8
TRISTAN
The phone buzzed in my open palm, waking me from a deep sleep. Glancing at the clock across the room, I knew two hours had passed. I answered. “Bleu.”
“Tristan Bleu?”
Her voice was soft and weighted with a French accent. At the very least, she’d said my name correctly.
“Yes. Oui.”
“Monsieur Woodhurst Tinsley has made an appointment for you. Tuesday. Trente quartre, Rue de Turenne. Does this please you, Monsieur Bleu?”
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. Je ne comprends pas. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is this?” I shook the cobwebs from my head.
“Je m’applle, Brigette. You have an appointment Tuesday, one o’clock. A fitting. Your tuxedo?”
Finally hitting home, I understood. The Sanctuary party was tomorrow night in Paris. I needed a tux. “Oui. Oui. Brigette. Á bientôt,” I replied, letting her know I’d be there.
“Bein. Merci!”
I rolled off the bed, propping myself on the edge to rub the crust from my eyes. I was emotionally wasted. I questioned everything my mother had ever said. What the hell had Simone done to me? And why? I think I knew deep in my heart she was always a little crazy. But this? Would she really lie so profoundly, just to keep me away from René? Now awake, I paced the room, pausing to open the leaded glass window. Below were vines, planted like soldiers in the chalky soil. How was this massive champagne house part of my life? It didn’t feel like my life, and yet everyone around me seemed to believe that it was.
Closing the window, I knew one thing was certain. I didn’t do well with so much down time. I needed action. The rolling hills and deafening silence of Épernay was simultaneously lulling me into a coma while making me anxious—an emotion that was beyond foreign to me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the wrench in my gut. It was as if I was underwater and could see my next breath of air and sunlight at the surface. But as I swam harder, the farther away the surface became. I was drowning. And more than that, the fear of drowning seemed more daunting than the reality. I only felt calm in the presence of Henry. “Henry.”
Splashing water on my face in the bathroom, I gave the photograph of my parents a side-glance before leaving the room. As I shut the door, I didn’t have a plan, only to walk off this disquiet.
Down the massive staircase, I made it out the front entrance without anyone seeing or stopping me. I had no clue where I was headed, but even with the nap hangover, I had my gut intuition, and in as many missions as I’d completed, it had yet to steer me wrong.
Past the east end of the house, I spied an old barn in the distance. Down the cobblestone pathway I went, my steps becoming quicker as the incline got steeper. The old building looked original, and as I made my way to what seemed to be the front, two horses came from the back of their stalls to greet me—one chestnut with a star between his eyes, and one grey.
“They think you may have an apple in your pocket.”
An older woman emerged from the last of the four stalls wearing trousers and rubber boots. She spoke in French with an Irish accent, but I’d heard her all the same.
“Who are these two?” I asked in English, giving the first a rub across the nose.
“Aye. Are ye American then?”
“Oui, I mean, yes. I’m Tristan.”
She was rough around the edges, and looked me up and down before introducing herself. She was the first person at Chateau Lebleu I believed didn’t have an agenda. “I’m Myrna, and this is Estelle.”
“Star,” I repeated in English.
“Aye. And Matisse.”
The gray gave me a jealous whinny, so I spread the love with a few loving strokes between the ears.
And this,” she said, walking to the end of the barn to make a presentation. “This is Bucephalus.”
I stifled my laugh. “You mean like Alexander the Great’s horse?”
Myrna nodded. “He belongs to yer father. He’s white as a ghost and probably as old as you are. Thirty years to be exact.”
I peered into the stall. The old horse still looked good for his age, but he wasn’t interested in anything going on outside his own little world.
“He only comes ‘round for yer father, and yer father doesn’t come round much anymore.”
I looked at the horse’s backside and muttered. “I know the feeling.”
“Sorry, sir?”
“Nothing.”
“He’s a bit hard a’ hearing.”
“Bucephalus!”
Turning, the aged stallion looked me in the eye. With a nicker, he pricked up his ears and walked to my outstretched hand. It was as if he was saying, it’s about damn time you showed up.
“Here love,” Myrna said, handing me a small carrot from her pocket. “Give him a treat. He only does this with yer father.”
I fed the old horse two carrots and stroked his nose. “There’s a lot of you old guys around here huh, Bucephalus?”
I dropped my hands, brushing them off. “Merci, Myrna. Thank you.”
“Come back anytime.”
I climbed back up the pathway and walked through the flowers. Milling through the garden, I spied where I’d punched the begonias. Petals still on the ground, someone had come behind me to clean up the dirt that spilled from my uppercut. Focused on my asinine moment, I ran directly into an older man crossing my path.
“Pardon, monsieur.” I grabbed the gray-haired gentleman by the shoulders, squaring him to meet me. Still I managed to trip over my feet.
