15
TRISTAN
I wandered down the shadowy hallway, lost. Lost inside the walls of Chateau Lebleu—lost inside myself. How in the hell did I get to this place? How in the hell did I get out? Part of me wanted to leave—now. The other part—the rational side I rarely seemed to use, wanted answers. That Tristan needed to satisfy his quest for the whys. The other Tristan said, fuck it. Leave now while you still have your pride. But it seemed my pride was the one thing that kept getting in my way.
Through the long passages, I thought if I could only make it to the correct staircase, I could find my way back up and to my room.
I ran into a long banquet table, pushed to the wall. Holding my wine bottle under my arm, I grabbed a wobbly lamp, stilling its precarious quake. I ran my hand down the cord, found the switch, turning it on.
I stepped back from the table filled with family photographs. These weren’t of me—these weren’t even of René. The photos on the table were from a hundred years ago. Above the table were oil paintings. Some of the men dressed in military garb, they were all pretty much the same pose. One hand on a fancy chair, the other on the edge of their suit coat. They all looked somewhat alike, but none of them looked that much like me.
Taking another sip of my wine, I walked down the long room and into the darker side. Looking up, I found a painting of a baby. Dressed in white, the toddler was clutching a small brown bear to his chest.
I felt a chill run through my core. Moving closer, I stared at the eyes. “That’s me.”
“You are correct.”
I turned. Caught off guard, I spilled the wine on my shirt. Wiping my hand down the front of me, I only made it worse, but that seemed a better alternative to acknowledging his presence at the moment.
Using a control lever on the arm of his wheelchair, René moved out of the shadows and into the light—the whine of the motor echoing off the stone walls. “It’s you, Tristan. In the painting.”
“Yes, sir.”
He was dressed in a silk robe with a velvet collar. His pajama pants matched and an ascot was tied around the aging skin of his sagging neck. He looked better than when I’d left him in the dining room, but his skin was still gray. It was a surefire sign that he was nearing the end. I’d seen it in Simone too. Still on oxygen, the portable tank was attached to the back of his chair.
“What are you doing up so late? Jet lag?”
I shrugged. “I was hungry.”
René looked down to the controls of his chair and then back to me. “I’m sorry about dinner. Very sorry.”
It took me by surprise that he would take responsibility for me walking out. “I think I should be the one apologizing. Pierre gets under my skin a little, and I let it get the best of me.”
“Pierre gets under everyone’s skin, Tristan. I’ve merely had more years to learn how to tolerate him.” He cocked his head to one side. “Would you like for me to call in the staff to prepare you something to eat? Or are you just…drinking?” René gestured to the wine bottle under my arm and the glass in my hand.
“Henry fed me.”
His already thin lips disappeared when he pursed them. “Thank God for Henriette.”
“Yes sir.”
He looked up at the paintings on the wall, then pointed to the portrait of me. “You were three. It was right before everything went to hell, and you and your mother left.”
I looked down to my feet, not knowing what to say. Everything I’d ever rehearsed was gone. I’d already told him to fuck off. I’d already stormed out of the room on him. Somehow, standing in the dark hall filled with the men who came before René, I had nowhere to go and nothing of consequence to say. So I nodded.
“Are you on your way back to your room?” he asked.
“I was. At least until I got lost.”
“It’s easy to do around here if you don’t know your way. Want some help?”
“Sure.”
“This way,” Rene said, rolling his wheelchair out the way I came in.
I followed. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing up so late?”
“It’s hard to explain, but when your body is shutting down, it seems to switch over to its own clock. Day. Night. It doesn’t matter. I’m awake when I’m awake.”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“You remember?”
“Simone. In her last days. She too was on her own timetable.”
Rene stopped his wheelchair and I turned to look at him. “Everything okay?”
Tears filled his wrinkled eyes. “I loved Simone with all my heart. It tears at me every day that I wasn’t there to hold her hand at the end.”
“No offense,” I said. “But I don’t think she would’ve allowed you to hold her hand—at the end or any other time.”
Rene took a labored breath. “Oui. Of course.”
I continued to walk, slowly placing one deliberate footstep after the other, as to not outpace Rene’s chair.
“I’m sure you have questions, Tristan.”
I raised my brow in surprise. “I do. But I’m sure I should get you back to bed.”
“Nonsense. I’d love a chat if you’re up for it. I like it when it’s quiet here. No people. No servants. It helps me think better.”
I hesitated.
“Unless you’re too tired. I don’t want to keep you from your sleep.”
I smiled, suppressing a nervous laugh. “I’m fine.”
“Tres bon,” he said, turning around. “Follow me.”
