RUBY RESUMED HER LIFE WITH WERNER IN BERLIN with a cheerful forbearance. But she still couldn’t get a work visa, and she wanted to move on from her cleaning jobs.
“You know what we have to do, don’t you?” said Werner.
“Yeah, but I’m not sure how I feel about it. Getting married, I mean.”
“Listen, I’m not jumping up and down about this either, but if you want to get a decent job, we’ll have to do it. We can both work for a few years and then I’d be able to go to Canada with you.”
“That’s what you’re thinking of doing? Going to Canada?”
“I’ve always wanted to go there, you know that,” said Werner.
“But I’m just beginning to like it here. I’ve found my groove—aside from work, that is.”
“That’s just the point, Ruby—you need to find a better job. And you can’t do that unless we get married.”
“What else would change? I don’t know much about your laws here.”
“You’d have to change your name,” said Werner. “Or hyphenate it.”
“Never. I will not change my name. I’m not your chattel, Werner. And besides, I like my family and their name. It means a lot to me.”
“Who knows, maybe they’d make an exception.”
“They’ll have to. I’ll argue that since I’m a Canadian, Canadian law should be considered. I absolutely refuse to change my name.”
“Okay, Ruby. Just give it some thought.”
After a week of hemming and hawing, Ruby agreed to tie the knot on the conditions that she could spend the end of summer picking grapes in France with her friend Emma, and that she be allowed to keep the name Edwards.
Emma was her closest friend, whom she’d met in her German classes. She was a little on the wild side, but Ruby loved her. She was a great conversationalist and had a fine sense of humour, and Ruby knew that they would have a lot of fun travelling together. As a francophile and someone who loved to cook, Ruby was ecstatic about the trip. The rain had been unrelenting so far that summer in Berlin. She was determined to find a change of climate, and with it, perhaps, some peace of mind.
Neither she nor Werner thought of marriage as sacred. It was a practical way to further their plans. So instead of thinking about her upcoming wedding, over the next few weeks Ruby busied herself with gathering things for her trip and packing up her knapsack. Werner hovered around her all the while. Although he wouldn’t say it, he was unhappy.
“It’s harder than I thought, to let you go off without me,” he said to her. “I’m afraid you’ll get involved with other men. You know I haven’t had sex with anyone else since we’ve been together.”
Despite his early statements that he wanted his freedom, the issue had never arisen. But she was hoping that would change while she was in France, if only to give her a little breathing room in the relationship. Still, she tried to reassure him.
“Werner, I’m coming back, I promise. We’re getting married, remember? I have to come back!”
“I’m just worried about what kind of trouble you’ll get into while you’re there.”
“No trouble at all, just lots of fun and exercise,” said Ruby.
“Do you love me?”
“Yes, I do,” said Ruby. “Of course I love you.”
Werner stood looking at her, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, think about this relationship of ours some more while you’re away,” he said before walking away.
Emma slept over the night before they left, and both of them were brimming with excitement when they took the subway and the bus at dawn down past Grunewald towards the highway and check point. They planned to hitchhike to France to save money. They figured they could make it to Alsace in ten hours and then to Burgundy in another three or four hours. Ruby was carrying a can of mace. They agreed, somewhat naively, that the safest rides would be with truckers; because the drivers were working, the girls assumed that they were somewhat less likely to commit a crime.
They got their first ride after an hour with an old man in a beat-up Benz. He asked them a lot of questions about where they were going and poked fun at their German. He was heading for Frankfurt. That would take them close to Alsace, a few hours from Strasbourg. He dropped them off at a rest station outside Frankfurt, and there, Emma flagged down a couple in a red Audi with French licence plates who agreed to take them to the border. When they hit the autobahn, Ruby lay her head down on Emma’s lap, she was so afraid of the speed and the lane-swerving. She almost threw up when they got out at the border, still a ways north of Strasbourg. Pretty soon after that they caught a lift with a truck driver. The going would be slower, but Ruby was happier. From Alsace to Burgundy, low-lying, densely forested hills grazed the sky as the river Oise flowed alongside, and relief bubbled up now that she was in France. Here she was escaping Werner, her surrogate father. No one would tell her what to do every day, and she would be able to speak and hear her mother’s language once again.
After arriving in Mâcon in the early evening, they stood in line with a motley assortment of people seeking fruit-picking jobs. One African fellow didn’t have all his papers, and the official at the desk began yelling at him. Then a tall man around forty years old, with straggly red hair and beard, stepped out of the line. His sly grin revealed several missing front teeth.
“Mais qu’est ce que vous faites? Vous devez avoir honte de traiter les gens comme ça!”
When several others echoed the tall man, saying the official should be ashamed of treating people like that, the official shrugged and simply asked the African to come back the next day with all his papers. The redhead remained boisterous in the line, complaining constantly about the wait to his much quieter companion, a brown-skinned, black-haired teenager wearing a David Crosby–type fringed suede jacket. It seemed so seventies and out of place in this new era.
When Ruby and Emma turned in their papers, they were told that there was a potential job for them if they returned the next day. They were handed tickets to use at a campground half an hour away by foot. As they stood mulling their options, the tall redhead began speaking to Emma, also a redhead, in broken English.
“Ladies, I ask you, where are you from?”
“Canada . . . England,” was their joint response.
“Well, well. Pleased to meet you. I am Jean-Claude and this”—he gestured to his friend—“is Willie. May we take you to the campground in our car?”
