Deadly Tasting (6 page)

Dubourdieu enumerated all the spectacular years for Pétrus. Starting in 1947 and ending in 2000, there were ten of them. “Those were huge years: 1947, 1959, 1961, 1964, 1970, 1982, 1995, 1996, 1998, and 2000!” Dubourdieu said, his face animated.

“They were miraculous years!” Benjamin, carried away by his enthusiasm, was almost shouting. He agreed with his friend that there were no mediocre Pétruses, only a few that weren’t quite as successful. Some needed to be consumed sooner than others, and these were not the jewels of the domain. But even a harshly judged Pétrus was better than most other great wines. The demands of the harvest, the special attention to the farming methods, the winemaking process elevated to a fine art—nothing was left to chance by this producer, which jealously guarded its mysteries and prestige.

Benjamin and Dubourdieu agreed that the 1978 was one of the rare disappointing Pétruses. All merlots had suffered greatly that year, but those in following vintages had kept their promise. Several wines from the nineteen eighties had been remarkable, and the 1995 and the 1998 surpassed all expectations. Some flowed in the glass like a dream, whether austere or smooth, tannic or silky, intense or light, exuberant or reserved. In each case, the Pétrus was an elegant wine, full-bodied, always distinguished, luminous, ample, and harmonious in the mouth. It had varying aromas of black and purple fruits, wood, licorice, cinnamon, raspberry, and truffle.

When Virgile Lanssien burst into his office, Benjamin was expressing his regret at not having had the chance to taste the 1950, 1952, 1953, and 1954, at their peak, toward the end of the nineteen sixties.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir. Inspector Barbaroux would like to meet with you. He is waiting at 75 Rue des Bahutiers!”

“Right now?”

“So I believe.”

§ § §

Benjamin was in a fowl mood when he arrived with his assistant at the crime-scene tape blocking the way to the Saint Pierre neighborhood. He had said good-bye to his friend Franck Dubourdieu a little too brusquely but promised to invite him to dinner at Grangebelle. He would have a bottle of Pétrus on hand. That was the least he could do and a lovely way to ask forgiveness for breaking off their nearly rapturous visit. Perhaps Elisabeth would prepare the leg of venison in their freezer. They would savor it with a thick
grand veneur
red wine sauce. Just thinking about it made him salivate and eagerly anticipate the day he could finally banish the lingering odor of cabbage soup.

In the apartment, the inspector greeted them with a sly grin. Benjamin didn’t think it was quite appropriate. He spotted two bare legs on the green linoleum but couldn’t see the rest of the body, as it was behind a brown velour armchair. The winemaker made the sign of the cross without attempting to camouflage his gesture. Behind the armchair, two officers from the forensics team were bending over the body. Benjamin, scanning the wrinkled skin and purple varicose veins on the legs, guessed that the victim was elderly.

“Édouard Prébourg, eighty-eight years old. Same demise.”

“And the glasses again?” Benjamin asked, still staring at the legs.

“Four wine glasses filled and eight empty, as you would expect. The same staging!”

Benjamin told Virgile to wait in the hallway while he tasted the wine in the living room. The woman in the white coat, who had been at all the previous scenes, asked the captain for permission to cover the body with a blanket. It was a sight the winemaker didn’t need to see, she said.

“You don’t think he’s afraid of an old pair of balls, do you?” the inspector responded.

Barbaroux let out a hearty laugh. Benjamin saw the woman shudder. He pretended that he hadn’t heard the exchange and proceeded with the tasting. He brought each glass to his lips, turned toward the inspector, and shrugged.

“Send the samples to the same person,” he said simply. “You know who it is. I’ve just come from my office, where I was talking with him.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Barbaroux asked. He wasn’t grinning now. He looked concerned.

“I’m expected at my lab, and I don’t have time to stay,” Benjamin grumbled as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“But I have a number of things to ask you.”

“If you don’t mind, we’ll see to all that tomorrow.”

