Easy to Like (15 page)

“C-come Elliot. I'd, um, forgotten
about it but I wanted to show you my, aaah, wine cellar, get your views, show me
how many of those terrible Californians I've salted away,” he said.

Rainblatt hung off Elliot until they
reached the steps to the basement. By comparison, locomotion down the stairs in
the narrow passage was comparatively easy. He held a rail and, with his shoulder
pressed to the wall, more or less slid down.

The cellar was large for a home.
Perhaps an earlier owner was a serious wino. Rainblatt's collection looked, at
first glance, to be typical of what you saw in basements: wines that had been
kept too long under the mistaken impression they would improve, the occasional
trophy label received as a gift with a transparent cash value. Elliot had been
asked to perform this same task on several occasions. Sometimes you found a gem
or, better, an oddity with a good story. Rainblatt got purchase with an elbow on
an empty shelf as Elliot started, with some dread, to give the bottles his
attention.

“I don't know who else to to t-talk
t-to, Elliot,” said Rainblatt, his voice pitching up involuntarily.

“Oh
no
,”
thought Elliot, keeping his eyes on the wines to avoid Rainblatt's. So this was
the reason for all the chumminess: Rainblatt had some personal problem, a
disgruntled mistress, money woes, a secret he wanted to unburden himself of or,
worse, was seeking assistance in solving.

“I still have a few friends in Ottawa,”
Rainblatt began, “but most of those I'd call allies have been pensioned off or
shown the door.” In the lower reaches of the rack Elliot thought he saw a
Châteauneuf-du-Pape by Henri Bonneau. He withdrew it. A 1978. Gentle Jesus in
the garden, a '78 Bonneau.

“The current government, well, they are
no friends of the CBC, I mean ahhhh philosophically they would be opposed, but
it is much more than that. They really believe that we have some sort of
v-vendetta against them.”

“Yes,” said Elliot, noting that there
were two bottles of the Bonneau, a ferrous blood tonic, a sap with the polish of
vintage port that, without residual sugar, challenged fundamental perceptions of
dry and sweet. “. . . the Liberals, I see,” he murmured, in response to
something he'd not quite heard.

“No, no,” said Rainblatt. “
Neo
-liberals, as in the global economic movement, in
an unholy alliance with evangelical Christians, at least while they have a
shared agenda.”

“Of course,” said Elliot.

“And I'm sure you've heard these ahhhh
conspiracy theories about Stanford's reign, how he bungled things on purpose,
that he was a saboteur acting on behalf of some sinister right-wing
cah-cah-cabal in Ottawa.”

“The conspiracy theory,
yes . . .”

Next to the Bonneau, Elliot saw, there
were at least six bottles of the 1990 Rayas. There was an unopened case of 1998
Pignan on the floor. Someone with a sophisticated palate, knowledge and
connections, and wads of cash was buying the best of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It
could not be Rainblatt. “These wines from the southern Rhône,
Victor . . .?”

“I never bought it, I took Heydrich's
mistakes for conventional incompetence,” Rainblatt continued. “But now —”

“There are some exceptional wines
here.”

“There's always been talk of
privatization, but I never bought it. I never thought it could fly, ahhhhh,
politically. The Canadian public wouldn't stand for it.”

“No, of course not,” said Elliot. “The
Canadian public, never.” Now he saw several bottles of Beaucastel's 2005
old-vine Roussanne, a veritable
confiture
of figs
and white flowers. Whoever had acquired these wines was intimate with the
region.

“But we have to accept that after the
past few years, with ahhhh viewership down, the radio audience aging, the old
platforms maybe coming to their end, maybe the public has less invested than
they, they used to. And immigrants, I mean New New Canadians, the CBC means ahhh
nothing to them.”

“I wouldn't say that,” said Elliot, now
rooting through the bottles with fervour.

“These friends of mine in Ottawa tell
me that the Prime Minister's Office has commissioned a study, all very
huh-huh-hush-hush, secret, to investigate the sale, in whole or in part, of the
organization. They've gotten it into their heads . . .”