Ruby wasn’t sure about these two characters, but Emma jumped at the chance. As the foursome walked over to the road, Ruby recoiled when she saw a bright red sports car with a sprawling naked woman spray-painted in silver across the hood. The side and rear windows were covered in foil.
“Emma, no, we can’t go anywhere in that!”
Emma replied rather testily, “We’re just getting a ride. Nothing’s going to happen.”
Ruby climbed reluctantly into the back seat with the teenager. In the front, Jean-Claude and Emma hit it off instantly, nattering endlessly, while Willie and Ruby did not speak a word. At the campsite, they pitched their tents and shared some fruit and cheese, sausage and bread. Jean-Claude and Willie supplied a few bottles of red wine and brandy. Willie loosened up enough to tell Ruby that his father was an indigenous Peruvian and that his mother was French. Ruby told him about her own mixed background, but she still felt strangely awkward.
Things worsened as the night wore on. Emma and Jean-Claude were all over each other, while Willie cast longing looks at Ruby. She felt sorry for him, but not enough to invite him into her tent. He was only eighteen and looked sixteen—too young for her. Willie eventually retreated to sleep in the red car, where he was less likely to hear the grunts and squeals emanating from the tent where the redheads were busy.
The next day, Jean-Claude and Willie left for town, promising to look for work for the four of them. Ruby wasn’t too sure about letting these guys—one loud and obnoxious, the other quiet and unassuming—take charge of their working future in France. But Emma was game, reasoning that being French, they knew the ropes. Hours later, they were back: they had secured a job on a pear farm about thirty kilometres down the road.
The next morning, hung over, Ruby was still feeling uncomfortable about riding in the car. Jean-Claude sped through Mâcon, running red lights and almost running down several pedestrians. Ruby yelled at him to slow down. But he just laughed. “If you’re anarchist, this is the only way to drive.”
Ruby could have told him that her lover was also an anarchist but would never drive so recklessly, but she knew it would fall on deaf ears. The car careened through the streets of the town and eventually onto country roads, the high speed reducing Ruby to a huddled ball in the back seat. She hated the smile on Emma’s face.
Willie only talked when Jean-Claude addressed him directly. Then he would babble about how his father had led his people into rebellion in Peru many years ago and how he too possessed the ability to rouse people to revolt. Jean-Claude talked about his experiences in the 1968 student uprisings in Paris and how he hoped to repeat a similar situation, this time enlisting workers from across the country.
How different they sounded from Werner. He was an intellectual who lived through his books, his days of fighting in the streets a thing of the past. He had wanted to change the world; however, he had told her that he gave it up when he realized that it had become more about the excitement than about the cause. Now he was only involved in his books, studying German language and history. She tried to picture Werner dressed in black, from balaclava to boots, setting barricades on fire. What a different person that would have been!
Arriving at the farm, Ruby gazed over a vast expanse of woods and fields; at the top of a ridge, she could see row after row of pear trees. They were immediately approached by a man who introduced himself as Monsieur Ranier. Short, pudgy and balding, he perched his sunglasses atop his shiny head as he looked over the group.
“I hope you all know that this is hard work. You’ll get a break for lunch at one and then work until dinner at six. Pitch your tents and then come back ready to work.”
They found a beautiful little lake surrounded by trees and rocks and a little sandy tract of beach. Just above the beach was flat ground where they pitched their tents.
“This is heaven,” said Ruby. “I can swim!”
Heading back up the hill, they found Ranier waiting for them with the others. Ranier hooted when he found out that Ruby was Canadian.
“You are a cousin of ours, after all.”
Ranier teased her about her slightly Québécois accent. From then on, everybody referred to her as “La Canadienne.”
Ranier sent Emma, Jean-Claude and Willie off to the pear trees to start picking. Then he said to Ruby, “Eh, la Canadienne! Venez ici.” And, you, the Canadian! Come over here.
Ruby was told to drive a tractor that held dozens of wooden flats of pears. “Mais, vous vous moquez de moi. Je n’en sais rien,” Ruby said. You must be joking. I don’t know how to do that.
“Ça ne fais rien. Venez avec moi.” Doesn’t matter. Come with me.
Ruby said, “But I don’t even know how to drive a stick shift.”
As Ranier continued to insist, Ruby thought he was trying to humiliate her. They walked up a long row of pear trees. The tractor at the top of the hill seemed like some mythical beast. Ranier made her climb onto the shiny red tractor and told her she was to back it slowly down the row, stopping every few metres so that more flats could be loaded. Each flat was about a metre square and would be filled with rows of barely ripe pears. Ruby was terrified. What if all the pears fell off? She fumbled nervously with her feet, trying to figure out the clutch. Finally she decided to shift into first gear without it and see what would happen. The gears screeched and groaned as they tried to find their place. As she heard the flats shifting behind her, she started shaking.
“Mais arrêtez donc,” Ranier urged, telling her to be more careful. “Tout va tomber. Vous foutez la transmission. Lentement, lentement!”
Ruby finally managed to move the machine backwards with a bit of a lurch, not enough to make the fruit fall off. But how was she going to keep this up? The tractor stopped with a shudder, and two guys grabbed the flats that the pickers had filled with fat, ruddy pears and stacked them on top of the others on the tractor. Ruby felt her heart in her mouth each time the tractor stopped, afraid of losing the precious cargo. But as the hours passed, she learned to move her feet in sync and felt less shaky. The tractor’s transmission had been spared.
