Page 20 of Grape Juice
“Some of us better than others!” Julian announces, placing the espresso ceremoniously in my hands.
“Lucky for the three of you, Antoine sent me for, well... three of you,” she continues. “He’s in the vinestoday, but he wants to try doing some de-stemming by hand. We’re going to make a special, very clean cuvée out of this year’s riesling. He says he’s never done this before so we’re going to figure it out together,ça marche?”
Again, we all nod—even more reluctantly this time. The trio of us: myself; Julian, who has the conversational tact of a senile ferret; and Henri, who seemingly prefers to examine any dishware in his immediate vicinity rather than look at me. Why does waiting to be witnessed by him sting?
“Excellent!” Bea claps her hands together. “I’ll go ahead and let the team know you won’t be joining in the vines. Get dressed and meet me in the cave.”
Henri marches up the stairs. Julian shrugs and saunters off behind him—though not before turning toward me with one last bit of commentary: “I know there aren’t many mirrors in the house, but you might consider a hairbrush.”
I scowl but reach my hands up to survey the top of my head and find it matted.
By the time I return to the kitchen, dressed in bike shorts and a T-shirt with the insignia of a youth soccer team, the boys are already in the cave. I rinse my espresso cup in the sink and make my way to join them.
Inside the space, breathy, verbose French rap plays over the speakers, and I feel the clever, rhythmic speech vibrating behind my sternum. Henri is helping Julian lift a large, grated metal screen over an empty steel vat.
“Alice!” Bea calls to me. “Come stand next to this tank. I’d like to see if you can reach.”
I do as I’m asked.
“OK, OK, not tall enough. We’ll need you to seeoverthe tank. Will you have a look for something to make you taller?”
Julian laughs. “If only it were that simple,” he says with a sigh. I brace myself to contend with Julian at his most irritating today while my capacity for grace is at an all-time low.
I rummage around, unearth a stack of square gray crates, flip them upside down at the foot of the tank, and test my weight atop them. They are sturdy and unprecious enough for the task, and I fashion similar pedestals for each of the boys.Very gracious of me, I think.
“We’re not allyourheight, New York.” Henri removes the top crate from his stack and peers over the grate. I flinch. His proximity, the jocular prodding, all of it without any actual intimacy, scrapes like rug burn. The stubborn avoidance on his part feels like it carries the lazy implication that it’s my move—thatImust decide if I’m going to address last night or playact at our normal rapport.
“I’d prefer a few extra inches, frankly,” Julian says, and for the first time this morning, in spite of myself, I’m grateful for him. Or the distraction of him, at least.
Once we’re perched, Bea empties the first crate of grapes—yesterday’s harvest—onto the grate. She demonstrates how to use our hands to rub the grapes in forceful motions against the wires, freeing the fruit from its stems. The flesh plummets through the holes into the barrel below; the stems stay behind in a tangled knot atop themetal until we collect them in crates at our feet. Simple enough. Except there are thirty-six bins of grapes piled beside us.
“OK,ça va? Good to go?” She flicks her gaze over to each of us, one by one. Henri flashes a thumbs-up, and she nods. “I’ll be in the kitchen, then. Call out if you need anything.”
Julian unleashes a mass of grapes in front of us in a single, graceless lurch. Within minutes, I learn the stems are as sharp and angular as the iron cross-hatching of the grate itself. And they are stubborn. Removing them requires repeated, stinging movements that rub my palms raw, the sensation muted only by the numbing cold of the damp grapes—like gentler, more pliant ice on a near wound.
Once we’re at work on the second crate, I sneak glances at Henri intermittently, aching for him to look up at me. But still, with mesmerizing discipline, he keeps his eyes trained in front of him.
I pause to rub my hands together, coaxing blood back into my frosted fingers. Julian gazes up, rolling his eyes in one quick, venomous rotation.
“What?Comment?” I ask, allowing myself to be sharp with him. “My hands just got cold for a second—aren’t yours?”
I wait for Henri to cut in, ever poised to defend my honor, blow hot breath on my palms. But now, nothing.
“Stop being such a girl,” Julian pokes.
“Iama girl.”
“Do some jumping jacks.”
I give him my most dismissive face. It doesn’t seem to elicit the desired effect.
“Blood flow. In Munich, my dad used to make me do them outside in the dead of winter when I got cold. I swear it worked.”
“Brutal.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to help. We’ve got a lot of cases to get through. Like...a lot.”
“Maybe we need a distraction.” Henri is serving crumbs—and still, I feel some mortifying rush of gratitude boil up in me. “Something to entertain, take her mind off the sting.”
