Terroir Read Online Free PDF Page B

husband’s as they ate and passed things to each other. Like man and wife.
    It was a bright morning with a fresh airstream, but no rain. André caught the early forecast on the television. They were in for a few days of high pressure. Gaspard was helping André strip down the tractor engine, changing the oil and filters. He was surprisingly deft. He noticed André watching him.
    â€“ I started out as a mechanic. Trained at a Citröen dealership in Lille.
    â€“ I’m impressed.
    â€“ Don’t worry. I like to get my hands dirty.
    They knocked off at lunchtime and André took the bike for a long slow ride, following the river towards the coast, studying the other vineyards, the harvest that was ripening everywhere. He imagined Ghislaine on the back, clinging to him, her legs apart, her body warm under his leather jacket. He shook the thought off, focusing on the harvest that could make or break him. So far it was looking good. But he couldn’t figure out Gaspard. He couldn’t really understand why Raymond had taken such a dislike to him. Instinct? Prejudice or envy, more like. It was no use telling himself they’d done nothing wrong, he and Ghislaine. They’d come so close that the air was thick with it. The road swept away under the bike and that feeling nagged at him. A feeling that wouldn’t go away: desire and fear mixed together.
    Gaspard left on Sunday afternoon and on Monday he and Ghislaine had breakfast as if nothing had happened. Mealtimes became more formal, as if she was holding something in check. She still came to work in the vineyard, but she spent more time with Raymond or the brothers. There was a subtle avoidance of André’s company. It was a relief. It felt as if every day he could put between himself and that last bike ride would wipe away what had nearly happened. Sometimes he thought he saw Raymond watching them with a kind of cynical amusement. Fuck him. It was time to get his head down, to work on the harvest, to pull clear of all that stuff.
    By late August the new barrels were delivered and stood ready. By early September the wine press had been serviced and cleaned. They’d sterilise it again before pressing. Gaspard had hired a local man to supervise crushing the grapes, whilst André would keep an eye on the whole operation, moving from the fields to the winery. They had casual labour lined up to pick and load. Raymond would drive the tractor, Gaspard would be on hand as a gofer and Gaultier would drop by once the first fermentation was under way.
    By mid October the final growth hung heavy on the vines, carrying its bloom of wild yeast. Mornings began with a pall of mist that burned away under the autumn sun. There’d been a run of clear weather, then three days of showers and distant thunder had made everyone in the valley nervous. Every day André sampled grapes from different points in the vineyard. The sugar content was running at an average of 22 parts. That would yield an alcohol content of about 13%. But sugar wasn’t everything. Every day he tasted the grapes too, testing the thickness of the skins against his palate, looking for the appearance of noble rot. On October 28 a run of hot weather was forecast, followed by a weather front from the west. The grapes had begun to take on a slightly wrinkled appearance, like raisins. Now sugar was peaking at 24 parts. Raymond watched André crush grapes in his mouth and spit out the skins.
    â€“ Well?
    â€“ We harvest the day after tomorrow. Thursday. I’ll call Gaspard now.
    André left Raymond to supervise the last cleaning of the press and sorting tables and went to the phone. No need to check with Gaultier. This was his call. In three days the new wine would be fermenting in the vats; in three weeks, a secondary fermentation would be taking place in the new barrels, smoothing out acidity, drawing out the flavours of tannin and oak.
    That night it was chilly in the