By the lunch break Ruby was famished. She washed up and found her way back to the farmhouse dining room, where there was a long table with many chairs. Soon she was joined by Emma, Jean-Claude, Willie and another young man of stocky build with wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes. Ruby thought he was cute. She caught his eye and said bonjour. Introducing himself as Jean-Pierre, he smiled and sat down directly across from her. Ruby sighed and thought: Not another hyphenated Jean!
Slowly people took their places around the table, a dozen in all. The room buzzed with conversation. In the middle of the table was a platter of peppery veal loin chops with mushroom sauce, another large plate chock full of roasted potatoes, and several dishes of green bean and tomato salad. Ruby’s mouth was watering and she dug in, chatting through the meal with those around her. Then, from the other end of the table, an elderly man called out to Ruby, “Eh, vous, la Canadienne! Contez-nous une histoire de votre pays, une histoire de Québec.” Canadian! Tell us a story of your country, a story of Quebec.
Ruby was caught off guard. She had no real stories to tell about her country and felt ashamed, as if she’d let her family, especially her father, down. Her father and her sister were consummate storytellers, but that gift hadn’t been passed down to her. She was habitually shy about speaking in public.
Everyone started to call out to her. “Oui! Oui! Contez-nous une histoire!” Yes, yes! Tell us a story!
Ruby finally decided to tell them about her idyllic summers spent in Trois-Pistoles, Quebec, where she had learned French.
When she was finished, Jean-Pierre said, “I hear that you handle a tractor pretty well.”
Ruby blushed. “I tried my best.”
The farmer’s wife put down several warm pear tarts on the table, with lattice crusts and what looked like an apricot glaze. Ruby was stuffed, but she knew she couldn’t leave without trying dessert.
As she and Emma prepared to leave, Jean-Pierre said, “After dinner I’ll show you around the farm.”
“Sounds good.”
Emma snickered. “Good. It’s about time you were getting some.”
Back in the fields, the sun blazed high above the surrounding hills. Leaving the tractor to someone else for the afternoon, Ruby joined the others in gathering fruit. Picking pears was simple enough: strap on a flat with a wide, beltlike contraption that hung over the shoulders, scale a stepladder and snap the barely ripe fruit from the branch.
They climbed up and down the ladders and moved up the rows. The trees looked beautiful, covered with small gifts of sweetness. Though Emma was working in the same row, she was too far away to carry on a conversation. When they loaded their flats onto the back of the tractor, they usually saw Willie and Jean-Claude working the other side of the row. Jean-Claude was often grumbling something about “the fascists and their work ethic” and then smacking Emma on the bum.
At dinner that evening, Ruby took her place next to Emma. Then suddenly Jean-Pierre sat down on her other side. Willie and Jean-Claude sat on the opposite side of the table. Jean-Claude shouted out loud for everyone to hear, “Watch out. You’re not likely to get much out of her. My boy Willie has tried already. Don’t waste your time.”
Ruby wanted to kick him in the groin, but he was too far away. Jean-Pierre smiled but kept silent. Willie’s smooth face contorted with anger and embarrassment.
After they had all finished their main courses, a man named Jacques stood up and announced that he had some songs to sing and would love some company. He singled out Ruby, who blushed and demurred, claiming her voice had rusted over the years. Jacques began to sing with great fervour, moving from person to person around the table, addressing each one with a song. To Emma he sang, “You are the bright English redhead that loves French men, but who will leave them far behind.” To Ruby he crooned, “To the Canadian who doesn’t look Canadian, come from afar to steal our men.”
Soon a wondrous array of cheeses spread across wooden platters arrived at the table, accompanied by samplings of the farm’s own poire Williams spirit. The singers calmed down long enough to eat again, but when the drinking began, voices lifted into the air once more, this time in unison, and Ruby felt confident enough to join in.
“I never knew you could sing,” Emma whispered. “Your voice is so sweet and pretty.”
“Oh, I love to sing to myself, but to others not so much,” said Ruby.
She mulled over her meagre repertory of French-Canadian songs. She recalled an Acadian song by Zachary Richard, “L’Arbre est dans ses Feuilles,” that was easy to sing. She gulped down her wine, hoping to calm her nerves. As she opened her mouth, the first sounds were squeaky and engulfed by a cloud of breath. She closed her eyes to focus on her breathing. Then her voice opened up and she felt the warmth of other voices joining in. As she signalled everyone to repeat the verses, her quaking subsided and her voice flowed out strongly in the company of others. Her face flushed and a feeling of elation washed over her.
After dinner, Jean-Pierre slipped his hand on Ruby’s shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s go for a walk,” he said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. “You’re very sweet, you know. But I detect a little mischief behind all that sweetness. Anyone who can sing a song like that—so goofy, but loads of fun.”
Ruby laughed. “Yeah, that’s true. I take after my father. A part of me likes to do really silly things.”
Suddenly she kissed him on the lips. They lingered for a few moments, tasting each other’s mouths. Then Ruby broke away and looked at him. “You don’t have a girlfriend?”
Jean-Pierre hesitated, and then confessed he did. But she was away for the summer and this was just for fun, he said.
Ruby nodded and said, “Same here.”
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
“In Germany.”
