The Wine Cellar – Part 1: The Harvest

The château sat at the end of a long gravel drive, surrounded by vineyards that stretched to the horizon in neat, golden rows. The harvest was underway. Pickers moved along the vines with baskets on their backs, laughing in the morning mist, and the air smelled of crushed grapes and wet earth.

Camille had come to taste the new vintage for a magazine in Paris. She had a notebook, a leather case of glasses, and a reputation for being very hard to impress.

The winemaker met her at the cellar door. He was tall and quiet, with a weathered face, reading glasses pushed up into grey-streaked hair, and the stained hands of a man who had spent his whole life among barrels.

"Thomas Duval," he said. "You'll want to taste everything twice."

"I never taste anything twice," said Camille. "It ruins the first impression."

"Then you'll be ruined by the second," said Thomas, and his mouth twitched, very slightly. "Follow me."

The cellar was cool and dim, the air thick with the sweet, sharp scent of oak. Barrels lined the stone walls in long, silent rows, each one labelled in chalk. Thomas led her to a long wooden table at the back, where a row of glasses already waited, each one filled with a different shade of deep ruby.

"Start with the youngest," he said. "And tell me what you taste. Not what you think you should taste. What's actually there."

Camille lifted the first glass, swirled it, and breathed in. Then she sipped, slowly, letting the wine sit on her tongue.

"Blackcurrant," she said. "Some cedar. And something soft underneath, like a memory of rain."

Thomas's eyes lit up, very briefly. "Good," he said. "Now the second."

She tasted it. Then the third, and the fourth, and by the time she reached the end of the row, she had forgotten about her notebook and was simply sitting at the table with the cool stone around her and the warm, dark wine in her mouth.

"Why did you want me to taste them twice?" she asked.

"Because the first time, you taste what you expect," said Thomas. "The second time, you taste what's really there."

"And which one do you trust?"

"The second," said Thomas, and sat down opposite her, his glasses still pushed up into his hair. "That's what I'm trying to teach my son, who thinks I'm too old to be honest about my own wine."

"Is he here?"

"He's in Lyon, studying chemistry," said Thomas. "He thinks I'm a sentimental old fool. He's probably right."

Camille smiled, and set down her glass. "Can I ask you something?" she asked.

"Yes."

"What's in the last bottle? The one on the top shelf, behind the barrels, with no label?"

Thomas was silent for a long moment.

"My wife's first vintage," he said quietly. "She died six years ago. I bottled one, the year before she got ill, and I've never opened it."

Camille's throat tightened. "Then I won't ask you to open it."

"Thank you," said Thomas. "But I think, one day, I'd like to open it with someone who tastes what's really there."

"Then tell me when," said Camille softly.

He looked at her across the table, his face open and tired and surprisingly young.

"Would you like to walk through the vines with me this evening?" he asked. "The pickers are gone, and the light is very good. And you can tell me what you think of my wine, in daylight, with no notebook."

"Yes," said Camille. "But only if you tell me what you feel about the last bottle, honestly, when we're out there."

"Deal," said Thomas, and smiled, and reached for his coat.

"Green?" he asked, as they stepped out into the golden afternoon.

"Green," said Camille, and took his arm. "Very green. Show me the vines."