The Wine That Accompanied a Life
The Story of Two Burgundian Pierre Duvaliers—from the 18th to the 21st Century
You can read the first part here...
Part 2. The Year 1984
Chapter 1
Two centuries have passed, but the story continues. In 1984, another Pierre Duvalier is born into a different Burgundy—one where life has changed, but wine still carries the memory of what came before.
🍷 Pierre Duvalier, 1984 — Burgundy
► Birth
Pierre Duvalier was born not in a stone house with a hearth, like his ancestor two centuries earlier, but in a small maternity ward in a town where vineyards began almost immediately beyond the last streets. Where there had once been the smells of smoke, bread, and damp stone, there were now different scents: soap, antiseptic, and something metallic—the aromas of cleanliness maintained not by habit, but by strict protocol.
From the hospital room window, one could see the spire of the old church—the very same one that had stood here through revolutions, wars, and changes of power. It still rose above the tiled rooftops of the surrounding houses. But now it was merely part of the landscape, no longer its center.
The room was bright and almost colorless. The lamps cast no shadows. The metal instruments gleamed coldly. Voices sounded calm, businesslike—without whispers or prayers.
When it was over, the midwife gave a short nod:
— A boy! Everything went well.
The mother was given water—plain water from a carafe. Her condition was checked, measured, recorded. The child was weighed; his height, weight, and time of birth were noted; a small tag with the mother’s name was attached to his wrist and his details were entered into a database. A new citizen of the French Republic had appeared.
No one offered the mother wine. No one considered it a strengthening remedy. No one said, “For recovery.”
Everything the mother’s body needed was now determined by a doctor, not by tradition or the experience of ancestors.
The mother closed her eyes. An IV stood beside her. Outside, it was slowly growing dark, and the church spire was clearly visible against the pink sky—but it had no role in what was happening.
A new life began under the light of neon lamps, not to the sound of church bells
► Returning Home
A few days later, the father brought them home. The car stopped at the gate, which opened by remote. There were no traces of horses or carts in the yard, no ground worn down by time and footsteps. Everywhere there was asphalt, which in the heat smelled faintly of tar.
The house had been prepared in advance for the arrival of the newborn and the mother: a crib, neatly folded diapers, disposable wipes, carefully sterilized small bottles laid out on the kitchen table. Everything was precise, thought through, hygienic.
By evening, relatives arrived—grandparents from both sides, an aunt, a cousin. Not the whole town, but enough to make the house feel warmer and a more alive.
The young mother was offered herbal tea. She settled comfortably on a sofa by the wall.
The father lingered for a moment in the kitchen, then took a key and went down to the cellar.
It was no longer filled with the dense darkness of the previous century. A lamp burned overhead. Barrels stood along the wall, but much of the wine had long since been bottled—neatly arranged in crates. Simple labels bore the vintage year, the grape variety, and the family name.
He took one of the bottles: not the oldest, but not the youngest either. One that had already had time to “settle.”
Upstairs, without ceremony, he pulled the cork and poured a little for himself, for his father, and for his father-in-law. Not demonstratively, not as an obligatory ritual—simply as a natural gesture.
— To my son, — he said.
No glass was offered to the mother. Not out of fear of consequences, but because this was no longer the custom.
The wine remained their own. But its role had changed
…⛪ The Baptism of Pierre Duvalier, 1984
A week passed. The house gradually grew accustomed to the new rhythm of breathing, to the quiet sounds of the night, to a routine that did not ask for permission.
One evening, when the child had finally fallen asleep, his wife, sitting on a chair, suddenly asked:
— Your parents had you baptized, didn’t they?
He nodded.
— Yes. And yours?
— Of course.
The pause was not heavy. Rather, it was cautious.
— Do you think we should do it too? — she asked.
He glanced toward the window. Beyond the rooftops, the spire of that same church was visible—the one that had stood here long before they were born.
— Probably, — he said. — It’s still our land, our church, our traditions.
There was no fear for the salvation of the soul in these words. No anxiety, no urgency. Only a sense of life continuing.
They did not rush. They set a date for a month later, called their parents, and arranged everything with the parish priest.
On the appointed Sunday, the old church greeted them with cool air and the scent of old stone and incense. There were few people—only close family. No sense of a collective village obligation. No haste or bustle.
The priest spoke in clear French. He did not recite long Latin formulas that few would understand. The water in the font was warm.
A drop touched the infant’s forehead. He cried—more from surprise than from cold. No one spoke of eternity, no one mentioned infant mortality. Everything followed a tradition, gently fitted into modern life.
After the service, they stepped out into the sunlit street. Someone took a photograph—to preserve the moment not in a parish register, but in a family album.