It was in shifting a very
vieux
bottle of Vieux Télégraphe that Elliot saw them,
just two of them, beneath dust icing, the only adornment on their labels a rough
line rendering of a single key. The thought first occurred to him that it was
some common symbol on labels from the region, a now meaningless crest signifying
loyalty to some sub-sect of . . . but then he saw the word
Isabelle
and, without hesitating, with a grasp
that was ginger but sure, withdrew the bottle from its iron cuff.

“. . . perhaps he was being
p-paranoid.” Rainblatt's speech was now racing, as if he needed to get
everything out before being found out. “But at the same time there was a
meeting, with only the Minister of Heritage himself, with representatives of
CCTV.”

Elliot placed the bottle upright on the
floor. The cloudy green glass container, unlike the contemporary bourguignonne
version for Rhône wines, was in the normande shape, with steeply sloped wide
shoulders atop a tapered cylinder. Elliot knew that the type of bottle used by
the estate could be variable, that they had even, being both economical and
contrary minded, put it in cheaply acquired Alsatian flutes in the 1959 vintage.
The fluid within was level with the shoulders.

“With CTV, that's terrible,” said
Elliot.

“No, CCTV, the Chinese national
broadcaster. I know this seems incredible but there are other
indications . . .” Rainblatt was panting.

The label on the wine bottle was
crumbling but clear. There it was, in flowing script:
Isabelle d'Orange
. In the lower left-hand corner in another typeface
was the indication of vintage:
année 1961
. Elliot
was about to say something, tell Rainblatt that he was in possession of a most
unusual bottle of wine, one that Elliot coveted, but he stopped himself.

“These
are . . . startling revelations, Victor.” Elliot hoped
Rainblatt would repeat them another time, so he could actually hear what they
were.

“I can't substantiate any of this. I
can't even tell you who told me, and I am still unsure about their motives. We
cah-cah-can't stay down here too long, I don't want anyone to
think . . .” Without finishing the thought, Rainblatt cocked his
head, put his cheek to his shoulder, and launched from the shelf, through the
door, and onto the rail of the stairway. Elliot realized that Rainblatt's method
of propulsion could best be described as one of controlled falling.

To his right, as he exited the cellar,
Elliot saw a door, presumably to the backyard, and considered making a dash to
unlock it. This would allow entry from the outside, necessary to facilitate his
returning later and stealing a bottle of Isabelle d'Orange. He was aware he'd
come to this decision rashly. From the moment it was clear that Rainblatt was
ignorant of the cellar's inventory, Elliot had known he was going to take one of
the two bottles. Perhaps he needed only to ask for one, but the tiny risk that
he might be refused, that Rainblatt might claim he'd received it as a gift and
must keep it for sentimental reasons, was simply too great.

But a few steps up the stairs Rainblatt
turned to look back at Elliot.

“Say nothing of this to anyone. Once
I've learned more . . .”

“Of course, Victor.” Elliot could not
get to the door.

“You had a question about one of the
wines?”

“No, nothing, only that there was a
decent selection of stuff from the South of France.”

“Pat Cah, Pat Cahill brings them to
me.” To get up the stairs Rainblatt had to pull himself, hand over hand, by the
rail. “He has some business in Avignon and often comes back with something.”

“Are they any good, Mr. Jonson?” boomed
a voice from above. Cahill. Elliot could see his scuffed, heavy-soled black
shoes at the top of the stairs.

“Speak of the devil,” said Rainblatt,
hauling himself upwards, shoulder into the wall as though he were trying to push
the house free of its foundation.

“You're a man with good taste,” said
Elliot to Cahill.

“No, sir. I am a man with many friends
and acquaintances with good taste. Helga wondered where you men had gotten to.
She would like us to sit.”

Cahill and Elliot stood next to one
another waiting to be assigned their seats.

“Victor said you are back and forth to
Avignon,” said Elliot.

“Yes, I am,” Cahill answered, in way
that pre-empted further inquiry.

Helga beckoned Elliot to come forward
and sit next to some Tory lawyer's wife.

