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.
