enough with the sepulcher air in here,” said Emma. “It’s sunny out. Let’s go check out the façade.”
They had entered the cathedral from a rear door, so they skirted the building toward the north portal of the west façade of the church.
“More than two thousand sculptures grace this place,” said Emma. “Literallytonsof angels and royalty—I think only Chartres Cathedral has more.”
“And more than a few gargoyles, as well,” said Rosalyn.
“Yes, aren’t they charming? These aren’t nearly as famous as the ones of Notre-Dame de Paris, but then Victor Hugo never wrote a book about this place. Still, they’re pretty cool. Apparently a lot of them fell off during the shelling. The townspeople retrieved them and kept them safe, and then they were remounted after the war.”
“That’s a lot of sculptures, all right,” said Rosalyn, her eyes skipping over the numerous huge figures, almost twice life-sized, set in rows along the façade. They weren’t posed stiffly; on the contrary,some appeared to be chatting among themselves, while others tilted their heads down toward the visitors.
“I take it that’s the famous Smiling Angel of Reims?” Rosalyn asked when her eyes alit on a winged seraph with a full smile on her—or his?—face.
“I find it a tad creepy,” said Emma, gazing at the angel. “But don’t tell anyone; they take their Smile very seriously around here.”
“Well, it’s been through a lot. Hard to keep smiling after your head’s been cut off.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Seems to me that’s the mark of a true stoic.” Emma checked her phone. “Speaking of stoicism, looks like it’s time we headed over to the champagne house. We’re fashionably late. Ready to party?”
“I don’t know about the party,” said Rosalyn, “but I’m more than ready to see those caves for myself.”
?“You go on ahead,” said Emma as they passed through the large reception area ahead of the entrance to the caves. Works of art were scattered throughout, including a giant sculpture of an elephant standing on its trunk. “I’m going to look for a freight elevator. Otherwise, I’ll have to hire some strong folks to help André carry me down those steps.”
“Are you sure?” Rosalyn asked. One hundred sixteen steps sounded daunting enough with two good legs; she couldn’t imagine trusting someone to carry her down them.
“The party’s in the caves,” said Emma. “Therefore, I am going into the caves. Don’t look so worried, Rosalyn! I’ll be fine. I’ll see you down there. Go!”
Rosalyn went, eager to see—and especially tofeel—the caves forherself. The broad stone steps led straight down, the chalk ceiling arched over them. What must it have felt like to descend these steps with the sounds of your city being bombarded in the background?
Blue lights flashed as she descended more than one hundred steps into the belly of the earth. The lights gave the disconcerting sensation of entering a discotheque or an underwater cave, but the stagnant air told another story. The chill set in about halfway down; she pulled her sweater tight.
Cables running along both sides held baskets, which were now simply used as a display, but in the old days this was the way bottles were sent up to the surface.
Rosalyn had read that there were more than eighteen kilometers of caves under the Vranken Pommery house alone, and a total of two hundred fifty tunnels and wine cellars under Reims as a whole. When she looked left and right, noting dim corridors radiating off the main tunnels, it wasn’t hard to believe.
As Emma had predicted, many areas were cordoned off, and greeters stationed regularly along the way shooed tonight’s visitors toward the party. As she walked slowly toward the event, Rosalyn took in everything she could: piles of bottles topped with specially coded placards, and hundreds ofpupitresholding champagne bottles nose down. Modern art installations studded the tunnels: everything from an upside-down bouncy castle to huge mobiles made of reflective glass.
Graffiti had been carved into the chalk walls: dates, names, slogans, drawings. Markings by those who had dwelled in this perpetually cool, damp place.