Rene’s chair suddenly made tracks and I found myself picking up the pace to catch up with him. Without another word, we traveled down the halls and through rooms I’d hadn’t seen in the daylight. At the end of the last hallway, Rene stopped outside an arched double door. Made of wood and leaded glass, a trunk and grafted vine carving began at the floor and continued, twisting among the canes and leaves to the top, where an abundance of grape clusters and dormant buds were delicately chiseled into the time-worn doors.
“Where are we?” I asked, staring up at the doorway that was more art than entrance.
“Behind this door lies the sacred hallows of Lebleu,” he said, leaning into the entrance to painfully slip a key from his jacket pocket.
“Here,” I said. “Allow me.”
He smiled, passing over the key. “You don’t know how many nights I’ve dreamed of doing this with you, Tristan.”
“Why is that?” I asked, pausing before trying the ancient lock.
“This is sacred ground,” he said, placing his shaking hand on the door. “My father brought me here. His father did the same…and so it goes from father to child—all the way back to the beginning of our history.”
I nodded, not as impressed. “So you and Pierre—”
“Non,” he replied, cutting me off.
I began to slip the oversized skeleton key into the lock, and then stopped. “But why?” I asked the question, then remembered Pierre wanted my vote to sell out. Perhaps René had been right to keep him from the family secrets.
“Open the door. We will talk inside,” he replied, waving off my question.
I popped my brow in concession and turned, jamming the key into the lock. Rotating it a full three hundred and sixty degrees, a click sounded out. I pushed open both doors, laying my palms flat against the carved masterpiece.
Without waiting for me, Rene motored past and into the dark and cool chamber, his voice echoing as he called back to me. “Shut the doors behind you and lock them.”
I rolled my eyes at his order, but did as I was told. It seemed like a lot of pomp and circumstance for him to say, this is how we make champagne and oh, by the way, I’m sorry I cheated on your mother.
I tried to follow him, but it was so dark after I closed the doors I could barely see my own hand in front of my face. “René? René are you back here somewhere?”
I heard the tick of a match strike and watched his face come aglow in the small flame. Leaning out of his chair, I hurried to his side to help. “What are you up to?” I asked.
“Lighting the oil lamp.”
I took the burning match from his trembling hand and touched it to the lamp on the wall, hoping the dry wick wouldn’t explode in my face. It was hard to tell when it had been used last.
Catching fire, the wick burned brightly and the room lit up.
“There’s another on the other side, Tristan,” he said, handing me the box of matches.
I walked to the second lamp, lighting it quickly, rotating the knob on the collar to control the flame.
I turned around and found the room to be anything but special. More like a cave, there were several unmarked bottles of champagne in the corner, white chalk marks on the walls and a table with a dust covered leather book. “What is this place?” I asked, finding that the tenor of my voice was stunted. The room was soundproof.
“A safe room.”
I didn’t move, but couldn’t hide the surprise in my eyes. “Safe from what?”
“Take a seat, son.”
Choosing a black velvet chair across the room. I settled in, leaning back. “What’s this all about, René?” I asked. “These are your last few days of life and you need my forgiveness to go? You have it. I forgive you. You can die peacefully knowing I don’t care. Or did you bring me here in the hope that I would care?”
René shook his head so slowly, I found myself following along with the motion as if it would cause him to move faster.
“I brought you in here because it’s the one place at Lebleu that doesn’t have ears.”
I froze. “What do you mean?”
“When I met your mother, Simone, I fell in love with her. All of her. Her beauty, her grace, her exquisite sense of humor—all of it. When you love someone you don’t get to pick and choose what you want in the person. You get everything. The good and the bad.”
I leaned forward, placing my hands on my knees. I had no idea where he was about to go with this. I couldn’t even guess.
“Simone was touring Europe with her friends after graduating college. She ventured out on her own one day—here. To Épernay. I was in town for a meeting with another grower when I spotted her. She was wearing a yellow sundress,” he said, his eyes glistening with the tears of a happy memory. “She’d broken the strap on her sandal. I stopped to talk with her.”
“I know this may surprise you,” I interjected “But Simone told me this story. I know how you met. I know she loved you—she loved you very much.”
René cleared his throat. “I’m glad she shared some of the good times with you.”
We stared at one another. He was quiet in conversation, just as I was. A man of few words, it seemed we both often relied on someone else to do the heavy lifting in the conversation.
“Did your mother ever tell you about her parents?”
I folded my bottom lip inside my mouth in nervous anticipation. “They were dead before my mother met you—before she came to France.”
René shook his head. “I’m afraid that just isn’t so, Tristan.”
“What?” I sneered. “You’re telling me they’re still alive somewhere and Simone kept me from them too?”