The name Pierre Duvalier was recorded in several places at once:
in the civil registry—by law,
in the church book—by tradition,
in the memory of the family—by love.
And that was enough.
🤱 Feeding. 1984
The first weeks at home passed both slowly and quickly at once. The days were made up of feedings, short stretches of sleep, quiet conversations in the kitchen, and an endless stream of advice—from the grandmother, from the neighbor, and from books.
On the table lay a thin brochure given at the maternity ward. In a highlighted box it read:
“Alcohol during breastfeeding is not recommended.”
The phrase sounded dry and official. Not like a prohibition, but like a warning.
The mother read it twice and paused to think.
That evening, when her husband once again went down to the cellar—just to check how the wine was “breathing”—he came back with a bottle in his hand.
— Will you have a little? — he asked, almost out of habit.
She shook her head.
— No. I’ll wait. It’s not recommended.
Not because she was afraid or considered it a sin. Simply because there was now more knowledge on the subject.
Her mother, sitting at the table, said softly:
— No one used to forbid us anything.
There was no reproach in her voice. Only a quiet surprise at how much had changed.
Her daughter smiled.
— People think differently now.
The wine had not disappeared from the house. As usual, it stood on the table on Sundays. It was poured for guests, for relatives, for themselves. It was discussed—its color, its aroma, the weather of the corresponding summer were recalled.
But beside the baby’s crib, there was no jug. And no one said, “So there will be more milk.”
In this house, tradition remained—but filtered through new knowledge
🍷 The House Where Wine Remains
In the first months of his life, the newborn Pierre knew nothing of grape varieties or the aroma of wine. He recognized only the warmth of his mother’s hands, the soft light, and the rhythm of voices in the house.
But just beyond the windows, the vines began. They were neatly trimmed, marked with small signs, divided by variety. They were discussed at dinner—like the weather, like the news, like plans for the autumn. A conversation about a hot July always meant a conversation about the future harvest.
In the cellar, an electric lamp was lit. Barrels stood there, along with crates of labeled bottles. Wine was no longer drawn directly from wooden casks with a ladle, as it once had been. It was bottled, aged, sometimes sold, sometimes given as a gift.
It was no longer the family’s only source of livelihood, but it remained part of its fabric
Little Pierre had not yet taken a single sip. No one brought a wine-dipped finger to his lips. No one joked about “getting him used to it from infancy.”
But the environment was already forming. He was growing up in a land where wine does not proclaim itself loudly, but simply exists alongside life. And this quiet, constant presence was becoming part of his world long before he would understand its taste.
🍷 The First Glass
…Pierre is seven years old
Summer. A long table in the yard. The vineyards are already green, but the harvest is still far off. The adults are seated at the table—grandfather, grandmother, parents, a neighbor who always comes “for a minute” and stays until sunset.
On the table: bread, cheese, salad, a jug of water, and an open bottle of wine.
Pierre watches as his father pours. He already knows how to count, read, and ask questions. He knows that at school they speak of alcohol as something “for adults.” The teacher pronounces the word “danger” carefully, but distinctly.
He reaches toward the bottle with his eyes. His father notices.
— Water for you, — he says calmly.
No emphatic “you’re too young.” Just a rule that needs to be learned.
Pierre does not argue. He already knows that there are things that will happen—but “later.” Like driving a car, like voting in elections, like watching late-night films on television.
The grandfather, with a faint smile, says:
— At your age, we were already allowed to taste.
His daughter gives him a quick glance.
— Times are different. You didn’t know much back then.
No one argues further, understanding that the topic is a delicate one. Everyone keeps their own opinion.
Pierre takes a sip of water and listens again to the adults’ conversation—about the weather, about prices, about how much the harvest might sell for through the cooperative.
In the next room, the television is on. The volume is low, but the voice of the announcer still breaks through in the pauses between sentences.
— They’re showing those soldiers in the desert again, — says the grandfather, nodding toward the screen.
— It’s not the kind of war it used to be, — the father replies. — Now it’s almost shown live.
On the screen—a distant desert, military vehicles painted in sand colors, flashes at night, gunfire. Pierre watches through the doorway. He still finds it difficult to understand exactly where it is happening, but he knows the word “Iraq.” It is heard often.
— France is there too, — adds his father-in-law. — Ours are involved.
The grandfather grunts:
— At least it’s not a Russian winter.
He does not explain what he means. But the father understands. He knows the family history—about the cold, about Napoleon’s retreat, about the Berezina, which had been discussed at home more than once.
Pierre looks again at the glasses. The wine in them is dark, calm. Outside—green vines. Here, everything is steady. There—sand, fire, fear.
