For the two boys, and for their village, life was lived to the rhythm of the vineyards and the harvest. Each period brought its own joys, and each cabaret, bistro, café and restaurant bore the red bouquet of their harvest. They were proud to serve “Le clos Berthaud”, “La Goutte d'or”, "Le Sacalie”, “La Sauvageonne” or “Le Picolo”. There was no small pride in producing one’s own divine nectar, a rejuvenating elixir that soothed the souls of artists, dreamers and outcasts. It was a pleasure of the senses that bloomed in paintings, novels and poetic verses; in all that enlivened the spirit. Montmartre was nothing if not a festive place, where a feeling of freedom hung over the cobbled alleyways. Here they stood above Paris and its grey rooftops, and their view spanned the whole of that great city. Here they were as gods atop Mount Olympus, or as kings on the ramparts of some lofty fortress. Jules and Gaston’s parents had sent them out to help the winemakers of Montmartre harvest their grapes, telling them: “Work hard, now! The vintners will give you something for your toil.” So it was that the two lads, dressed in their traditional garb, set about their work with gusto among the ripe, sweet-smelling grapes. The sun was high and all the locals were out and about, admiring the workers who would soon be celebrating the end of the harvest and the start of their merrymaking. Jules swallowed the grapes with pleasure. They were sweet as candies. He was not yet old enough to drink wine like his Papa, a mechanic on the hill, who always kept a fine bottle near his tool kit. “When your hands are in the grease all day, you need something to keep your spirits up,” he argued when Jules’ mother complained. But this year, perhaps Jules would be allowed to taste the fruit of his labours. “I want to find out what it tastes like, and why everyone drinks it,” replied Gaston, stuffing a bunch into his mouth.
Montmartre was one of the oldest vineyards in France. Located on the north face of the hill, the neighbourhood was full of working-class charm. It had soul, and freedom. This was not Paris, it was Montmartre. The hill became a winemaking fief in the 16th century, but just a hundred years later the wine of Montmartre had become an inferior claret reserved for local consumption. A popular saying of the time mocked its poor quality, seeming to indicate it was used only as a diuretic: “With Montmartre wine, he who drinks a pint will later piss a quart.” (A quart was double the size of a pint). In the early 17th century, on the site of the modern-day Clos-Montmartre, a rustic dance hall was erected. It was known as Le Parc de la Belle Gabrielle, taking its name from a neighbouring house that belonged to Gabrielle d'Estrées, mistress of King Henri IV. It was a house that suited the charming immorality of the place. As for the hill, three quarters of its surface were covered with vines, and the wine, which was exempt from licensing since it was served outside Paris, encouraged the establishment of taverns and cabarets.
This year, the vintners had invited the public and the people of Montmartre to a demonstration of the traditional harvest. Jules and Gaston carried the fruits they had collected to the Montmartre cellars for pressing. To their delight, the children were to be allowed to stomp on the grapes atop the great wooden vat. The juice that would run between the slats would be the reward for their labour. “Just the one glass, you hear?” their parents had told them.
Alan Alfredo Geday