“What? Do you live there? Is he German? I don’t like Germans—never have. Nobody here does. Not since the war.”
They wandered down towards the tents. Ruby said, “Well, it’s true it’s not always easy living there, but they’re not all bad. There are lots of interesting young people, and the scene is politically charged.”
“I don’t care much about politics. It’s all lies anyway.”
“What about Vichy?” Ruby countered. “The French collaborated with the Germans right here. That’s part of your history, too.”
“Yes, it’s true, it was a shameful thing.”
Ruby took his hand and led him down to the water. Jean-Pierre cupped her face in his hands and kissed her cheeks and forehead.
“You are very beautiful.”
Ruby blushed and stirred a little, uncomfortable with the flattery.
“So, ma chère, why don’t we go for a swim?”
It was a warm, quiet night and Ruby was still aching from the day’s work. “Are we going to strip right here?” she asked.
“Where else? Come on, what have you got to lose?”
They stripped down quickly, and Ruby ran into the water. They splashed playfully at each other, laughing, held each other’s heads under the water, swam around each other, kicking up sprays of water. They kissed and fondled and licked while the water lapped at their skin. They decided to race each other across the lake. Ruby was a strong swimmer, but she preferred to swim on her back. She closed her eyes and let the rhythmic arcing of her arms and the kicking of her feet propel her smoothly forward as the water coursed over her naked body. She beat Jean- Pierre effortlessly.
“You were just lucky,” he sighed.
They stepped out of the water, grabbed their clothes and made a dash for the tent. They dove inside, rolling around to dry off and then tumbled on top of each other. Willie slept in the car once more.
When Ruby woke the next morning, Jean-Pierre was gone. She felt a mild pang of guilt at her infidelity to Werner. But it was he who had insisted that their relationship be an open one. And because she hadn’t taken advantage of that possibility before, she was determined to do it now, before she was officially married.
One Sunday about a week later, Ruby had an afternoon off and decided to venture into the kitchen and talk to the chef, Bruno. She was hoping to get in on some cooking action. Bruno was a tall, blustery man with a very big heart. He often stopped to chat with her when he saw her in the dining room. He immediately agreed to let her help.
“We’re making onion tarts and tomato salad for tonight. You can help slice the onions for now. Make sure they’re nice and thin. You’ll find the knives over there.” Bruno busied himself getting out cast-iron frying pans and tart forms. Then he rummaged on the shelves for the flour. Ruby peeled and sliced away and soon tears ran gloriously down her face as she cut the onions and made mounds of slices on the wooden board. Her sleeves were wet from wiping away her tears. Bruno instructed her to use butter and oil in the frying pans. He said they would let the onions cook for about an hour. Ruby hummed to herself while the onions sizzled lightly on the stovetop.
Meanwhile, Bruno was preparing the pastry. “I will make four large pies,” he said. “We will have tomato salad, a green salad and plenty of bread to go along with it all,” he continued. “Come watch while I do the fraisage.” Ruby had read about the art of blending butter and flour in her Larousse Gastronomique at home. She loved making pastry and was thrilled to watch Bruno in action as he tossed bits of chilled butter with the flour, always lifting them in the air as his fingers moved quickly to break them down.
“Here, Ruby, why don’t you try? The pastry needs air—just use a constant motion of lifting as you lightly squish the bits with your fingertips.”
Ruby put her hands into the large stainless steel bowl and started in. She couldn’t believe she was actually working in a kitchen in France. It wasn’t long before her hands tired of the repetitive motion, but she kept going, lost in her thoughts.
“Ruby! Stop dreaming. You must be quick and not overwork the dough and let it get too warm.” Ruby watched, impressed, as Bruno took over again and added a dollop of Dijon mustard to the mix. “It’s all about flavours,” he said. “Next we will brown some flour to mix into the onions. Find the caraway seeds in that corner there with the spices and then grab the mortar and pestle and grind some up for me. Toast them first.”
Ruby toasted the seeds in a small pan, fanning their scent into the air to breathe in. Then she crushed them and put them aside. Bruno put the pastry aside in the fridge to rest and then came to the stove, where he placed three tablespoons of flour in the pan Ruby had just used. “You have to be careful not to let this burn. We just want it light brown and nutty in flavour.” Bruno kept careful watch over the flour, which was on medium heat and was ready in five minutes. Then he divided the caraway seeds and the flour between the three pans of sweet caramelized onions.
Half an hour later they took the dough out of the fridge. Sighing with pleasure, Ruby dusted the work table with flour. She flattened the dough with the heel of her hand and then took the rolling pin to it, gently moving the dough in a clockwise fashion. She loved the feel of the rolling pin as it barely slid across the surface of the dough, lifting at the edges, stretching it just a little more each time. She slipped it into the tart pan, crimped the edges, pricked the pastry and brushed it with egg white. Bruno cooed, “You do this very well. You’ve had practice, I see.” Then Ruby repeated the steps, till all four tart pans were filled. Bruno slipped the onions into the pastry shells. Then he whisked up some crème fraîche, eggs and Gruyère and poured it over the onions, topping off each tart with more Gruyère. He slid them into the oven. “Voilà! There’s dinner. Now let’s get those salads done.” The two of them went out to the garden to get lettuce and tomatoes. Few things made Ruby happier than cooking with friends, and when the friends were French, it was perfection indeed.
