Spoils of the Game (9 page)

“Feathers,” said Madeline with a laugh.

“This is a lovely hotel,” said Austin. “Does your sister know how old it is?”

After a brief discussion in French, Madeline replied, “About four hundred years old.”

“We just don’t have this type of history back where I came from,” replied Austin.

Within a minute or so, it was back in the car and on to Paulette’s house, just around the corner. Paulette’s two boys surrounded the car with excitement. Madeline was well known to the children, but they looked with curiosity at the strange man in the back seat. The older boy approached the car on crutches as his brother pushed his nose against the car’s window. Austin exited the car and shook hands with both boys. Again French words surrounded him, and he felt a little embarrassed and slightly humbled. In a few minutes the excitement subsided, and Austin was exposed to a modern French family. Paulette and her husband owned a small shop in the village and had tripled their business in the past few months by clever marketing. Paulette’s husband, who as a boy had helped with the grape harvest, was now a wine broker who had expanded his markets with contacts around the world. Lunch was waiting on the back porch, and several bottles of wine were on a cloth-covered table. The afternoon was warm, and so were his hosts. Paulette’s husband, Louis Pashea, spoke very good English and took the responsibility for translation so that Austin could follow the discussion.

Life was simple in Saint-Abban. It was an improbable blend of the sixteenth century and modern times. Lunch was wonderful and included homemade soup and bread with fresh salad and wine. A chocolate mousse finished the meal—and Austin as well, who was ready for a nap.

“Austin, let’s go down to the vineyard, and I will teach you about growing grapes,” said Louis.

The offer was instantly accepted. As Austin learned, modern wine production was not left to chance. Machinery and the use of chemicals provided high yields, but the weather still had to cooperate, and grape growers had to be on guard for the first sign of mold or insect infestation.

Austin looked over the many acres of grapes grown in carefully established rows. “How do you pick all of these grapes without some being unripe and others being overripe?” asked Austin.

“It can be difficult. and at picking time, it is madness. But this valley has been in the grape-picking business for hundreds of years, and we have learned to get it done. This is a very serious business for the people of this area. The people who pick grapes know what to look for and which vines are ready and which are not.”

Austin and his host walked through the field, and Louis pointed out the soil and an area where leaf blight had affected a small number of vines. A drip irrigation system provided water along with liquid fertilizer on days when the rain did not arrive, and at the edge of the field Austin noted special machinery necessary to gather up the harvest. Before him were rows of vines as far as he could see. It was clear that this was a big business that required a big investment. At the edge of the field was a large building where the actual winemaking process took place. Although old oak barrels were still used, stainless steel was now the norm.

“Mr. Clay, I must confess to a little secret. For hundreds of years, we French made wine from what God provided. The sugars and chemistry were out of our control, and some years we made excellent wine, and some years the wine was poor. The average winemaker did not understand the chemistry. For most of our fine wine we identify the superior grapes and let God have his way. For commercial or table wines, we can identify weakness in the juice and perhaps address these weaknesses before we place the juice into the large tanks you see over there. So if God was sleeping when the juice was in the grape, we can help him out.”

“There is something peaceful about a vineyard,” said Austin as they walked back into the sun. “Maybe someday when I get tired of the medical hardware business, I will buy a vineyard.”

“Let me know when that day arrives,” said Louis. “I would like to broker the deal, and there are some excellent properties on the market.”

Paulette and Madeline had walked down to the vineyard, and they found Austin holding a handful of soil.

“Are you going to become a grape grower?” said Madeline with a laugh.

“Maybe,” said Austin with a smile that suggested that it was a possibility.

“Austin, let me pull you away and give you a small tour of Saint-Abban,” said Madeline, extending her hand.

Paulette and her husband walked back to their home while Madeline led Austin to the oldest part of the village. At the highest point on the hill on one side of the town square was the church that gave the town its name. It was a small church that had stood at this site for centuries. The original oak doors were weather-beaten, but the handmade nails that held the doors of God’s house together were still on the job. Over the door was a stained-glass window. By Parisian standards the church was small and primitive, but for many years it had been the center of life for the people of Saint-Abban.