Elliot wondered if he might be coming
undone. A bottle of wine, however great, however full of associations, was just
that. Did he imagine that tasting it again, swishing the fluid around in his
mouth, would provide him with the information to reverse-engineer it? Anybody
obsessed with anything — a painting, a car, haute couture, a boy or a girl —
obviously fantasized that finally having that which they desired would solve
their problems. All it could provide, at best, was the memory of why they'd
pursued it in the first place. All it could do was put their decisions along the
way into some sort of context. All it could do was give the choices they had
made in their lives meaning. Only that.

The lawyer's wife turned out
to be named Carrie. She was an executive in professional figure skating. Elliot
was genuinely surprised when she informed him of the considerable audience the
“sport” drew on television, and he made a mental note to scan the pitches piling
on his desk for something featuring it. Though he expertly managed to deflect
queries about his own family, Elliot knew he was doing a poor job of pretending
to be interested in Carrie's.

He was dually distracted: by the
thought of the bottles in the basement, and by Hazel's décolletage. She was
seated on the opposite side of the table, three chairs north of Elliot, and as
she turned to talk with Abby Amstoy next to her, the panel of blouse shielding
her breast folded and fell back from the flesh. He was buzzing in the sex-crime
tendrils and jellies. He'd not thought that Hazel might ever be sexually
available, and knowing that he relied on her skills to prop up the charade that
he had competencies, he knew that to consider her so would be a mistake. All the
same, the allure of Hazel's boob was strong enough to befuddle his calculation
of how to get the wine out of the house.

He was confident that Victor did not
know what he had down there. But perhaps Cahill did. Still, even if Cahill asked
after the wine some time in the future and Victor could not account for it, it
could easily be that Victor had drunk it without knowing. The wine was so
obscure . . . it wouldn't be missed if Victor didn't know
that he possessed it.

His first plan, to unlock the basement
door near the cellar and return in the dead of night, was, on consideration,
ridiculous. The door could easily be relocked by his hosts before they turned in
for the night. And there were certain to be alarms. No, what Elliot had to do
was get one of the two bottles outside the house
during
the party. He remembered exactly where he'd placed the one
he'd taken from the shelf. Once people got a few more drinks in and someone got
up for a piss, he would follow. Finding the washroom occupied, he could claim to
be going downstairs in search of another. He'd snatch the bottle, exit into the
backyard, and then stash it just the other side of the fence or hedging.
Easy.

The course of watercress soup had been
finished by all but a few of the more vociferous when the playwright, Harris,
excused himself. Harris was likely looking for a respite from the table,
planning to close the bathroom door behind him so he could free a trapped sigh
of despair at the tedium of his evening and reflect on how he'd become so
toothless that these sorts of people would invite him. His peers were probably
having a grand old time over jugs of draft at some dive downtown while he was
listening to (Elliot had caught snippets floating over the table) Friar Cahill
expound on schism arcana.

Elliot watched Harris shuffle into the
john before he ducked for the stairs. He took all twelve in three bounding
strides, like a student late for class.

Only when the Isabelle d'Orange was in
hand did Elliot calculate the cost. Utter disgrace was disproportionately high
in relation to the possible reward. But it was in hand. His flight commenced.

He was pleased with the confidence and
stealth with which he conveyed the bottle out the back door and into the night.
He was calm, even poised. Elliot had always assumed himself to be the sort of
person who performed poorly under pressure, but having so rarely put himself in
such a position he might have been mistaken. His sang-froid was impressive.

Leafless branches caught light from
windows above to lay a net of shadows on the lawn. There were patches of snow on
the grass but not enough to be reflective. Elliot slid slightly on the wet stone
walk beneath his feet. Heading to the rear of the yard he worried whether the
fence, when he found it, might be electrified, or outfitted with motion
detectors or such. A forward step felt not turf or pavement but deep air.

His first, right, foot was immediately
joined in the atmosphere by its trailing partner. His left heel catapulted
toward the stars. Thrown into a cartwheeling motion, his head was thus thrust
downward even as it dropped under its own weight. The skull would have continued
in accelerated descent, perhaps all the way to Hades, if not for its colliding
with frosty, perfectly firm, terra. The weight of his carcass above felt, for a
moment, as though it might bend his neck to breaking, but the load was relieved
as his body continued its unstoppable tumble, his arse now foremost.