One evening after supper, about a week later, as Ruby and Emma were wandering back to the tents, they passed by Jean-Claude, who was arguing fiercely with Ranier. The deal was that the workers were to be paid every two weeks, but Jean-Claude said he needed an advance to take care of some business.
“That’s the deal!” Ranier shouted. “No work, no money.”
Jean-Claude shot back, “No! No money, no work!” Then he gave Ranier a shove.
“That’s it. Tomorrow morning you must be gone. You want your money, you will get it now.”
Ruby was pissed. Jean-Claude’s behaviour tainted them all. If he left, they would all have to leave. She snarled at Emma, “Do something about him. He’s nothing but trouble.”
Emma shook her head and said, “Listen, you do what you want, but I’m with him for now.”
Ruby felt deflated. If she wanted to get away from Jean-Claude, it would mean leaving Emma behind, and she’d have to look for another place to work on her own. Emma put her arm around Ruby’s shoulder. “Ruby, you should stay with us. You’ll see, it’ll be fine. I know he’s a bit of an arse, but we’ll find more work.”
“I’m not as sure about that as you are, but I’ll stick it out with you. I’m not ready to go home yet.”
“Not ready to be married, perhaps? Are you stalling for time?”
“I don’t think so, but I have to admit that I am uneasy about getting married. It’s just not something that I ever wanted to do. And Werner isn’t always easy to be with. On the other hand, I care for him, and I can’t stay in Germany unless I marry him.”
“And you don’t think he’ll mind you fooling around with other guys while you’re here?”
“Come on, Emma.”
“I want you to have a good time. I’m just wondering how you’re feeling about it. If you’re really comfortable.”
“I am, pretty much. I do think of Werner and feel a little guilty, but not enough to stop me. Anyhow, he always said he was open to this kind of thing.”
Ruby scouted around for Jean-Pierre to say goodbye. He was very hesitant about talking to her and it turned out that his girlfriend had arrived for a few days. He was embarrassed and distant, and Ruby knew that all she would have was a fond memory of their late-night skinny-dip.
The next morning, the foursome drove north to Champagne, in search of new work. In the back seat of the crazy red car, Ruby fell silent, wondering how she was going to survive with Jean-Claude at the wheel.
The red car wound its way northeast over several hours and endless rolling hills until they reached the town of Épernay, where they quickly found work at a vineyard just outside of town. With no place to pitch their tents, they had to sleep in the dormitories. Because there were no other women, Ruby and Emma were assigned separate quarters from the men. The fields were densely planted with rows of grapevines with yellowing leaves. The manager, Monsieur Tellier, a short, lean man wearing a bright red cap, paid particular attention to Ruby and Emma, as it was their first time picking grapes. They were each given clippers and a bucket, and Tellier supervised them for the first half-hour.
“Be careful when you’re reaching deep into the vines,” he warned, “as you may clip the hand of the person working on the other side. If you see any rotting grapes, leave the cluster behind. They will be collected for making vinegar later on. When your bucket is full, put it under the vines and a gatherer will come around to pick it up.”
Ruby found the work strenuous. A few minutes after she’d placed her full bucket under the vines to be picked up, another one was tossed down the row. Gatherers came along with twenty-gallon tubs strapped on their backs into which they emptied the grapes from the buckets. From there they would take the full tubs to a tractor waiting at the end of a group of rows. The tractor had its own vats placed on the back, and the gatherers would empty their tubs into the vats. From there they were hauled down to the pressing station. After an hour’s work, Ruby’s back started to ache, so she tried stretching for a minute.
At lunch back at the dining room, Ruby watched a beefy guy practically bury his face in his plate, gulping down mouthfuls at a time, then chasing them back with swallows of wine. When he came up for air, the man said loudly, “Who has the crazy red car in the lot?”
“That would be me,” answered Jean-Claude.
“You might want to get a new paint job.”
“I don’t take kindly to people telling me what I should or shouldn’t do.”
“People don’t want to look at that naked woman. It’s offensive. It doesn’t belong on a car.”
“Aw, shut up and leave me alone. I’m busy driving all these foreigners around the country. I don’t need this shit.”
Willie quietly interjected, “I’m French, Jean-Claude.”
“Now don’t be silly. I’m not trying to put you down.”
None of the other men responded to the “foreigners” crack, but Ruby noticed that some were eyeing Willie and her with suspicion.
“Have any of you ever picked grapes before?”
“Many times,” said Willie.
“So the others are all virgins?”
“That may be,” Ruby piped in, “but we know how to work hard.”
“Why all the questions?” asked Jean-Claude. “You’ll see that we pull our weight.”
Ruby moved away from the table. She had eaten too quickly and wasn’t feeling well. A young man in a knitted cap who had been sitting on her right stepped out of the shadows in the hallway and joined her with a pleasant hello.
“Comment tu t’appelles?” asked Ruby. He said his name was Jean-Yves. Ruby choked on her breath.
“Are you okay? Is my name funny?”
“No, it’s just that you’re the third Jean-something-or-other that I’ve met on this trip.”
Jean-Yves smiled into her dark brown eyes. “Can I join you outside?”
“Sure. Why not?”
In the evening air, they lit up cigarettes and stared up into the night sky.
“I can tell from your accent that you must be Canadian. But you don’t look like a Canadian.”
“Tell me, in your opinion, what does a Canadian look like?”
“Well, they don’t have frizzy black hair and light brown skin.”