Madeline pushed on the door, and it opened slowly. Madeline and Austin entered the dark church, which was lit only by sunlight streaming from the stained-glass window over the altar. Two of the women from the village had just finished arranging flowers on the altar and were leaving with their watering cans. Madeline bowed before the altar briefly and then showed Austin a seat near the rear of the church. For a few minutes they both sat in silence. They were now alone in the church, and Austin was impressed by the quiet and peace within the structure. The couple had sat for ten or fifteen minutes, when Madeline asked Austin a question.

“Austin, do you believe in God?”

It was a simple question, but Austin was caught off guard. He liked to be precise in his answers, and a simple yes just did not seem like an appropriate reply.

“I believe in God, but I have my own definition of who and what he is. Do you believe in God?”

“I would like to, more than I think I do. My faith was strong when I was young. When my mother died a slow and very tragic death with cancer, I wondered how God could let that happen. When my fiancé died, I was mad at God. I felt that he was not protecting me and the people I loved. I even questioned whether he existed. As I have gotten older, I think I have a different perspective, and I am more content. I have not been fair with God, and perhaps I feel a little guilty.”

Austin appreciated Madeline’s honesty. “Madeline, I was raised in the Bible Belt in North Carolina, and officially I am a Baptist. The older I get, the more I tend to think that man has drifted from what God or Christ intended. My relationship with God is one-on-one. I am a weak or lazy Christian, but I have no doubt that he knows me and that we will have to settle accounts when I die. I try to be a good person, but I could be better. The more my company learns about the workings of the human body, the more I understand that it was not by chance that we are built the way we are.”

Austin studied the stonework of the aged building and understood that every stone had been hand-cut and fitted without the benefit of power equipment; the stained-glass windows had been designed and assembled by true artisans with skills that would be hard to find today.

Austin and Madeline continued to sit in the quiet for another few minutes, and then Madeline looked at her watch and suggested they go. She led Austin over the ancient stone floor toward the altar. Austin noted several paintings on the walls of the church and stopped to study both the paintings and their condition. The paintings were hanging high on the walls, and it was difficult to see the artwork. Age, poor lighting, and soot had hidden much of the images.

“Madeline, what can you tell me about the art in this church?” asked Austin.

She looked up at the paintings, which had been in the church her whole life. “I must admit that I don’t know much about them,” she said. “I suspect that the church office might know more, but they are closed, and I don’t think they open until Wednesday.”

For a few seconds both sat quietly looking up at the artwork. To Austin they were prime examples of the problem, and to Madeline they were a source of a little embarrassment. She was employed by the biggest art museum in the world, and she did not know about the art in her own church.

They left through a side door that opened into the church graveyard. Madeline walked down one of the pathways slowly, with Austin a few steps behind. It was clear that Madeline was going to a location that she knew, which Austin soon learned were the graves of her parents. Madeline looked down at the gravestones and said a little prayer. She turned and looked at Austin with a tear in her eye. “I miss them.”

Madeline wiped her eyes. Austin put his arm around Madeline’s shoulder and walked her out the iron gate that guarded the cemetery.

In front of the church, in the middle of the square, was a monument topped with a bronze angel with open arms. The angel stood guard over the names carved into the sides of the white marble obelisk. On the front, the side facing the church, were the words
AUX LES ENFANTS DE SAINT-ABBAN QUI SONT MORTS POUR LA FRANCE
, 1914–1918. On the other three sides were the names of over forty young Frenchmen that died in the First World War. Austin studied the names. There was Joseph Carrere, Emile Lafforgue, and Armand Martin. Somehow, seeing the names made the deaths that almost destroyed a generation seem more real. As he walked around the tall white structure to where Madeline was standing, he saw three names that surprised him.

“Oh, my … were these men related to you?” he asked.