The winemaker didn’t give the inspector a chance to pursue the conversation. He turned on his heels, nodded good-bye to the forensics team, and walked out of the living room, taking care to look away from the bloody remains of Édouard Prébourg.

The afternoon was long and tedious. Alexandrine de la Palussière had methodically prepared the testing. And Benjamin, assisted by the careful and silent Virgile, tasted no fewer than sixty-three wines from Languedoc-Roussillon without uttering a word. He tasted, spat into the sink, made notes, and repeated the process over and over with a determination verging on obsession. Beads of sweat formed at his temples, and now and then he wiped them away while gritting his teeth. Benjamin knew he was swearing far too much. He hardly ever swore, and now he had done it five times in the space of a few hours. Virgile was surely becoming concerned. He knew his assistant had never seen him so much on edge.

At the end of the day, Benjamin felt nauseous and dizzy. He almost fainted. Virgile ran over to keep Benjamin from falling and grabbed a chair for him. As usual, Virgile’s gestures were clumsy. He didn’t seem to know exactly how to help. Benjamin grumbled and asked to be left in peace. He dismissed his assistant with the wave of a hand and an irritated sigh. He waited for the nausea to subside, stood up slowly, and left without saying good-bye to the rest of the staff.

Once on the street, Benjamin breathed in the cold night air and walked carefully toward the Allées de Tourny. At his side, Virgile looked anxious and frightened.

“We’re going to the office?”

“So it appears,” Benjamin grumbled.

“Maybe it’s not a good idea to go back to work so late, especially after that fainting spell you just had.”

“Who says I’m going to work? I’m going to the office to get warm and heat up the rest of that soup before I drive home!”

Once in the hallway, Benjamin threw his coat over a chair and headed toward the microwave. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights. There was enough illumination from the streetlights outside to see where he was going.

“Please, let me warm up the soup for you,” Virgile said as he turned on the overhead lights.

“Let me do it, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t ask you!”

“It’s all ready to go. Just set the timer for a minute and a half,” the assistant dared to say as he slipped behind Jacqueline’s empty desk.

Benjamin struggled with the microwave and cursed the “fucking electronic piece of shit” twice before punching in the numbers and slamming the door shut. He didn’t hear Virgile pick up Jacqueline’s phone. Nor did he hear his assistant talking in hushed tones with Elisabeth, who had been waiting for him at Grangebelle.

“Mrs. Cooker? I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, my dear Virgile.”

“You really have to do something for your husband, ma’am.”

“But what can I do for you? Speak up, I can hardly hear you.”

“I’m worried about him,” the assistant whispered. “He just had a dizzy spell…”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No, rest assured. But in my opinion, he’s dying of hunger. He can’t take it anymore!”

“Probably a little hypoglycemia. He needs to eat his soup regularly throughout the day.”

“You know him. He doesn’t always have the time.”

“I’m counting on your influence, Virgile,” Elisabeth said.

“There’s more to it, Mrs. Cooker. He’s really not easy… How can I say it? Well, he’s almost impossible to bear since you put him on that diet. Please forgive me for being so blunt.”

“I’ve been thinking of you these last few days, and I do feel sorry for you, Virgile. I can only imagine the foul mood he’s been in at the office.”

“Well, actually, as a matter of fact, ‘foul’ is exactly the word for it. I would never want to interfere in your personal life, ma’am, but I do hope you understand what I’m getting at. Are you sure that we have to do this diet thing all the way to day seven?”

7

The two representatives of Cooker & Co. were greeted with deference by a sallow-complexioned maid with gray hair. She invited them into the living room to await Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet. She offered them tea, which they happily accepted as they sat down awkwardly on the worn cushions of the Louis XV chairs. The apartment was posh without being the least bit flashy. Everything around them suggested the faded comfort and timeless elegance of provincial aristocracy. The woodwork, crown molding, and stucco rosettes on the ceiling, the printed fabric on the walls, the thick velour curtains held in place by silk braided tiebacks: the entire décor seemed to have weathered the decades without succumbing to the influence of fashion.