“Oh yeah? The first Canadians were all brown-skinned.”
“What do you mean?”
“The indigenous people were the first on the North American continent and they are brown.”
“Maybe you’re right, but that’s not what I meant.”
“Well, I’m just telling you that I am definitely Canadian and I’m not white. Look.” Ruby grabbed his hand and held it up against hers. The difference in colour looked clear to her. When she let go of his hand, a big smile spread over his face.
“Any time you want to go for a walk, let me know,” he said.
“How about tomorrow?”
He agreed and bid her goodnight.
When Ruby entered the little dorm room, Emma was stretched out on a bed, thumbing through a magazine.
“How are you?” Ruby asked.
“A little tired and a little bummed. I’m missing the pear farm.”
“Aha! I knew it.”
“You don’t have to gloat about it.”
“I didn’t mean to gloat. I miss it, too.”
“And Jean-Pierre, I guess.”
“Yeah, he was nice. But I didn’t know him long enough to really miss him. And there’s a guy here now who’s really cute.”
“You don’t waste any time.”
“Well, that’s easy for you to say. You’ve got someone lined up for the duration of the trip.”
“Speaking of that, what’s with you and Willie?”
“He’s sweet, Emma, just way too young for me. I mean, what is he, sixteen?”
“He says he’s eighteen.”
“And you believe him? That’s a stretch. Anyway, I’m way older.”
“Oh come on. He’s so lonely . . .”
“God, why don’t you do him, if you’re so concerned? I’d spend an evening talking to him, but he doesn’t talk. Get up, let’s go for a smoke,” she said.
Outside they were joined by Jean-Claude and Willie. Jean-Claude wanted to plan a strategy for the next day, but Ruby didn’t want to hear about it. Perhaps if it had been another person, she would have listened, for she came from a family that supported workers’ rights and unions. But she resented Jean-Claude for taking Emma away from her, for his dangerous driving and his pseudo-anarchism. She didn’t really know what anarchism was, except that Werner had tried to thrust it down her throat. But Werner’s anarchism was all intellectual—reading books or going to movies. In practice, he pissed on ecologists and Germany’s green-loving alternatives, insisting that she not associate with the “tree huggers” living in their building.
Ruby finished her cigarette and returned upstairs to the dorm. She lay down and pulled out Germaine Greer’s The Female Eunuch. It had been her bible in her last year at university and she had brought it to Berlin with her. She had read only a page or two when she looked up to see Willie standing in the doorway.
“Will you go for a walk with me?”
“Sure—what’s up?”
Willie suddenly dragged her up off the bed, grabbed her shoulders to pull her into him and kissed her. As Ruby struggled free, his lips brushed across her cheek. She pushed him gently away, shaking her head.
“Willie, usually you ask for permission before you kiss someone.”
“I just wanted to taste your lips. I know you think I’m too young, but I’m not.”
“‘Taste my lips’? Are you kidding? What have you been reading? Willie, you’re a nice guy, but I’m just not interested.”
“Okay, forget it. This is a waste of time.”
“Anytime you want to talk, Willie, let me know.”
“Aw, just forget it.”
Ruby sighed and went back to her book. Emma came into the room and closed the door.
“What the hell did you say to Willie?”
“I just said no. I’m just not interested. Can’t you get that through your head?”
“For chrissake, he’s crying. You must have done something.”
“He tried to kiss me and I pushed him away. Now will you please back off?”
“You’re a stubborn wench. For the life of me, I don’t get you. We came here to have fun.”
“Listen, Emma, I don’t like Jean-Claude, but you can have him. I’m not interested in Willie, but I’m having fun with other guys, okay? Isn’t that good enough?”
“Stop going on about me and Jean-Claude like it’s the end of the world. You know it’s just a fling. We both have other lives in Berlin.”
“You got that right.”
“Okay, okay. I just hope you figure something out with this new guy you’ve got on the go.”
Ruby turned on her side, the book still in front of her, and closed her eyes. The next morning, both women woke up to aches and pains they’d never imagined.
“How are we gonna get through the day like this?”
“I dunno. We’ll drink a lot at lunch and see if that kills the pain.”
They got their wishes early. After two and a half hours in the fields, Tellier told everyone to assemble at the end of a row. The sun was high in the sky and though clouds were drifting by, it was another beautiful day. The tractor stood at the bottom of the row, set up with pâtés, cheeses and baguettes for all. There was a bottle of crème de cassis and a couple of bottles of Champagne so that everyone could imbibe.
Jean-Yves came over to Ruby and said, “We got a date tonight?”
“Yup, we do.”
“So, I’ll see you after dinner, then?”
“Okay.”
Ruby enjoyed the taste of the sweet fizziness in her mouth as she sipped at her kir royale. The Champagne and cassis mingled nicely on her tongue. But she didn’t for a moment think it would numb the pain she was feeling all over.
Ruby and Emma resumed working on the other side of the row, with Willie and Jean-Claude behind them.
“You look beautiful in the morning light,” Jean-Claude cried out to Emma.
“Why, thank you, kind sir. I’ll take a compliment from you any day.”
Ruby thought she would throw up. But she stayed quiet and listened as she picked.
“Your eyes are sparkling, your lips are glistening . . .”
“Aw goddammit, would you quit it,” interrupted Ruby. “Save it for tonight when you’re alone.”