Chiseled into the marble were the names Samuel, Maurice, and Ernest Rousseau.

“There were four Rousseau brothers, ranging in age from eighteen to twenty-five,” said Madeline. “My great-grandfather Paul was the youngest, and all four went to war. Somewhere are the graves of Samuel and Ernest. Maurice returned blind and with severe lung problems from mustard gas. He died a few weeks later. My great-grandfather Paul Rousseau was wounded, but he returned in 1918 after a month in a hospital. All of these men, along with the British and the Americans, saved France. I heard stories about Paul when I was young. It was said that he felt guilty his whole life about living when his brothers had died. The whole story of the brothers and the war is very sad. So many died for France.”

At Paulette’s there was excited discussion of the plans for the reception the following day. The entire community would be involved in this gathering for a priest who had served it well for many years. Father Gladieux was born a few miles from the village and grew up picking grapes as a boy. He returned to Saint-Abban after seminary and spent sixty years serving God in the local parish. He had conducted almost every marriage, had baptized every child, and had buried a graveyard full of the town’s population, all while asking little for himself. Now, with failing health, he was being forced into retirement. With a smile on his face, he would tell people that it was God’s will and that his condition was only a temporary.

Paulette was on the reception committee and was quick to give her sister a job serving food at the reception. It was unclear to Austin what his job might be, but he enjoyed the chance to be part of the event. Hopefully he would be paired with Louis so that he would not embarrass himself.

As the dinner dishes were being cleared, the plans were complete, and Louis opened several bottles of wine from his special stock. The sun had just set on this summer evening, and sharing wine with Madeline, Paulette, and Louis seemed like a perfect end to the day.

It was about midnight when Austin wondered if he could stand up. Louis insisted that it was a crime to open a bottle and not finish it, but Austin was now officially drunk, and bravely he declared that he had had enough. He rose from his chair slowly, trying to pretend that he was fine. He reviewed the directions for the short trip back to the hotel and excused himself for the evening. Using his best walking skills, he left Paulette and Louis’s hospitality and carefully navigated the cobblestone street back to the hotel and went up to his room.

He took a few minutes to check his computer for any e-mail worth reading. As he began to remove his clothes, he looked at the featherbed with great anticipation. It had been a long day, and he was tired.

Suddenly he heard a knocking sound. Was it his door? He heard it again and stood up to answer it. In the hallway was Madeline, who was as drunk as he was, or perhaps a little more. The light of the hallway illuminated her blonde hair, and again she looked beautiful. She was holding a large bottle of wine and two glasses, and in a low whisper she said, “Remember that Louis said it is a sin not to finish an opened bottle of wine.”

Austin was very surprised. He was not sure where this was going to go, but he was very willing to go there. Gallantly he opened the door, and Madeline walked in slowly and handed Austin a glass. Using her remaining control, she poured Austin a full glass and then one for herself. Lifting her glass, she offered a toast.

“Here is to tomorrow, and here is to you, Mr. Austin Clay. Thank you for coming.”

Austin joined in the toast and allowed his glass to clink with hers. After taking a large drink of wine, Madeline put her glass on the table, kissed Austin lightly on the lips, sat on the edge of the bed, fell back, and was fast asleep. Austin looked down at Madeline, smiled, and chuckled to himself. It took the last of his strength to lift her legs onto the bed; then he pulled the covers over her and went to the other side of the bed. Within a few seconds, he too was asleep.

Dawn brought bright sunlight that reflected off the windows across the alley and into Austin’s eyes. Austin’s head was throbbing. He was not sure of the time, but it was early. Slowly his mind replayed the evening before, and he rolled over to confirm that he still had a guest. Under the blanket he’d used to cover her last night was one Madeline Rousseau, still sound asleep. Austin slipped out of bed and headed for the shower, in hopes of achieving even a partial recovery. Three aspirin and the hot shower worked wonders, and Austin dressed while Madeline slept. As he left for breakfast, he knelt down and whispered into her ear, “This is your wake-up call.”