The master of the house arrived. He was out of breath, and his face was pink and sweaty. He greeted them with firm handshakes and sat down in the closest chair without bothering to remove his raincoat, buttoned to the chin, as usual. Renaud Duboyne de Ladonnet blended perfectly with his apartment: his stiff and formal demeanor, his dated hairstyle, the thick lenses of his glasses, which curiously matched the thick crystals hanging from the chandeliers, his signet ring, which mirrored the cherrywood coat of arms on the fireplace, the cut of his trench coat, the rumpled corduroy pants hemmed too high, the patina of his shoes on the worn threads of the Persian carpet. Everything about him seemed in perfect harmony with this antiquated theater, which was custom-made for an obsessive and nostalgic historian.

Benjamin had recovered his strength and forgotten his scare of the night before. This fourth day of the diet promised to be more flexible. To the inevitable cabbage soup, three bananas and a quart of skimmed milk had been added. His efforts were further rewarded when he stepped on the scale as he came out of the shower and found that he had lost seven pounds. His wife had kissed him on the chest and pinched his hips. She had then become quite affectionate in the warm steam of the bathroom. Still enveloped in Elisabeth’s gardenia perfume, he had left Grangebelle three-quarters of an hour late but with a light heart and a soothed mind.

Renaud, still in his raincoat, asked his housekeeper to prepare another pot of tea. He got out of his chair, walked over to a small card table, and picked up a black dossier cinched with a beige ribbon. He returned to his chair and slowly opened the document.

“I’ve done some research for you, gentlemen, and I’ve finally found a bit of information on Jules-Ernest Grémillon. He belonged to the Fire group, starting in January, 1941. A few months later he joined the National Popular Rally. He also belonged to the Association of Friends of Marshall Pétain, which had a rather active committee in the region.”

“What do you mean by active?” Benjamin asked, resting his cup on the rosewood-inlay table beside his chair.

“They organized many high-profile undertakings and much propaganda, meetings and shows, theatrical performances, and sporting events, as well as some charitable activities, especially regular visits to needy families. Members also worked in the Médoc vineyards, as did some members of the Malice française.”

“Well, what do you know!” Virgile exclaimed, his eyes wide. The Milice française was a much-feared paramilitary organization during the occupation, well known for the tactics it used against the Resistance. “I had no idea that members of this militia also worked in the vineyards to compensate for the lack of manpower.”

“Absolutely!” Renaud said. “I don’t have the exact list of all the estates that accepted their help, but there were quite a few. It would have been senseless to refuse such valuable help when most men were away from home.”

“And was this only in the Médoc?” Benjamin asked. “Never in the Pomerol area, by any chance?”

“How do I know? Perhaps, but I have no information about that.”

Benjamin sensed that Renaud was embarrassed. He didn’t seem to like admitting that he lacked an important piece of information. The young man strove to be infallible and no doubt would correct this gap in his self-education.

“The wine world was especially disrupted by the war,” Renaud went on, picking up a batch of hastily scribbled sheets of paper. “Especially since certain Nazi dignitaries were quite fond of grand cru wines. Hermann Goering was crazy about Bordeaux wines, while Joseph Goebbels preferred Burgundies. Incidentally, they quickly set up a whole system allowing them to amass a fortune in French wines. Several so-called
weinführers
were assigned to the biggest French wine-growing regions at the beginning of the occupation. They were in charge of acquiring the best wines and having them transported to Germany. Of course, it was expected that they would pay the lowest price possible and resell at huge profits in the international market. In Bordeaux, there was a man named Heinz Bömers who was at the mercy of Goering’s whims. He seemed to be a decent man, rather… How can I describe him?”

Renaud hesitated and pushed his thick glasses back up his nose as he searched for just the right words to describe this German, whose reputation he obviously did not want to sully. Their host’s silence dragged on a bit, and Virgile poured himself another cup of tea. Benjamin finally decided to get them back on track.

“I haven’t discussed this painful period with many people from Bordeaux, but some old landowners have spoken about him in mostly positive terms.”