“You have no appreciation for love in the light of day,” Emma retorted. “No one has touched your loins recently—your engine’s getting rusty.”
“Oh, please,” Ruby flared. “Have some respect for the people around you.”
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport.”
Ruby fell silent and concentrated on picking. She liked looking at the triangular clusters of grapes and feeling their weight in her hands, imagining them being squished in a press to turn out a bottle of wine like the one they had just drunk.
The day passed away and the pickers drifted into the dining room, stiff and sore. The table was laden with vegetable salads and a selection of quiches. The men gathered around the table, Jean-Yves sandwiching himself in between Ruby and Emma. Dinners here were much more sombre than at the pear farm—no Jacques to liven everyone up.
Someone across the table called out to Ruby, “Where are you from?”
Ruby sighed. Ah, the never-ending question. She looked up to face her questioner, a plump, ruddy-faced man who looked a little rough around the edges. “Mogadishu.”
“Where on earth is that?”
“Somalia.”
“You don’t look African.”
“Well, you don’t look French.”
“I’m not.”
“What are you, then?
“Belgian.”
“Well, you don’t look Belgian.”
“What do I look like, then?
“You look like you’re from Lapland. You just need a reindeer . . . I’m just joking. The truth is, I’m Canadian.”
“I knew it. You have a Québécois accent. But you don’t look Canadian.”
Ruby shook her head. Back to square one. It shouldn’t have been such a big issue to be asked where she came from. But it was the accumulation of questions over the years that bothered her. It never ended.
When dessert arrived, Jean-Yves nudged her in the ribs and said, “Let’s get some fresh air.”
“After I try some of that,” she said, pointing at the plum cake.
Soon they were standing outside in the cool night air.
“Why don’t I take you to the building where they press the grapes?” he said.
They walked down a road till they came to a barnlike structure surrounded by a thicket of plane trees. They pushed the door but it was padlocked. Jean-Yves pointed to a row of windows, some of them open. “Let’s try to get in that way.” On the grass was a long table with a few chairs scattered around it. They dragged the table under the window and grabbed a twenty-gallon tub from the tractor, which they placed upside down on the table. Jean-Yves climbed up first. He stepped on the tub, which was a little wobbly but seemed strong enough to hold his weight. Ruby stepped quickly onto the tub and then squirmed her way up Jean-Yves’s back until she was kneeling on his shoulders. When she was finally able to stand up fully on his shoulders, the tub creaked under their combined weight.
“Merde, I don’t know if this will work,” said Jean-Yves.
“I’m praying already,” said Ruby. Barely reaching the open window, she grabbed onto the ledge as her legs swayed against the wall.
“Goddammit, my arms aren’t strong enough. I can’t pull myself up!”
As Jean-Yves shoved her up by her dangling legs, Ruby was able to look in the window. Below her was a room with various sizes of presses and many vats for stomping grapes. Next to them lay a pile of hay.
Ruby managed to swing her legs through the window. The drop looked to be about fifteen feet. But she’d come this far, so she decided to just let go. She crashed down on top of the hay and let out a yelp. Her feet and her head went numb for a moment. She tumbled out of the hay and sat down on the floor. Jean-Yves swung over the ledge and landed with a thud next to her.
“Are you okay?”
“I think so . . . just wrenched out of place.” Ruby was lying on the cold floor, breathing slowly in and out, still shaken from the drop.
“Good,” said Jean-Yves. “Pretty soon it will be dark, so I want to show you this stuff while we can still see it.”
In the middle of the room stood a large press with a metal base and a wooden-and-metal vat attached inside. The vat was lined with sackcloth that stretched out over the edges. A gutter ran around the perimeter.
“The grapes go in here,” Jean-Yves explained. “The sackcloth keeps out skins and seeds and such. The juice runs through here and comes out in the gutter. Then it gets placed in barrels.”
He turned and ran his hand through Ruby’s hair and then tousled it.
Ruby smiled and asked, “Have you ever stomped grapes with your feet?”
“Bien sûr! Every year they have a grape-stomping contest here.”
“Why not put on a contest of our own?”
“You have to take off your sandals.”
“What else?”
Jean-Yves looked at her to see if she was serious. “Whatever else you want.”
“Mmm . . . why not everything?”
Jean-Yves reached in to kiss her lips and then murmured, “Okay, let’s do it.”
They lifted grapes from the vats into the basin until it was half-full. Ruby stood back and grinned. “Okay, you first.”
“No way. Ladies first.”
“Ah, but I am not a lady. Take your shoes and socks off. I command you.”
As Jean-Yves bent over to unlace his runners, Ruby smacked him hard on the bum. Then she continued, “Now take off your pants.”
He was about to protest, but he stopped as he saw the look of glee on her face. “Glad to oblige, glad to oblige.”
As she bent over to take off her sandals, Jean-Yves, standing in his underwear and shirt, tried to nuzzle his face into her breasts, but Ruby said, “Work before play,” and dropping her clothes, jumped into the vat. Jean-Yves followed, stripping as he went. They stomped and flailed their arms around and jumped up and down on the grapes like little kids. Every so often they crouched to lick off the juices that had sprayed up onto each other’s legs. Ruby took a handful of grapes and popped them in her mouth and then kissed Jean-Yves again, using her tongue to swish the broken bits of grapes into his mouth.
“Mmm, sweet . . . just like you.”