“No, son. I kept you from them.”
I knitted my brown in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I need you to keep an open mind, Tristan. I need you to listen to me carefully. Everything I’m about to tell you is the truth, and it can go no further than this room. Do you understand?”
I was taken aback. What could René Lebleu possibly know that was top secret and only discussed in a bug-proof safe room? When I didn’t answer he posed his question once more.
“Tristan. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Long ago during the Cold War, Simone’s parents were recruited by the KGB. They were trained in Moscow, then transferred to Canada where they could build a backstory. They were part of the illegals program—a network of spies with no diplomatic cover who lived normal lives, waiting instructions from superiors. They were sleeper cells in case a war broke out between the U.S. and the Soviet Union.”
I could hear my heart thrumming in my ears like a drum. I was listening to what he was saying, but I couldn’t comprehend it. I was numb.
“They moved to the United States where Simone’s father went to Columbia for grad school and began working as a KGB agent under a man named Vladimir Putin. Her mother took a position in the admissions office there as well. Their job was to report on who was being recruited out of the University to the CIA, NSA and FBI.”
“Wait. Stop.”
René paused and nodded at me. “Oui?”
“You’re telling me Simone was part of a Russian spy ring?”
“Not by choice.”
“What?” I could feel all the blood rushing to my face, my ears burning with doubt.
“They needed a baby to make their family seem real. They weren’t married, in fact, they hated each other. There was no love, but they got pregnant. Simone was born, becoming a pawn in their game.”
I stood and began to pace the room, my hands combing through my hair in disbelief. René moved his chair back in order to follow my pacing with his eyes. “This isn’t real.”
“I’m afraid it is,” René replied. “Simone never knew what her parents were, she only believed them to be distant. It was only when she went away to school at Tulane—when she moved to New Orleans—that she discovered the truth about them.”
“How?”
“She came home for Spring Break unannounced—caught a ride with a friend whose family also lived in New York. When she arrived, the house was filled with Russian intel. She confronted them.”
“What happened?”
“They denied everything. But Simone had their names. She’d found their true identities, and that was her ticket. Her ticket to freedom. Her ticket to everything. Of course they’d come to care for Simone—how could you not? She was vibrant. Beautiful. Full of love. They didn’t want to kill her, but if it came down to it—they would.”
I tried to catch my breath. All the while I was out chasing the worst of the worst, Simone had been dealing with it her entire life. “What were their names? She moved here? To France?”
“It wasn’t that easy I’m afraid. When I met your mother, she’d discovered the truth a few months before. When she asked if she could go to Europe with her friends, her parents were more than happy to get rid of her. They could turn her in and allow someone else to do the dirty work they weren’t capable of.”
“Someone was sent to kill her?”
René nodded. “But instead she met me. I brought her here to Épernay. We fell in love immediately. I asked her to be my wife after only two weeks.”
“You were her protector.”
“She was safe here. She never called her parents or spoke with them again. She wanted them to believe she was dead. It was the safest thing for her. For us.”
I sat again, shaking my head. “I don’t understand. I just don’t…”
René rolled his chair to me, taking my hand in his. “Are you okay, son? I don’t want to bombard you with too much information at once. I know it’s a lot to take in. I’ve lived with it for nearly forty years and I still struggle with the enormity of it.”
I looked into his eyes. The eyes that matched mine. I felt as if my entire life was unfolding before me. “No. Go on. I want to know everything. I need to know everything.”
René nodded. “We lived a good life here—a happy life. My father passed away just before I met Simone. She was so good to me. We healed each other’s hearts. A few years passed and we decided we wanted to start a family. A year later, you were born.” Rene looked to the ceiling and smiled. “You were beautiful. The most precious gift from God above. I loved you so. And your mother…well, Simone thought you were the perfect child. And you were—you really were.”
“But it wasn’t enough,” I said. “And you cheated on her.”
Rene looked to me. His eyes were filled with such sadness I could barely swallow the lump in my throat.
“I did.”
There it was. The admission I’d been waiting for my entire life. And yet it was so overshadowed by the realization of who my mother was, it didn’t matter. The cheating I’d known about my entire life.
“After you were born, your mother was very sad. The doctor thought it was a combination of the post-traumatic stress she’d endured, never fully dealing with her so-called parents, and the post-partum depression she couldn’t seem to shake after giving birth to you.”
“So you cheated on her.”
“I’m not disputing that, Tristan. I did have sex one drunken night when I was feeling sorry for myself. Your mother was very… inside her own mind. She had no desire to make love to me after you were born. She focused on you, and you alone.”
“And that angered you, so you lashed out and had sex with Margaux Martin? Pierre’s mother?”