“I’m not surprised that you’ve heard about him,” Renaud said. “The Bömers, who were an upper-class family from Bremen, were very involved in wine brokering before the war. And when Heinz, who inherited the business, was forced to accept the job of agent for the Nazis—or put his family at risk—he managed to do so on his own terms. He refused to wear the Nazi uniform, to plunder châteaux, or to allow any abuses by the troops. Strangely enough, Hermann Goering, who hated the Bömers family, was the one who sent him to Bordeaux.”

“Was it the Bömers who owned the Château Smith-Haut-Lafitte before World War One?” Benjamin asked.

“Exactly! Because they were German expats, their property was expropriated during the First World War. But after the war, they were still able to maintain close ties in the region. That’s why this
weinführer
was welcomed by everyone in the business when he arrived after the Franco-German armistice was signed in 1940. Even though he was working for the Germans, Heinz Bömers was a decent guy and a Francophile at heart. He was accommodating and had kept up relations with certain companies in Bordeaux. All the wine producers adapted to the situation, and there was no other choice but to sell to Germany, because the American and British markets were closed. Otherwise, what would they have done with all their wine? Dump it into the Garonne River?”

“How much wine are we talking about, more or less?”

“It varied. He could easily buy almost a million bottles in one order. Suffice it to say that the Chartrons merchants were eager to please when the
weinführer
took an interest in their companies. For his part, he hated people who thought they needed to grovel at his feet. He behaved rather well. His prices were appropriate for the most part, and I think it’s fair to say he helped the Bordeaux region sell off the medium-quality wine that congested the warehouses after the bad vintages of the nineteen thirties. By the way, his attitude was not necessarily looked upon favorably by the higher-ups. Goering summoned him to Berlin three times to reprimand him.”

The teapot was empty and Renaud called his housekeeper, who appeared so quickly, Benjamin thought she might have been listening at the door. She picked up the teapot and left without acknowledging Benjamin or Virgile. Her colorless complexion and white hair blended in with the room’s washed-out colors.

“I imagine you’ve heard of Louis Eschenauer?” the host asked, slipping a piece of onionskin paper out of the dossier.

“The one everyone in Chartrons called Uncle Louis?” Benjamin said. “He was a strange fellow, it seems.”

“To say the least,” Renaud agreed, exposing his teeth in a foolish-looking grin. “He was seventy years old during the occupation, and you could say he had already seen a thing or two.”

“Never heard of him!” Virgile interjected.

“You might not have, but you’re certainly familiar with the Eschenauer family. They were from Alsace originally, but they have been important wine merchants and estate owners in Bordeaux since 1821. This particular Eschenauer was an amiable man—he was also called the king of Bordeaux—and very clever, as well. During Prohibition in the United States, for example, he pulled off a fabulous scheme to send Sauternes and other white wines to American clients in crystal vials labeled ‘Roman bath water.’ He did very well with that. More tea, gentlemen?”

Benjamin and Virgile held out their cups and made themselves comfortable in their chairs to listen to the adventures of this character nicknamed Uncle Louis. With statistics in hand, Renaud described his business activities and risky investments, his passion for modern art, his stable of race horses, his numerous sports cars, his romantic disappointments, his eccentricities, his winter vacations in Egypt, and his friendship with Joachim von Ribbentrop, who, once he had become foreign affairs minister of the Third Reich, had helped him increase his revenues considerably.

“When the war broke out, more than half of his company’s business was already coming from Germany, and it seemed natural to continue this relationship when Bömers, the
weinführer
, arrived in Bordeaux, especially because Louis Eschenauer was the uncle of Captain Ernst Kühnemann, the German wine merchant who had been given command of Bordeaux’s port,” Renaud explained.

“Virgile, here’s an intriguing tidbit: at the time Uncle Louis owned Le Chapon Fin, where we’ve enjoyed many a fine meal. Uncle Louis used the restaurant to entertain Kühnemann, Bömers, and other prominent Germans. Needless to say, the German patrons of Le Chapon Fin were not subject to any restrictions and obviously enjoyed the best crus of Médoc, Saint-Émilion, and beyond.”