She grabbed his hand and they hopped out of the vat onto the cold floor. Again they embraced and then moved slowly towards a table that was pushed up against a wall. Jean-Yves backed Ruby up against the table. He sucked on her breasts and then let his hand slide over her stomach and then her crotch.
Suddenly the door flew open and the lights came on.
“Ruby!” exclaimed Emma.
“What the hell are you doing here?” demanded Tellier.
“Jeez, I thought you would have figured that out already,” Ruby answered.
“We’ve been looking all over for you two,” said Tellier. “Go get dressed.”
Ruby turned away and fumbled for her clothes, taking a moment to shoot daggers at Emma.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “I was worried that something had happened to you. What did you expect me to do?”
“Couldn’t you have waited till morning?”
“It’s after eleven. We’re supposed to be in our dorms by ten. I figured even if you had been screwing around you would have been back long ago. I had to work on Tellier to get him to look for you guys.”
“I’m surprised that you’d get so worked up over it. I’m not a teenager!”
Jean-Yves came up behind Ruby and wrapped his arms around her waist. He whispered into her ear, “Don’t worry, we will make up for it.”
“Yeah, we better.”
When they stepped outside, Tellier said, “Come see me before breakfast,” and walked away. When Ruby, Emma and Jean-Yves arrived at the dorm, they saw several men, including Willie, milling around, smoking. Jean-Claude smirked at them as they walked by.
“You bastard!” Willie yelled at Jean-Yves, punching his fists into the air.
Jean-Yves shook his head and smiled. “Get it through your head, kid—she doesn’t want you.”
Ruby shushed him, as she didn’t want any more fuss, but it was too late. Willie threw himself on top of Jean-Yves, knocking him to the ground. Willie was small but wiry and he held Jean-Yves in place while he tried to pummel him. Jean-Claude watched with glee, but two other men ran over and pulled them apart. Jean-Yves got up, dusted off his pants and walked over to where Willie was being pinned against a wall.
“Maudits étrangers,” he spat. “Ça pue des étrangers.”
Ruby yelled, “Don’t you dare say that it stinks of foreigners—I’m the only damn foreigner around here! Willie’s French, for chrissake!”
“He’s not really French. Just look at him.”
“What about me? I have brown skin, too.”
“You’re a woman. It’s different. Women are meant to be exotic.”
“Wow. I can’t believe you said that! You can forget about us getting together again, Jean-Yves. I’m not some precious doll to be toyed with.”
Emma pulled Ruby aside. “Let it go. He’s not worth it.”
They walked up the stairs to their room and sat down on Emma’s bunk bed. Ruby leaned her head against Emma’s shoulder and sighed. They held each other in silence for a while.
“Oh, what have I gotten myself into?” Ruby said. “And what am I going to do about Werner? It’s not so easy to think of facing him, and yet . . .”
“You said it yourself, Ruby—he laid down the rules. So don’t feel guilty about having fun. This is like one extended bridal shower for you. Sorry if I messed things up tonight.”
“You’re forgiven. Especially since he turned out to be a racist pig.”
The next morning, Ruby and Jean-Yves met Tellier in his office, expecting to be fired.
“You two trespassed on my property last night and ruined some very good grapes in the process,” he said gravely.
“Maybe you can still use them,” said Ruby.
“Silence! The loss of those grapes will come off your pay. Jean-Yves, you’ve been here many times. You should know that building is off limits.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“But nothing! I’ll have no more of this. I would have been liable if you had hurt yourselves. I can’t keep you from fraternizing with each other, but do your funny business outside from now on.”
Ruby got up and left before Jean-Yves could say a word. In the dining hall, Emma had saved her a chair. As she sat down, she felt like crying. All eyes were on her, and low voices murmured in tones of judgment.
“What?” yelled Emma. “None of you lot have ever been shagged before?”
Ruby looked down at the chocolate croissant and fruit on her plate. She picked up the croissant and pulled away from the table without a word. Back upstairs, she lay down on her bed and thought of going back to Berlin. She didn’t really want to return to her relationship with Werner, but she wasn’t ready to leave it either. In Germany she had work, friends, a lover—it was her home for now. France had provided a welcome diversion, and she would be sorry to leave, but Berlin was still her base.
She buried herself in the work for the rest of the day. Her back didn’t ache as much anymore and she was picking as fast as anyone else on the team. The next day it drizzled constantly and the slopes grew hopelessly muddy and slippery, spoiling the communal mood. Ruby wasn’t talking to Jean-Yves, who appeared sullen and restless.
As she walked, tired and wet, through the dining room at lunch, someone hissed, “Whore!”
“That’s it!” she bellowed. “I’ve had it with you assholes! Just who do you think you are? Let me be, and go back to picking your noses.”
She turned to Emma and said, “This is the end of the line for me. Are you staying on, or what?”
Ruby expected her to say she wasn’t through having fun with Jean-Claude. But to her surprise, Emma agreed. By evening they were packed and ready to head off to Reims. From there they would catch a train to Paris and then carry on to Berlin. Emma lingered for a long time saying goodbye to Jean-Claude, their two red heads pressing together like kissing grapes. He drove them to Reims. When they got out at the station, Ruby took one last look at the crazy red car and smiled ruefully. As they walked away, Willie yelled from the back seat, “You’ll never know what you missed!”
That’s truer than you know, she thought. Every time you make a choice you turn your back on other opportunities. I only hope I’m making the right one.