“Pardon! Pardon!” he replied, patting my shoulders, letting me know he appreciated the helping hand.
He wore brown trousers that looked a size too big for him. A white shirt and tweed vest filled out the rest of the stately Frenchman’s ensemble. Chateau Lebleu seemed to be teeming with white haired old men. When he narrowed his gaze and began pointing his bony finger into my chest, I had a feeling he knew who I was, even if I had no idea who he might be.
“Tristan. Tristan Lebleu.”
He said it as if I was his long lost friend. His tone so innocent, I felt as if walking away with a simple affirmation of my name wouldn’t be enough. “Oui.”
“My goodness,” he said, switching to English. “You’ve grown into quite a man.”
“Oui. I mean, yes. That’s what happens after thirty years or so.”
The old man dropped his head back in laughter and wiped the tears from his eyes. “I never thought I’d see you again. Tristan.”
“Je suis désolé.” I stuttered the words in French. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are.”
He hugged me, forgoing the handshake. “It’s wonderful to see your face.”
With an awkward pat to his back, I tried to reciprocate even a modicum of his level of excitement. I was failing miserably. Pulling away, he took my face in his hands—his cool and swollen arthritic joints patting my cheeks in delight.
“Of course you don’t remember. But I remember you,” he said pointing in my face. “I am Marcel. Marcel Deschamps. I’ve been the Remeuer for the champagne caves of Lebleu for over fifty years. And you. You used to accompany me and your father through the tunnels—the pupitres—to turn the bottles.”
I looked deep into the man’s slate eyes and shook my head. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to remember the caves or even the man who walked miles inside them each day to move the bottles only a quarter turn. Everything I knew of Champagne, I’d learned on my own. I remembered nothing about my life in Épernay, let alone my time at Chateau Lebleu. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Deschamps,” I replied, scratching my head. “I…”
He nodded, stepping away for the first time. “Oui. Évidemment. Obviously. How could you? Bonjour.”
Marcel dropped his chin, walking away and I immediately felt a deep urge to call out to him. “Wait.”
“Oui?”
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I rocked on my heels. “I really would love a tour. You know, of the world below?”
His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oui. But of course. It would be my pleasure. It would be my honor.” Marcel ushered me through the vines and to a set of stairs. “You are not, ah, how you say, claustrophobe?
“Me? Claustrophobic?” I gave him a sarcastic smirk. “No.”
“Excellent!”
Through an iron gate that looked so prehistoric Zeus could’ve forged it himself, Marcel led me to a stone entrance that marked the top of what seemed to be an improbably steep and unending staircase. Dimly lit, the entrance to the subterranean wine cellars and caves of Lebleu seemed to go on forever and led straight into the earth.
“Do you know the history of Champagne Lebleu, Monsieur Lebleu?”
“Please. Call me, Tristan.”
He turned on the steep staircase I was certain he knew better than the back of his own hand. Still, he made me nervous as hell. “Oui,” he replied. “Tristan.”
“Champagne Lebleu is not only famous for the magic of its champagne, but because your great-great-great grandmother took over the champagne house upon the death of her husband Théophane in seventeen-sixty. It was unheard of at the time for a woman to run a business. Madame Aurélia Barbe Lebleu was responsible for joining the eighteen miles of tunnels and vaults we still use today. She dug and connected the passageways through the chalk quarries of Épernay. The two hundred and seventeen step staircase is the only connection from our underground home of Lebleu and the outside world. Well…” he paused. “As far as most know.”
“Granmè Aurélia was an original feminist,” I muttered as I stared in awe of the operation below the surface of Chateau Lebleu. “You go, girl.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” Some of the walls had more of a modern look to them. Obviously repairs had been needed in the last two hundred and fifty years, but for the most part, it was just as I imagined Aurélia designed it.
“These vaults and caverns have served the community of Épernay in many ways outside of champagne.”
I nodded. I’d never been to my family’s homestead, but I’d done plenty of research over the years. It was a love-hate relationship—heavy on the hatred. Still, I had been fascinated with my family’s history. I’d researched Champagne Lebleu from the time I left for boarding school up until yesterday, when I pulled up the website before hopping on the plane. “You mean the wars?”
Marcel turned to look at me once more. The dim lighting cast a shadow on his wrinkled face, exaggerating his age. “It served as an underground city. Above was total destruction. In 1914, it was too dangerous to be above ground. The war raged right over them,” he said gesturing over his head. School was held here—underground. Families lived within the confines of the caves. Mostly women and children, the men were off fighting in the war.”
I nodded, in awe of the markings on the stone walls left behind by the people who’d once called the caverns home. We walked through the massive rows of bottles, hand riddled and chalk marked for every quarter turn along the side of each rack.
