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I jogged down the steps to the train platform. A gust blew through the tunnel with the arrival of another train. I hopped onboard and found a seat near the window. It wasn’t long before I was headed to Epernay. The city walls whizzed past, transforming into the French countryside. There was something restorative about seeing the vineyards, the abundance of grapes, the green and brown vines twisted together in long chains. During my first trip through the champagne fields, all I thought about was how to move more bottles. How to maximize production. How to prove to my father I could handle the French arm of the business.
But now? I looked forward to the train and the drive. I fell into an easy pace with the landscape that had nothing to do with grape quality, and everything to do with rebuilding something inside me.
Within an hour I arrived at the small station. There were occasionally a few women selling postcards outside. Sometimes, a man asked to shine my shoes. But it wasn’t busy. It was quiet, almost eerie. The Corban vineyard was ten minutes beyond the village. I paid a cab to take me to the main entrance, asking to be dropped off at the front gate. I needed the walk to the offices.
The sun blazed overhead as I swung my jacket over my shoulder and rolled up my sleeves for the walk. I didn’t mind the dust or the heat. Maybe I was numb to my surroundings. I existed, that was it.
The first swirl looked like a wisp of clouds, hanging too low to the barn. I lifted the sunglasses to the top of my head to study the odd formation. Shit. It wasn’t a cloud. It was smoke. Plumes of gray. Thickening by the second. Covering the horizon and the roofline of the cottage up ahead.
I dropped my jacket and began to sprint. I passed the second gate to the side path that circled the north vineyard. I choked as I ran into a low cloud. Where was it coming from?
“Monsieur Corban!”
Peter waved his arms wildly. I changed course and met him on the path. He was as out of breath as I was. He gasped several times before I could get him to focus.
“What the hell is happening?” I screamed. “Where did it start? Did you call the fire department?” I tried to intersperse French with my English, but I couldn’t catch up to the words.
His face was covered in black streaks of ash.
“Peter.” I shook his shoulders.
“Oui. Pompiers.” The firefighters. That was something, but I didn’t hear the engines. The only thing I heard was the roaring fire.
I dropped my grip on him and turned toward the building that was now engulfed in flames.
“The champagne, Peter! The grapes!” I rushed forward but was immediately shoved backward. I hit the gravel drive roughly. “What the fuck,” I snarled. “That’s my office. This is my vineyard.”
It wasn’t Peter standing over me, it was a man in a dark blue uniform. The baton in his fists explained how he had knocked me on my back. I spotted a motorbike leaning on its side. He was the first to arrive on the scene from the local emergency dispatch.
“Stay.” He eyed me.
I dusted myself off as the truck pulled into view and the pompiers dismounted and started pulling the hoses over their shoulders. The man barked orders at the team. They began to surround the stone cottage.
Peter and I watched from a distance while they began to line up.
“What happened?” I asked the vineyard manager. “How did the fire start?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure. I was in the cellars and when I came back up, there was smoke. I grabbed my phone and ran outside.”
“How long ago?” I pressed.
The Frenchman shrugged. “Twenty minutes?”
“Twenty minutes.” I sighed.
“Oui.”
“The tunnels?” I glanced at him. “Do you think it spread in the tunnels?” Beneath the offices were twenty-five connecting tunnels that spanned almost fifteen miles. If they had been breached by the flames, th
e entire vineyard was lost. I’d never be able to recuperate that kind of production.
“I don’t know, Monsieur Corban.”
“Was there anyone else here?” Occasionally, Peter provided guided tours of the cellars and hosted champagne tastings for tourists. Our cellars were lesser known and didn’t have the kind of traffic the others did in the village.
“No,” he answered. “Only me.”
“Thank God.”