Renaud shifted in his seat and went on, “Uncle Louis was a show-off, arrogant, and smug about his successes to the point of arousing resentment among his acquaintances in Bordeaux. And he was as opportunistic as they come. For example, he snatched up two Jewish estates after they had been abandoned. He kept them productive during the occupation. But no one ever heard him utter a disparaging remark about the Jews. Many of the Rothschilds had fled Bordeaux, and Baron Philippe de Rothschild had joined the British military. It’s believed that Uncle Louis interceded for the Rothschilds while they were gone and succeeded in keeping much of the estate’s wine from being seized. It’s also believed that he did much behind the scenes to protect the city of Bordeaux, as well as the region. After the allied invasion, his nephew was given the assignment of destroying the port. Although this hasn’t been confirmed, some think the port was spared because of Uncle Louis.”

Benjamin and Virgile sipped at their tea without a word.

“When the Resistance forces arrested him a few days after the occupying forces left, he really did not realize the danger he was in. He defended himself poorly and was sentenced to two years in prison. His property was seized, and he was forced to pay a penalty of sixty-two million francs. In addition, he was permanently banned from doing business in Bordeaux,” Renaud continued.

“In my opinion, Uncle Louis was made an example because he had a high profile during the occupation,” Renaud said as he blew on his steaming tea. “But he certainly wasn’t the only businessman who collaborated with the enemy, and as far as I’m concerned, he had no blood on his hands. I don’t even think he bought into the Nazi ideology. Compared with certain crooks who made out just fine, they were unduly harsh with Uncle Louis. Just compare his case with Maurice Papon’s.”

“That scum!” Virgile said, gritting his teeth.

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Benjamin said calmly. “Papon was worse than scum. He was a behind-the-scenes criminal with no conscience. The worst possible kind. I’ve always wondered how a fairly intelligent and well-educated guy could agree to send hundreds of people to their death. As simple that, with a stroke of his pen! Just a signature at the bottom of a business form!”

Virgile nodded while Renaud leafed through the file.

“Accomplice to murder, abuse of authority, arrest orders, deportation orders.” Benjamin ticked off the charges and the evidence in a monotone. “I think Papon was nothing but a cold and meticulous technician, an agent of organized death. Given the conclusive case against him, I don’t understand how he could have had the arrogance to justify himself.”

“If you’re interested, Mr. Cooker, I have some photocopies of papers he signed while he performed his duties as secretary general of the Gironde prefecture. Most of them are internment orders to the Mérignac camp.”

“There was an internment camp at Mérignac?” asked Virgile.

“At the Beaudésert site, at a place called Pichey,” Renaud said. “At the corner of the Avenue des Marronniers and the Avenue de l’Hippodrome. After each roundup, Jews, communists, gypsies, and others deemed undesirable were confined to barracks there, in the cold and vermin-filled filth, with no food at all. It was just a half mile as the crow flies from Pey-Berland. Then they were deported. During the time Papon was in charge, more than ten train convoys took deportees to the concentration camp at Drancy near Paris, the last stop before the gas chambers at Auschwitz. Look, here’s the list.”

Benjamin took the paper and skimmed it before handing it to his assistant, who began to read it aloud.

July 18, 1942, one hundred and sixty-one people; August 26, 1942, four hundred and forty-three people; September 21, 1942, seventy-one people; October 26, 1942, seventy-three; February 2, 1943, one hundred and seven; June 7, 1943, thirty-four; November 25, 1943, ninety-two; December 30, 1943, one hundred and thirty-six; January 12, 1944, three hundred and seventeen; May 13, 1944, fifty; June 5, 1944, seventy-six.

“I will never look at that city the same way again, especially when I walk along the platforms at the Saint Jean train station,” Virgile said. His voice sounded constricted. Benjamin felt sure it was because of the lump in his throat.