“Marcel,” I began, my voice echoing off the cave walls. “How many in a day?”
“Quarante-mille.”
“Forty thousand.” I repeated. “Forty thousand and fifty years. Marcel, I’d say you know these caves better than anyone.”
He shook his head, wagging his finger at me. “No. Your father, René, knows every bottle in the eighteen-mile stretch.”
“Is that so?”
“Oui.”
A landline rang out from a nearby vault wall. Marcel held up his finger to me. “S’il vous plait excusez-moi.”
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I knew there was no service this far underground.
Marcel turned his back to me as he spoke. I could only imagine to whom he was speaking—explaining that I was in the cellar discovering the beauty and magic of méthode champenoise.
“Je suis désolé, Tristan. I am so sorry. I must go up,” he said pointing above our heads again.
“Sure. No problem.”
“Would you like to stay? Explore?”
The answer was yes. I wanted to look around, but at the same time, I didn’t want to get lost in the underground vastness that was Champagne Lebleu. In my line of work, dark places with little to no escape were never a good idea. I looked up and down the long corridor of bottles.
“Can you find your way home?” Marcel asked.
I nodded. The earthy smell somehow made me feel a part of the history of Lebleu, even if my name didn’t reflect it. Whatever it was, I was willing to find my own way—in life, and out of the champagne caves. “Oui.”
“Bon garçon. Good boy.”
“Merci beaucoup, Marcel.”
“De rien.”
As the old man walked away, he began to hum a song—my song. Intermittently, he would sing the lyrics.
Hmm Hmm, Hmm Hmm,
Sur mon petit, cheval gris
À Rouen, à Rouen
Sur mon petit, cheval blanc
“Wait!”
Marcel turned. “Oui?”
I pointed to him. “The song? The song you’re humming? I…I know that. I know that song.”
A sly smile crept over Marcel’s lips. He looked to his feet and back to me. “Oui.”
“How do I know it?” I was asking myself. I was asking the walls of the caverns of Lebleu as much as I was asking Marcel. Turning in a circle it seemed to come to me in a flash. It was as if I’d awoken from a dream, knowing so clearly what I’d dreamt about, but unable to fit the pieces of it together.
I looked to Marcel for an explanation, but I knew in my gut I already had the answers to my questions. Feeling the rise and fall of my shoulders as I filled my lungs with the damp air of the caves, I bit down on my bottom lip and began to hum the song—my song—just as Marcel had. Stopping abruptly, I looked him in the eye. “Did you teach me this song?”
Slowly, he shook his head.
“René?”
Marcel tightened the space between us. “It was your favorite song as a little boy. To Paris on your little grey horse. To Rouen on your little white horse.”
“À Toulon,” I murmured. “To Toulon on my little blond horse. Et rentrons au manoir. Let’s go back to the mansion.”
“Sur mon petit cheval noir,” Marcel sang. “On my little black horse. Gallop gallop gallop.” He held the invisible reins in his hands, to ride the imaginary horse. I smiled.
“It was a song your father sang to you all the time. You would sit on his lap and ride the horse—of course singing along with him. It was your favorite.”
It wasn’t that I remembered it clearly. It was more of an extrasensory perception. The source memory of my earliest childhood had turned on inside my head like a lightbulb.
“It brings me great joy to see you here again, Tristan,” Marcel said with a smile. “I hope we will have the chance to speak again.”
“Oui…oui…Marcel.” I couldn’t break from my own tunnel-vision memories. He walked away with a friendly wave, and I could barely acknowledge it.
I thought of my life. I was a man who’d watched the sun set on the Serengeti. I’d run with the bulls in Pamplona and climbed Everest and Kilimanjaro—the Tanzanian behemoth—twice. I’d never gone a night without a beautiful woman in my arms if that was my wish. Armed with money, desire and a fire in my belly that wouldn’t be quenched, I’d turned to chasing the worst criminals in the world to fuel my adrenaline addiction. My idea of fun was rafting the Zambezi River in Africa. I’d lived a life of danger—on purpose. It made me feel alive. And yet, standing among hundreds of thousands of bottles of champagne humming a child’s nursery rhyme, I’d never been so awake. It sounded stupid. But it was true. I was both grounded and filled with fire.
Through the tunnels I walked, my hands gliding across the green bottles, the chalk marks each perfectly etched on the sides of the riddling rack. The muted sounds of the tunnels were hypnotic, and as I wandered from vault to vault, I stopped to read the labels on the older bottles of champagne. Some were even marked, inconnu. Unknown.
The muffled sound of a whispered voice came from deep within, breaking the trance-like hold the caves had on me. I followed the vibrations off the walls and into a darkened vault, the low wattage bulbs providing more shadows than light.
