"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".
