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You should never open the cellar door

Alain Marciano

    I.
    “So, what do you think, son? You like it?”. The man who asks the question and suggests that his son may have something interesting and valuable to say is not my father. He is my uncle; mum’s brother. And he is not talking to me but to my 11-year-old cousin, a weak boy with blond hair and thick glasses. Seated on the floor, he busies himself with small metallic toy-cars—why does he not want to play with me? Because I am too young for him, certainly. He has more important things to do, like answering strange questions.
    My uncle pours a small quantity of an unusual tinted liquid in the biggest and most elegant glass I’ve ever seen. And then he smiles. Hesitantly. Waiting for an answer to the question he has just asked.
    My cousin starts by looking at the cork, a nice black cork with small with dots. He seems to be satisfied with it. Then he sticks his nose in the glass and noisily sniffs and gulps the liquid. His eyes seemingly closed, it’s not easy to determine, he starts mumbling some words as if they were coming from who-knows-where. Then, more clearly, with this low voice, he speaks of bouquet, “nice, mmm, depth and well balanced” does he say, of fruits, “raspberries, certainly a Pinot but with blackberries too, an assemblage I think, a Bordeaux”, and sun and spring, “it dates from a very sunny and hot year, its body is a bit strong for me”... So many wonders that seem to me as unrelated to wine as wine is unrelated to me. After all, I am only 7. I barely know what wine is. And my father keeps telling me that I will drink wine later and that I have time to get used to alcohol and that I will grow older and then ... maybe ... if I like it... But for now, I have to wait and gasp at the show of my cousin. I do not know if I like it but it does not make a difference. It’s impressive. “How does...”. I begin a sentence but my father shushes me, “Will you let your cousin...”. “I see”, interrupts my uncle. He bursts out laughing and shouts to my mother, “Your husband will never change, huh! Ah Ah Ah”.
    And to me, “Come with me boy, I’m going to show you something important”. He puts his hand on my shoulder and leads me to the other side of the house. My cousin resumes his game with the small cars. We arrive at the end of the hall. On the right, there are three steps and we are in front of a door. Huge. All metal, with a lock that seems as big as my hand. “You see this?” he asks me. I feel his hand heavy on my shoulder. “You see this cellar door? The wine comes from here, from behind this door”.
    What? What does he mean ... wine, this beautiful liquid from a cellar? We too have a cellar in the basement of the building where we live. I’ve been down there with my father. Its door is small and wooden. The room, it’s only a room, is small and narrow and humid. And inside we keep an old mattress, the suitcases that are too big to be kept in the apartment, and my bicycle. No wine can come from such a room. I don’t understand. I am about to ask my uncle how this can be possible when I feel his face close to my ear. “You have to be careful”, he murmurs, “you should never open the cellar door”.
    II.
    We went to my uncle’s house and we lunch there, regularly. My father did not really like it but mum wanted to chat with her brother and with my aunt. And every time, my uncle poured a small quantity of wine into a big glass, sometimes it was red, sometimes more yellow. And every time, my cousin said crazy things that fascinated me. I did not understand what he was saying and why it was so remarkable and why my uncle was so proud of him and my father remained silent. I only listened to what he said, trying to memorize the words he used and the expressions and the sentences, even though I did not drink wine. Drinking was less important than listening. And trying to understand what was going on in the cellar, behind its huge metallic door.
    I used to go back down there, too. I sat on the steps and looked at the cellar door. Sometimes I touched the knob, without turning it in fear it would open. Or I put my ear at the mouth of the padlock to listen. Nothing. A cold metallic silence. Maybe I could try to look through the opening of the lock... Maybe not ... What if I saw something?
    Once my cousin came and he sat close to me. He asked me what I was doing there and I was not able to answer. He asked the question again. “Nothing”, I said. “Nothing? You can’t do nothing, this is impossible”. He was older than me and cleverer. I told him: “I am looking at the door of the cellar. Your dad said that this is where that the wine comes from. Is it true?
    “- Of course. Do you think that my father lies? There is wine in this cellar. This is what cellars are made for ...”
    “- There is no wine in our cellar. We park my bicycle in the cellar.”
    “- Impossible. You cannot park a bicycle in the cellar. You have to park your bicycle in a garage. A cellar is for wine”. And he left. I did not hear any sound coming from the other side of the door, that was closed and cold.
    III.
    Years passed. At school I learned that wine is made from grapes, after a long process of transformation, and not in cellars. But I also knew that my uncle had not lied to me. I was sure of that. And my cousin knew so many things about wine. All this remained strange and impossible to understand.
    Eventually, I found an explanation. Helped by a friend of mine, a girl who was peculiar herself. She was very intelligent. I trusted her and I I told her the whole story, starting with the cellar and the wine and my cousin. Everything. She smiled as if she had understood immediately. The day after, she came with a full bag of books. “You have to read these and then you’ll know”. So ... the solution was there ... maybe I had to be cautious. I put the bag aside and did not open it. Of course, when she asked me about the books, I miserably lied “Wow ... incredible, incredible”. “You have to read them, I tell you, you have to read them”, she kept saying, “if you want to understand what’s going on under your uncle’s house”.
    She was so certain that the books would reveal the answer. there was the solution. I opened the bag, spread the books on my bed and looked at the covers, which were golden and black with twisted faces and traces of red-blood. Lovecraft, Matheson ... these names did not tell me a thing. I selected one book and opened it and started to read. It took me all night and the next night to finish it. During the day, at school, I was dizzy because of the lack of sleep. But also because of what I had read. Then, I took a second book, and a third one. All the stories were similar. They were terrifying, but they were also very helpful to me. They were about big houses with huge black cold cellars, huge stairs that went deep under the earth and were inhabited by frightening creatures. Normal people like me or mum or my father disappeared in them. This was it. At that time, I was too young to understand what parallel worlds meant. And my uncle knew that, of course. He just told me what he could, that there was a mystery down there, under their house and that it was preferable not to know the secret. One in the family was enough, my cousin should know, period. This is why my uncle had warned me not to open the door. This is why he always asked his son to tell him about the wine. This was also why I should believe what he said about wine.