“C’mon baby.” A man was speaking in French, although I couldn’t see who it was at first glance, or who the baby might be.
“Pierre,” she whined. “I need to talk to you. This is important.”
“I want you. You know I want you,” he said.
I wanted to walk away from my place in the shadows. I knew I should leave, but the pang in my gut needed to know if Pierre was seducing Henry in the bowels of Chateau Lebleu.
A silhouette of Pierre came into view as he slammed a woman against the wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he struggled to undo his suit pants and grope her ass at the same time. Leaning in, I only needed a glimpse to know for sure. She moaned as Pierre lunged into her body, his tiny, bare ass flexing with each thrust.
Pierre angled her against the wall for a better fit and she finally came into view. Blonde, the strappy dress she wore was falling off, exposing her shoulder, which was covered in a brilliantly colored tattoo—a dragon eating its own tail in a sign of infinity. Smoke poured from its nostrils and wrapped around her arm and onto her chest.
Backing away, I quietly worked my way down the long corridor. Their lovemaking sounds echoed off the chalk walls until I made it back to the bottom of the stairs. It was only then I realized I hadn’t gone that far into the miles of bottles.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and noticed in my quest to stay concealed during Pierre’s copulation session, I’d brushed against the white walls, my arm, t-shirt and jeans, covered in dust.
It was six in the evening. I still had two hours before my dinner with René. I ascended the unreasonable staircase, taking each step one at a time. Like the marble steps inside Chateau Lebleu, there were worn places in the stone. Looking up, I could see the sunlight shining into the stairwell. And just like reaching the surface for a breath of air, I climbed steadily, the anxious knot of uncertainty gone for the first time since arriving in Épernay.
I emerged into the waning sunlight. Humming my tune, I made my way toward the woods, using the opposite path I’d taken before. Once beyond the garden, I spied what looked to be an enclosed pool, the leaded glass panes foggy with perspiration.
Moving in closer, a shadow traveled inside the building, the murkiness concealing any identity. I knew it couldn’t be Pierre, as he was presently engaged with the dragon lady grinding against a riddling rack. And if René wasn’t up to lunch, surely he wasn’t doing laps in the pool before dinner.
I opened the heavy door, the rusting hinges crying out. Crossing the threshold, a forest of palm fronds slapped me in the face, obscuring my view of who or what was inside. The smell of chlorine and the steam of the hothouse hit me like a New Orleans July.
“Bonsoir? Hello?” I pushed my way past the dense foliage to the Olympic sized pool. Lit from below, blue lights cast marbled shadows of the moving water across the glass walls. The afternoon sun was shining through the back, causing only the far end of the pool to sparkle in the light. Steam rose from the hot tub as it bubbled out of control.
“Doing some exploring, I see.”
I turned on my heels to find Henry walking out of the shadows. Dressed in a white terry robe, the family crest of three lions was monogrammed on her left breast.
“Jesus.”
“Something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I cocked my head, my initial unease fading. “I don’t like an ambush.”
“Ambush?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“It means, surprise. I don’t like surprises.”
“What are you doing in here?”
I shrugged, walking toward her. “Killing time. You’re holding me hostage, remember?”
“Killing time. I like this phrase.”
“Yeah, well like it or not, it’s not something I’m good at.”
“Oui.” Henry slipped her hands into the oversized pockets on the front of the robe and rocked on the heels of her bare feet. “I know this about you. You’re a cliff-diver. A swimmer with sharks. A runner with bulls. You have soif de vivre.”
“A lust for life?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe. Maybe I’m just bored.”
“If you’re bored, Tristan, I’m sure a life of champenoise would not be for you.”
I walked toward to her and the bubbling hot tub, my lips thinning into an inquisitive line. Suddenly I was interested in what the beautiful Henriette Tribolet thought of me. “Why do you say that?”
“Because the art of making champagne is all about time and patience. Things I fear you have little of.”
Loosening the belt, Henry opened the white terry robe, allowing it to drop to the ground. Standing in front of me, she was nude from the top of her gorgeous dark head to the tips of her red toes—beautifully, wonderfully, naked. I stared at her flawless body, watching her take a step toward the hot tub to dip her toe and check the temperature. Bewildered, I was lost in the shock of the moment and her perfection. My neck began to sweat in the soggy air of the pool house, my heart raced at the confidence she held in her beauty. Speechless, I stepped forward to speak. My boot catching on the edge of the stone-lined Jacuzzi, I immediately lost my balance.
“Shit!” Flailing my arms, I tried to correct the misstep only to teeter more. The last thing I remember was seeing the row of circular rocks meeting my face. I heard one word before my mind and eyes went dark. “Merde!”