Épernay
IT TOOK OVER TWO HOURS to reach the Chambières’ hamlet – a cluster of damp farmhouses slung low in the battle-weary flatlands east of Paris. I wore my headphones for the rest of the trip, feeling my father’s resentment metastasising as the miles ticked by. He jabbed the radio buttons for a while, and then focused his irritation on the road ahead. He drove fast, drawing up behind slower cars, tailing them at close range, and then leaning on his horn as we passed, muttering obscenities. The motorway cut through a landscape of bleached-out fields buffered by low grey clouds, the horizon a faint line in the disappearing flatness. As we drove east towards the wine region, the sky darkened, and the pale fields gave way to a rolling patchwork of vines whose gnarled limbs bore deep green leaves and bright yellow clusters of fruit.
By the time we drove through the tall stone pillars of the Chambières’ driveway, there was a light drizzle and barely enough air to breathe. As soon as the car stopped, I pushed my feet back into my shoes and leaped out. My father sat for a while, unrolling his shirtsleeves and staring ahead as if gathering strength for the visit.
He took a wheelie bag from the boot, and together we crunched down the gravel path towards the farmhouses. His trousers were creased, his shirt stretched tight across his gut, the damp fabric clinging to his armpits like remnants of the irritation he couldn’t shake.
It was not yet dark, but lanterns illuminated a path flanked by stone boulders engraved with a family crest and fleurs-de-lis. My father told me years before that Paul Chambière had bought the hamlet from a debt-ridden seller in the eighties, so I already knew this display of a noble pedigree was a complete hoax. My father had laughed as he explained that even though the Chambières no longer spoke to the relatives who owned the neighbouring chateau, they were proud the estate was held by the same family and boasted about their ‘line’ as though they descended from the aristocracy.
A tall woman stood smoking under the awning of a small farmhouse. Mme. Chambière wore a loose white shirt, tight skirt, and a thin beige cardigan. Her legs were tanned and smooth above shiny heels. The drizzle had made no impact on her hair and it hung in stiff caramel waves. Apparently, she’d been a model once, and she still held herself as if she expected everyone to be watching, but the years and the fags had had their effect. Like many of my father’s female friends, she’d tried to rectify the damage with some kind of facelift, but it hadn’t worked, and her skin was stretched tight over her face like the canvas of a faded painting.
I hung back a bit and stared at my trainers. This approach usually got me ignored, but I sensed her looking at me. I thought perhaps my fly was gaping open, so I checked my crotch then met her gaze. My father greeted her with lingering kisses to each cheek, said something stupid about how lovely she smelled, and then stepped aside for me to do the same. I just stood there, not heeding his cue.
Just be polite.
‘Bonsoir, Alex,’ she said, smiling, then rattled on in French. Almost as tall as Tomas. He’s fifteen too. You’re in the same year, no?
She took a drag, peering at me down the length of her powdery nose. Her son, Tomas, had skipped a year on account of his genius and was top of the class and captain of the ice hockey team. He was on his way to a good university, no doubt about it. Maybe even Harvard on account of the ice hockey.
‘Alex is sixteen, Céline.’ My father glanced over as if willing me a few inches taller.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Your mother was also petite,’ she said, her smile tightening. Most people have a way of speaking about divorced couples as though one of them were dead. It’s usually accidental, but Céline’s remark was perfectly aimed. Her cigarette lingered near her mouth, pinched between beige nails and when she spoke her thin, down-turned lips gaped open and closed like a fish.
I looked around. Their place was in the middle of nowhere. I doubted they even had Wi-Fi.
‘Is Tomas here?’ my father asked.
‘No, the boys stayed in Paris this weekend. They wanted to have a soirée, so we thought, why not let them have fun since they did so well in their exams.’ Then she turned to me and winked. ‘Mind you, I’m a bit worried about it. Do you know anything about this party, Alex?’
I shrugged, relieved to have it confirmed that at least Tomas wasn’t there. I’d heard rumours about the party, but Tomas and his brother would never invite me, and she knew it.
And the wink. It was OK to wink at young children but after a certain age winking across the generations was too familiar, almost obscene.
Céline exhaled theatrically as if releasing the anxiety of leaving her teenage sons home alone. She dropped the cigarette and ground it into the gravel with the toe of her shoe.
‘Let’s not stand in the rain, come inside.’
She led us into the farmhouse, its deep-set windows edged by dull green shutters, heavy curtains framing the fading daylight. We walked through the small entrance hall, passing a room off to the left where a highly polished table was set for dinner under a low-beamed ceiling, a fire looming in the grate at the far end. The house was full of ornate furniture and lavish upholstery – a showy contrast to the humble exterior. We filed through a side door into a dismal courtyard, ducking our heads as we went. Outside, there was a crumbling pool filled with murky water and next to it, three chairs and an iron table with a large, flooded ashtray. A group of shabby outbuildings hunkered just beyond the courtyard.
Céline looked towards the dilapidated buildings as if surveying a vast estate.
‘Our main guest cottage has a leak in the roof, so I’ve put you in one of the barns.’
She walked quickly over the wet gravel towards a small stone cowshed. We followed, my father trailing the wheelie bag, which refused to roll. Instead, it operated like a plough, pulling gravel into a mound. He dragged it for a while, and then gave in and picked it up.
She spoke over her shoulder as she walked. ‘We don’t use the barn much these days as it has no heating, but it’s not too cold yet, so you should be fine. There’s a bathroom next door. Paul keeps his cars in the other buildings.’
She opened the door and a damp gust wafted up from the darkness, bringing with it the reek of mildew and engine oil.
‘Thanks, Céline. I’m sure it will be perfect.’ My father stooped to peer into the gloom.
She turned to me as I got out my phone. ‘No Wi-Fi out here, I’m afraid.’
I knew it. What kind of people don’t have Wi-Fi?
She followed my father into the shed and I listened by the doorway as she spoke quickly in French, saying something about the spoilt plans for the evening, firing questions at him, and then they started whispering. I walked to the pool, the crunch of my footsteps echoing around the courtyard.
When they emerged from the building, my father looked uneasy. Céline kept her eyes fixed forward, ignoring me as she strutted past.
Inside the barn was like a fridge. Limewash coated the thick walls, and there was just enough space to walk around two narrow beds. Cobwebs hung in the corners, and a dusty bulb on a rickety wooden table cast a dim, cold light, making the shadows move.
My father sat on a bed and bounced softly, checking the springs. ‘At least it’s stopped raining.’
Old beams crossed the low ceilings, leaving dirty yellow stains at either end. I reached up to touch one.
‘Careful,’ he said.
I withdrew my hand. A patina of tiny black specks covered each beam.
‘Fly shit,’ he said, as we stared at the ceiling. ‘This was where they kept the animals. And that’s the petrified excrement of the flies that buzzed over them.’
He turned his gaze on me, taking in my T-shirt and faded jeans.
‘Why don’t you change into . . .?’ he started up in his usual, bossy tone and then stopped, his voice trailing off as if even he’d become tired of the role. I sat on the bed next to him, exhausted by the trip and everything he expected of me.
He looked at me as though he had something else to say, then sighed, squeezed my shoulder and smiled. ‘It’s just one night. Come on, let’s go and find a drink.’