Page 23 of Grape Juice
“What are others?”
“Hmm,coinmeans ‘corner,’prétendremeans ‘to claim,’” he lists.
“That’s a good one.” I bite into the springy flesh of a grape and spit the seed from between my teeth into the pile of stems beside me. “Librairiemeans ‘bookshop.’”
Henri spreads a new bin of fruit among us. “Déceptionmeans ‘disappointment.’”
XII
By the time we tackle our final case of grapes, my palms are pink and swollen like something undercooked. However slow the progress, there is, blissfully, evidence of our efforts: the mass of jeweled fruit piled high in the barrel beneath the grate, looking bizarrely naked without the web of stems typically attached.
Antoine shows up just in time to share in our victory. “Excellent work, you’ve earned yourapero... come on outside,” he says with a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders. “Bea and I have a surprise.”
I try to catch Antoine’s eye, to gauge where I stand, but he turns away just as quickly as he arrived. When we emerge, he has two bottles of Sylvaner at the ready—the name of the grape and the vintage scrawled haphazardly on the glass in white chalk. Beside him at the outdoor table, Bea sits bathed in late-afternoon light, a flat plastic tray loaded with oysters in front of her—the enormous, fist-sized French kind, marled and cracked like aging skin. I watch while she expertly maneuvers her shucking knife through the clenched lips of a shell without a rag or a gloveto protect her. She makes it look graceful, some ballet of the fingers.
“Had a friend drive by and drop these off!” Antoine beams, merry and buoyant in a way that seems altogether too youthful to suit his stature. He passes an oyster to each of us before selecting a shell of his own and gesturing toward us in a mock toast. I turn to each of the other four, and our lines of sight click together like something far more tactile (train tracks, manual locks). This is a French tradition that continues to delight me, the mandatory meeting of every set of eyes in order to perform a toast. So much more penetrating than the clinking of glassware. When our eyes meet, Bea gives me a warm nod; Julian offers a curt one. Antoine smiles gently—at least, I think he does, though I can’t decipher whether it’s meant for me or is a residual grin. Henri chews his lip and lets his eyes drop from mine and trace down to my neck. As we all tip our shells back, I feel his gaze linger on my throat.
In my mouth, the oyster is swollen and organ-like—a double for the tongue. In that fleeting, briny moment before I swallow, it’s like kissing.
When I take a sip of the wine, it’s almost cutting—angular and sharp but not enough to hurt. It slices through the lazy salinity of the oyster. I look between Julian and Antoine on either side of me, and they seem equally submerged in states of rapture, both of them glassy-eyed and silent.How special it is to taste things, I think.How bizarre that we spend so much time forgetting to do so.
Almost as soon as we finish the first bottle, the pickingteams arrive back from the vines, the techno van beating with its signature thrum. The oysters await them, shucked and gleaming—flirting, even. The wine, so golden it seems more metaphor than potable liquid, spills into waiting glasses like some sacramental thing. Something demanding of prayer, or at least expectation.
As the remainder of the second bottle dwindles, so does my ocular discipline, and I watch intently as Henri slides another oyster into his mouth, swallowing with his lips closed and his head tipped back.
“Not bad, no?Pas mal.” Antoine juts his chin at Henri like some gesticulatory question mark.
“Pas mal.” Henri rocks his head back and forth in sleepy satisfaction. “How’d we do today in the cellar?”
“Not bad either,” Antoine replies with a clipped glance in my direction—some sprouting olive branch, I decide. Evidence that the not-bad-ness of the day belongs to me too. Henri looks at me inquisitively, and I shrug, hoping to convey the proper amount of evasion.Why, after all this work whittling our way toward communion, am I reverting to coldness?I reprimand myself silently.Why is coldness still the default?
“We basically just cheese-grated all the skin off of our hands... for seven hours,” Julian pipes up and then aerates a sip of wine with a low, liquid gurgle. “I think this glass is the antidote.”
“My hands are in pretty bad shape,” Henri adds and takes a tentative step toward me. “Let me see yours.”
My breath catches, and I hold out my palms like anoffering. The skin is crosshatched with evidence of the day, ruddy and parceled off with cuts, scratches, blister constellations. Absentmindedly—perhaps forgetting himself—Henri traces a finger along the largest groove, a wound shaped like a longbow.
I wince. I have the absurd urge to tell him it hurts more than it does, to make myself into a fragile thing—for him to feel responsible for soothing my anguish. It humiliates me, this desire for him to solve this unsolvable problem. This pathetic wish to be delivered from distress. Saved from nothing.
As he assesses my palm, running one finger along the arc of my thumb and another across the crease of my wrist, the empty oyster shell in my opposite hand falls to the ground—as if my digits, distracted by his proximity, have simply forgotten to do their job. At once, he kneels down to retrieve it, lowering onto his left knee.
“Careful,mon ami!” Julian cuts in. “She’s picky about proposals.”
Henri snickers beneath me, and when I search his face, I expect some potent tinge of ridicule in his eyes. But he just looks up at me, his gaze glittering like seawater.
“Well, I’m going to go have the first shower while everyone finishes up,” Julian announces, setting his empty glass down on the table before nodding his polite adieus.
“Wanna take a walk?” Henri asks as he gets to his feet. “We’ve been indoors all day.”
I hardly need convincing. I glance over at Antoine, who is gesticulating animatedly to Bea, and nod. My shouldersdrop as if all day they’ve been on alert, waiting for this—the opportunity, at long last, to be alone together. Henri gestures ahead of him, and I lead us, veering left where the nearest pinot noir vines will obscure us from vision.
I take a deep breath, expecting him to launch into some diplomatic “We Need to Talk” exchange. “I have a follow-up question for you.” Henri tucks both hands in his pockets as he walks.
I nod for him to continue.
“Did you stay together after he proposed?”
I exhale. He’s picking up where we left off in the cellar. “Why do you ask?”