— The world has become smaller, — says the mother. — Everything is visible at once.
— And faster, — the father replies.
Pierre takes another sip of water. He does not yet understand politics, but he already senses: the adults’ conversations have changed. They speak not only about weather and harvest. They speak about the world.
The wine remains on the table.
The television continues to run.
Burgundy is where it has always been.
But the world around it is changing faster than the grapes grow
In the 18th century, attitudes toward wine were shaped through everyday life.
A child observed how adults drank and gradually entered that practice.
By the end of the 20th century, everyday life had been supplemented by rules: age restrictions, school explanations, and medical recommendations. They became part of the environment.
Yet example still remained—the father drank slowly, the grandfather discussed the harvest. The older generation might view the new norms with skepticism, recalling their own childhood, but they did not argue with them or try to overturn them.
Moderation now existed in two forms—in habit and in modern formulation.
Pierre had not yet received his diluted glass of wine. But he understood something else: moderation was now defined not only by the family, but also by the rules of society.
Wine remained on the table. But the boundary around it was drawn differently
🍇 Autumn 1998
Pierre is fourteen.
The alarm clock rings earlier than usual—at five thirty in the morning. Outside, it is still gray. His father is already in the kitchen, silently drinking strong coffee without sugar, with a croissant. Gloves and pruning shears lie on the table.
— Today you’re coming with us, — he says.
No initiation. Simply the right age has come.
In the vineyard, everything looks different from the old photographs hanging in the grandfather’s living room. A rented tractor moves between the rows—taken from the cooperative. The crates are plastic, lighter than the old wooden ones. The pruning shears are modern, comfortable, spring-loaded.
But you still have to bend down, just as two hundred years ago. The clusters are still heavy. The juice still sticks to the fingers, and the persistent bees are no more merciful than their ancestors two centuries earlier.
After two hours, the fingers begin to ache; then the shirt sticks to the back. By noon, the back starts to hurt.
— Now you’re beginning to understand the work in the vineyard, — says the grandfather, handing him a bottle of water.
Pierre nods. He is no less tired than that Pierre two centuries ago. Only now there is no cart—instead, a trailer for the harvested grapes. And the press in the yard is already made of stainless steel, with a pressure gauge, electric drive, and temperature control.
When the pressed juice begins to flow, the father says:
— Technology helps. But the harvest still depends on the sky.
This is something his great-grandfather could have said as well.
Pierre feels the fatigue in his back and hands. Not for show — real.
His father wipes his palms on a cloth, looks at him, and says calmly:
— You worked well. But wine—not yet.
There is no sense of punishment in his voice. It sounds like a rule he himself accepts.
Pierre nods. He knows—at school they spoke about the legal age. And at home, this rule is not openly broken either.
The grandfather stands a little aside. He is silent, listening attentively to the conversation.
When the father went off to check the press, the grandfather slowly approached Pierre. In his hands was a plastic cup of pressed juice—still cloudy, warm, with a light foam on top.
— It isn’t wine yet, — he said quietly. — It is juice that, in time, will become it.
He handed him the cup and tilted it just enough for Pierre to take the smallest sip.
The taste was tart, almost sharp. Not at all what he had expected, after hearing people at the table speak of “softness” and “aroma.”
Pierre blinked. The grandfather smiled.
— Remember the taste of labor.
The sound of the father’s steps came over the gravel. The grandfather quickly set the cup down on the edge of a barrel. The father said nothing. He only held his gaze for a second—then looked away.
No one argued. No one broke the rules aloud, but everyone understood everything.
Tradition and rules existed side by side—each within its own bounds
Pierre wiped his lips with the back of his hand and looked again at the vines. Now he knew the taste not only from conversations about wine. He had tasted it himself.
If rules changed faster than the world around them, the land changed more slowly than human behavior
🎉 Summer 2001
The First Glass of His Own
Pierre is seventeen.
A stage stands in front of the town hall. The music drowns out the conversations. Tables are arranged along the street. The adults sit separately. The younger crowd gathers near to the speakers.
Wine is served in plastic cups. Not from a barrel in the courtyard, but through a token stand. Pierre stands with his friends. One of them is already holding a cup.
— You’re from a winemaking family, — someone laughs. — You’re allowed.
It sounds like a joke, but there’s an expectation in it.
Pierre takes a cup. He takes a sip. Not secretly. Not defiantly. He knows the rules, remembers his parents’ conversations, has not forgotten the lessons at school.
But he already knows the taste of the vine. The difference now is that the choice is his to make.
No one says anything. No one says, “Don’t rush.”
And he drinks slowly. Not because he is afraid,
but because he grew up among people who take their time with wine.
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