Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

up. It’s shit, Bruno. Complete and utter. Cancer of the liver. She won’t live out the year, and I’ve got the grapes to be picked, the wine to be made, the hotel and the staff to manage. The chef left, and I’m making do with a temp with some fancy diploma from a job-training center who doesn’t know a roux from a
rillette
. I got behind on a loan repayment, and business is not good. Christ, it seems like forever since I saw a friendly face. I’m glad you came, Bruno.”
    “I’m really sorry about Mirabelle. Can I see her? Is she well enough?”
    “Maybe. Poor woman can’t get any sleep with those damn kids in the pool. She’s seen nobody so far. We came back from the specialist in Bordeaux and she just took to her bed. She doesn’t even want to see Father Sentout.” Julien turned and went down the corridor to the final door; he opened it softly and peered in.
    “Listen,” Bruno said firmly, taking his arm, “leave me to her for a bit and you go and take a shower and shave and get changed into clean clothes. It will make you feel better, and I think Mirabelle would rather see you that way.”
    As Julien walked away, Bruno entered the darkened room, which felt hot and stale. The windows were firmly closed, but the shouts of the children in the pool could still be heard. With painful slowness Mirabelle rolled over to look at him and said weakly, “Is that really you, Bruno?”
    “Yes, my sweet, it’s me.” He came forward, kissed her gently on the cheek and took her limp hand. Too tired to even think of her hair or the matted bedclothes around her, she had covered her head with a small skullcap. “Julien told me the news. Let’s just take one day at a time. Try to focus on those great parties you threw, those hunting club dinners. Remember thatsong you loved, ‘Je Suis Seule Ce Soir’? You used to sing it as you danced.”
    “Ah, Bruno, I don’t think I’ll be dancing again. But listen, take care of Julien. He’s been knocked out by this, and everything’s going to pot.”
    “Did the doctor say you should stay in bed?”
    “Yes. Well, sort of. He said I’d be getting very tired all the time and not to exert myself. They gave me radiation and chemotherapy and all my hair fell out.”
    Bruno went over to the window, threw back the curtains and opened the French windows. The kids had left. He looked out into a small walled and private garden, which was bathed in sunshine. Noticing a chaise longue at the foot of the bed, he walked back, picked it up and took it out into the fresh air. Then he returned to the bed, scooped up Mirabelle, bedclothes and all, and carried her out into the sunlight, her eyes squinting against the glare. He laid her on the chaise longue, then took his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on her face.
    “It’s beautiful out here, Mirabelle. Smell the air.”
    “Oh, Bruno, I can’t. I can’t smell, I can’t taste. I can’t eat.”
    “You will, though. Try it. Keep your eyes closed and breathe with me. Come on; let a deep breath out and then breathe in through your nose. Can you feel that gentle breeze on your cheek?” She shook her head. He put his hand to his mouth and wet his finger, and then gently removed the sunglasses and stroked her closed eyelids with his moist finger. “Now can you feel the breeze on your eyes?”
    “Yes; yes, I can,” she said breathlessly. He put the sunglasses back.
    “Julien’s such an old fool,” she said, the tenderness in her voice belying the words. “He wants to sell everything, you know, take me to some place in Switzerland he found on theInternet that claims to do miracle cures. The doctors in Bordeaux warned me about places like that. They’ll only take all his money and leave him with nothing. I just want to stay here, Bruno, to keep it all as it’s always been, like it used to be.”
    Her voice trailed off. “You’ll keep an eye on him, Bruno?” Then her body relaxed into sleep, her mouth slightly open, her face waxen and yellow. Bruno sat with her until Julien came into the garden, clean-shaven and neatly dressed.
    “That looks more like you,” Bruno said. “She’s asleep.”
    “She sleeps a lot. She never wanted to be in the garden before.”
    “I didn’t ask her; I simply carried her here. She was glad to be in the open air. I think she just didn’t want to trouble you.”
    “Trouble me? God, she’s never been any trouble, my lovely Mirabelle. We’ve been married thirty-six years,