René dropped his chin. “I know you’re angry with me, Tristan. To this day, I’ve never forgiven myself, and I’m not asking for your pardon. But you need to know there was no lashing out at anyone. I was drunk. I was weak. I felt neglected. Margaux seduced me. None of these things are an excuse, but it is in fact, what happened. Was it a set up? I’m sure it was, but that is neither here nor there.”
“Then Mom finds out when Pierre is born that you cheated on her. At least that’s what I was told.”
René’s eyes lit up when I called Simone Mom. “That is true. I told Simone the same day Margaux told me. She called from the hospital to say she’d had a son and she was naming him Pierre—after my father.”
“And then Mom split. She left France with me in tow, changing our names to Bleu and buying that huge house in New Orleans with what I assume was your money.”
“Your mother wasn’t well. Mentally, she was struggling. When Margaux told me after she’d carried the child for nine months that Pierre was mine, I had no choice but to take care of the boy. It wasn’t my choice, but it was my responsibility. I did everything I could to convince your mother to stay. I’m sure it is difficult to believe the musings of an old man, but I loved her until the day she died. I’ll love her until the day I die. She was my Simone. My soulmate.”
I digested everything he said. And even in my information stupor, I still had questions. I was disconnected enough from it all to see the holes in his story.
“Why did you stay away all those years, René? If you loved her so much—if you loved me so much—why? I’ve never been in love, but if I do fall for someone and they have my child? Nothing and no one could keep me from them.”
“I watched you from afar, son. I flew back and forth from France to New Orleans so many times I had a home there. I still own a home there.”
“Where?”
“Three houses down from Maison de Vignes.”
“You lived on our street?”
René nodded. “On and off. I couldn’t be away, even if it meant risking my life.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “I don’t know how you’d be risking your life. If Mom’s parents believed she was dead…” I paused. I knew without René explaining it to me. “She got in contact with them. Didn’t she?”
René closed his eyes and dropped his head. “As I said, your mother wasn’t well—she didn’t always think things through before acting on them. She was so angry with me, she wanted to make sure I never saw you. It was punishment in her eyes for my indiscretion. She told her parents everything.”
“And you’ve spent the rest of her life and mine paying off the Russians to keep me safe.”
René’s lower lip began to tremble. “I’d do it all over again.”
I ran my hands over my face and through my hair. “I’m trying to grasp all of this, René. I am.”
“I know you are, son. And I’m sorry.” René began to cry, his voice shaking. “I never meant to hurt you. Never. You are my pride and joy. The firstborn Lebleu of your generation.”
“But not the only Lebleu.”
René looked up at me. “No. Not the only. And I’ve not done right by him either. I provided for his life, just as I did yours. I never married his mother, Margaux. I couldn’t. I didn’t love her. I loved Simone, and as long as we were both alive, I did my best to find a way back into her heart. I never did.”
I watched the old man suffering in his wheelchair. He was dying, but it seemed as though he’d been dead since the day Mom packed us up and left Chateau Lebleu. René Lebleu died thirty years ago of a broken heart. His soul was gone, but his physical heart kept on beating. As much as I wanted him to suffer, he’d explained more about my life in thirty minutes than my mother had in thirty-three years. He needed to know that truth too.
“René, whether you believe me or not, you should know—she never even dated. I think she allowed her anger and resentment to consume her so badly she never opened herself up to another man again. And I know you’re right. Even as a kid I knew she was different than the other mothers. Look,” I said, kneeling at his wheelchair. “I’ve led a thrilling life of excitement. Sure, I’m an adrenaline junkie and I probably put myself into situations I shouldn’t because I’ve always had a bit of a death wish, but maybe that was my instincts kicking in. If the Russians have been watching me all these years…” I stopped cold. I’d asked the question, but René never replied.
“René.”
“Yes, son.”
“Who are Donald and Shirley Banks? Where are they?”
“He died last month. Car accident. But who knows if it was real or an elimination?”
“And her?”
“She’s still alive.”
“What are their names, René? Their real names?”
“Veronika Alexeer and Pasha Usenko.”
My heart fell. “Pasha? Pasha Usenko?”
My father nodded. “He…well, he, like me, fathered a child out of wedlock. He eventually married Simone’s mother, Veronika, for their cover but he loved another—another KGB agent—Lada—”.
“Kozlov.” I mumbled her name in unison with my father. “Holy shit.” I stared off into space. “Nikolai.”
“Yes. He fathered a bastard son. Now…I want to speak with you about the future of Lebleu. I want to speak with you about your future with Champagne Lebleu.
I heard his words, but they washed over me like a tidal wave. Nikolai Usenko and I were related. He was my damn uncle.