    IV.
    I tried to keep in touch with my cousin, bringing him wine each time I invited myself to his place. I asked him the question I remembered his father had asked, “So, what do you think? You like it?” and I mentally took note of what he said. When something he said was particularly interesting I went to the bathrooms and wrote it down. But it was not so difficult. Most of the time, he repeated more or less the same things. And I became quite learned, without drinking much of the wine I was able to describe the quality of wine with the words of my cousin. I did not open the door but I had discover the secret of the cellar.
    In the beginning, I did not care. I was even pleased by the tricks I was able to play. Especially when I went out with girls. I offered them a glass of wine and asked them the ritual question, “So, what do you think? You like it?”, and since most of the time they were not able to answer, I also gave them the words to go with the wine. Not my words for sure, but powerful ones altogether. And they loved that. How nice it was to see their eyes glitter with pleasure. I could not help repeating them.
    It lasted a while, but for some reason I started to feel ill at ease. The conviction that I was cheating everybody, my cousin, my girlfriends and myself tormented me. I also became certain that someone was spying on me, especially when I was dating. In the middle of less and less passionate kisses, I frantically turned my head away. Where were they? I did not see anybody but it did not mean anything to me. These were the people from the cellar. I had no doubt of their presence. Years ago, they saw me while I was seated in front of that door. Maybe some of them had slipped out of the cellar while my uncle went down to look for a bottle. But they have not forgotten me. They knew everything about me and my poor tricks. I had no choice: stop dating girls or no longer pretend to be an expert.
    I hesitated. I enjoyed both. But then I met Cassandra. It was the grand opening of the museum of R. They had built a new pavilion and there was a big feast and I was invited by chance as the guest of a guest ... I saw her as soon as I entered the room. She was standing in front of a picture, not particularly beautiful and not well dressed. But she attracted me. I spent most of the evening following her and at the very second she was alone, I was next to her. “I’ve always wondered which wine these guys had in their glasses”. It was not premeditated, it was all I found. She turned slowly her head, looked at me and laughed. It was so violent, crazy and at the same time pure as crystal. A faction of second, this laugh stopped all the noises. Of course, it was a Rembrandt. The name rang a bell. I was not really sure. Her eyes half-closed, she started to describe the painting, speaking of the density of the colors, “a dark painting but it smells of sun and of spring” did she say, and the depth of the characters, “their eyes are so intent”, and the movement, “it is so lively, probably one of my favorite paintings”. I was confused. I had no education about paintings and did not know that one could be so precise about them. I did my best not to be definitively ridiculous. “This is the same with wine”, I said, “Would you accept an invitation to drink a glass of wine?”. Once again, no premeditation. She agreed. I knew I was in love. I also knew that I had no choice now. I had to be true to her and to my cousin and to myself to gain her heart.
    V.
    It took me time. I had to choose the right bottle. I had to be sure of what I would say. I would not use my usual tricks and play with my cousin’s list of adjectives. I had to choose precisely those words that would reflect my feelings exactly. So I went to see Marie-Hélne, the French girl who sold wine close to my apartment. I proposed a deal: I would buy her most expansive bottle, we would taste it together and she would help me to understand what this wine was about. She was more than surprised, “You almost know wine better than I do”, she replied, “I am unable to teach you anything”. “Remember what you told me when we met for the first time? And you want me to believe that you are ignorant”. Yes, I had tricked her too. I wanted to explain that she was mistaken, that I was a kind of fraud and that I knew nothing about wine. Too difficult. Too risky. I insisted: “You jut to have to teach me about this one”. She smiled. Eventually, I convinced her. And eventually the Day arrived. I was ready.
    Cassandra was seated at my right on the nice couch I had bought a few weeks before. Can I say that she was more beautiful than ever? And that my conviction that I was close to something great was firmer than ever. Tonight, I would offer her a really expansive wine, coming from an open cellar, whichever it was, in which there were no dark forces at work and I would be able to explain to her why this wine was exceptional. And if all of this had some sense, it would happen. And, of course, I had invited my cousin. He was seated on a chair in front of me, would understand what I meant. The cellar door could remain closed or be opened for the rest of eternity, it would not change a thing.
    I gave them glasses, big and elegant glasses such as those my uncle gave us when we were young. My cousin’s wife said she did not drink, not even this one because she did not know anything about wine and it would be wasted on her. My cousin replied that he would give some to their son, who was playing at his foot with cars. The little boy resembles his father and his grand-father quite closely. He looked at the glass through his thick glasses. He sticked his nose in the glass, noisily sniffed and then gulped the liquid. And then ... all the words I heard coming from his mouth, all the words that I’ve heard from his father’s lips and that I’ve used for so many years. It was as if I were speaking though his mouth or as if he were speaking through mine. All my lines, so patiently and so exclusively rehearsed for the love of my life stolen by this little thing.
    This night when Cassandra kissed me adios— I never saw her again — I understood what my uncle had said, “You should never open the cellar door”.



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