My mother at first was appalled by the idea of sheltering underground “like vermin.” But as she was saying this, the ground shook, and Henri rushed in, barely escaping a renewed round of shelling that took down a neighboring house. We gathered the few things we had managed to save when we fled Villa Traverne—my mother’s knitting needles, some photos, a few books—and presented ourselves at the top of the steps leading down to the Pommery caves.
The Pommery champagne house had been a fine, proud mansion built in the style of an Elizabethan manor. But now most of the buildings had been damaged by the shelling; some were nownothing but smoking piles of rubble. Many employees already had been killed.
As I descended those hundred sixteen steps into the Pommery cellars for the first time, the chill entered my bones. But it was the sour smell that most impressed itself upon me. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of women and children, a few elderly or infirm men, were crowded into the tunnels. They had the blank, staring-into-space visages I had come to know from those who had experienced the bombs, had seen bloody limbs left in the street, had witnessed the wholesale destruction of Reims. They shared the otherworldly sensation that the world was no longer what we knew.
The air was stale and smoky from oil lamps and candles, vinegary from too many unwashed people and too little fresh air. One old blind woman had brought her bird in a cage, and it sang, still; there were a few potted plants and some colorful bits of bric-a-brac salvaged from the ruins. But those were the only bits of cheer.
The malaise, the dispiritedness, hit me like the concussion of a bomb: ours was a last-ditch effort to survive. To live.
It was a shadowy, surreal hell. But it was a refuge from the shells and sniper fire.
As we advanced deeper into the caves, my mother whispered:The world has turned upside down.
Chapter Seventeen
Emma! What are you doing here?” Rosalyn went over to the car to greet her friend.
“You mentioned Gaspard Blé, and I realized it had been ages since I stopped by. Also, because of this busted leg of mine, I need a place to stay without stairs and with an accessible shower. I thought his newgîtemight be just the thing.”
“But you said there was nothing to do in Cochet.”
“There really isn’t! But I have a car and a driver after all. This is the estimable André, by the way. My irreplaceable assistant. Heaven only knows where I’d be without him.”
A tall, attractive man climbed out of the driver’s seat. He looked like a model, with jet-black hair dyed platinum blond at the tips.
“Bonjour, mesdames,”he said to Rosalyn and Blondine with a nod, and opened the car door to help Emma out. She hopped on one foot, and André steadied her with one hand while passing her a pair of crutches.
“Blondine! My love! How are you!” effused Emma.
Blondine did not look pleased to see Emma. “What doyoudo here?” she demanded in English.
“Just stopped by to say hello, and thought I’d stay a spell. Rosalyn and I met on the plane, if you can believe that luck.”
“My father is in Spain.”
“Oh good! Even better. I already called and talked with Pietro, and he told me I could have thePinot Meunierroom, gave me the codes for the doors and everything. André will stay upstairs inPinot Noir.”
Blondine muttered under her breath.
“Don’t let her fool you.” Emma caught Rosalyn’s eye. “She adores me. This is just the way the French are. They show their love with gruffness. They try to be an aloof culture, but they don’t quite pull it off. Am I right, Blondine?”
Blondine shot her a look, then turned back to Rosalyn. “Come. I will make you an omelet.”
“Honestly, please don’t trouble yourself,” said Rosalyn.
“Nonsense.” Blondine punched the code on the keypad next to the door leading to the kitchen/tasting room, and went inside. Rosalyn held the door for Emma, who instructed André to stow their luggage in their rooms and then go relax.
“Isn’t your man hungry, too?” asked Blondine.
“André isn’t ‘my man,’ sad to say. And he does his own thing—he’ll be fine,” said Emma.
“As opposed to you,” said Blondine, leading the way into the kitchen. She turned to Rosalyn. “Anywhere there’s food, this one will show up. We can’t get rid of her.”
Unsure whether she understood the French, Rosalyn asked: “You’re trying to get rid of Emma?”
“Of course. She comes and eats our food and drinks our wine and doesn’t think about it.”
Emma grinned as she leaned her crutches up against the counter and hoisted herself up onto a stool. “I’m going to put this place on the map. Just wait and see. Hey, please make this old woman’s heart happy and tell me you have a chilled bottle of bubbly in that littlefrigoof yours.” She gestured to the small refrigerator.
