The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel (9 page)

As Bruno drove along the river road that led to Victor’s vineyard, he felt troubled. He knew that he should be looking forward to seeing his childhood hero once again and thanking him for the invitation to the
confrérie
and also to this wine tasting. What nagged at him was not simply the growing mystery about Gilbert and his hunch that something was not quite right about the accepted version of his death. It was also that Bruno felt the Patriarch’s family had an agenda in suddenly welcoming him into their world, a much more privileged one than he usually knew. Was he being drawn in so that Bruno as a policeman would feel a sense of obligation to such an eminent family and help the Patriarch’s heirs protect their secrets? Perhaps that was why a decent man, like Dr. Gelletreau, had been so quick to sign off on Gilbert’s death and why the mayor had used that phrase about “discretion and dispatch.”

On the whole Bruno enjoyed his work and took pride in being a country policeman, known to everyone and welcome in almost every home in his commune. But every so often he felt himself standing slightly to one side, observing events with a different eye. It was not that Bruno looked for the worst in people’s behavior and their motives, but he was aware that his profession had over the years kindled a subtle change in his thinking. When anything unusual occurred, his natural curiosity could swiftly evolve into suspicion. And once his doubts had been triggered, Bruno was not the kind of man to shrug and ignore them. Instead, something drove him to keep on asking questions and probing until he was satisfied. It was partly a sense of duty to the uniform he wore, but he knew that there was something deeper in his own character, a need to get to the root of the matter, to learn not just what had happened but how. Above all, he needed to know why, to understand the human dynamics behind the choices and decisions that had been made. So as he slowed to cross the bridge at Lalinde, glancing at the fleet of swans that always seemed to gather at this stretch of the river, Bruno felt himself going on alert. He would taste the Patriarch’s wine and enjoy the company, but he would remain watchful.

The entrance to the vineyard was guarded by two tall stone pillars, but the barred iron gates were open and balloons of red, white and blue floated above them as if signaling a children’s party. After a hundred meters, with vineyards on each side of the road, came a fork. The road to the left was marked
PRIVATE
. That presumably led to the family house. More balloons danced above the sign to the right that said
DÉGUSTATION
. It pointed the way to the tasting room, a modern single-story building of glass and wood. Before it was a large, cobbled courtyard framed on each side by stone walls covered with Virginia creeper, the green leaves just turning to a reddish brown. Some long wooden tables stood in the courtyard before the tasting room. Behind it loomed the big stone barns where the wine was made and stored. At least a score of cars filled the parking lot, and Bruno drove on looking for a place to leave his car and found himself at a modern tennis court.

Two young people in white were playing, and from the sound of the ball being hit and the brisk pace of the exchanges he could tell that they were good. He climbed out of the Land Rover, replacing his uniform jacket with a sports coat, and went closer, to see Chantal and her half brother, Marc, hitting the ball hard and deep. They were not kidding around; the ball was being driven into alternate corners, and each of them was racing back and forth along the baseline to make the return. Suddenly after one particularly hard drive to her brother’s backhand, Chantal raced for the net, ready to volley. Her brother scrambled to reach it and returned a lob, trying to get the ball over her head, but it was a little short. The girl smashed it hard into the forecourt so it bounced high, way beyond Marc’s reach.

Bruno was tempted to applaud; this was tennis of a quality he seldom saw at the club in St. Denis. But he didn’t want to interrupt and waited only to see Chantal serve. Her first attempt was just out; if it had been in, Bruno knew he’d never have been able to return it. Her second was almost as hard, but with a spin that made it kick unexpectedly high. Marc waited and then drove it hard over the net, and the two of them were back at their powerful baseline game.

Bruno strolled to the tasting room, wondering if he might ever have become as good a player if he’d had a private court to play on every day and an opponent as well matched as Marc was to Chantal. Probably not, he thought, unless he’d also had access to the coaching the two young people had evidently been given. It must be pleasant to be raised in a wealthy household; so many things came more easily. Pleasant also, Bruno thought as he topped a small rise that allowed him to admire the view of the manor house at the far side of the neatly ordered rows of vines, to have a family vineyard.

The tasting room was full when he entered and noisy with boisterous chatter. Most of those inside were men with wineglasses and notebooks in hand, gathered in front of a long counter covered with opened bottles and large spittoons. They filled the tasting room and spilled over into the
chai
behind. Bruno saw Victor standing behind the counter looking harassed as he poured out wine, a fixed smile on his face. Yevgeny and Raquelle were helping him serve the throng of
négociants
from Bordeaux, wine critics and journalists and buyers from the big wine chains. Raquelle noticed his arrival and gave him a quick wave.

Bruno looked around and spotted Horst and Clothilde to one side, chatting with a man he recognized, the wine writer for
Sud Ouest.
As Bruno joined them he heard Clothilde saying “and so Victor married into the vineyard.” After the usual greetings Bruno asked what she had meant. The vineyard and much of the land around it had belonged to Madeleine’s family for centuries, Clothilde explained, but over the years most of it had been sold. By the time Madeleine married Victor, the vineyard, the family house and the ruined château on the far side of the hill were all that were left, along with an ancient name that dated back to the medieval dukes of Aquitaine.

“The title has gone, of course, but that’s why Madeleine claims to be a descendant of Eleanor of Aquitaine,” said Clothilde, rolling her eyes as if to mock Madeleine’s claim. “She once told a friend of mine she only married Victor so the Patriarch’s money could save what was left of the family estate.”

“Tell me about this new wine they’re making,” Bruno asked the wine writer, to be told it was very good indeed, a class above the usual wines the vineyard had produced. The new white was charming, crisp but with a touch of sweetness that lingered pleasantly in the mouth. The new red was even better; the writer planned to make it the
coup de coeur
for his next column, recommending it as a personal favorite.

Bruno said he’d better try some, excused himself and headed for the counter, looking for a route through the crowd. At one end of the counter Bruno saw a flash of pale blue silk and golden hair surrounded by a knot of attentive men. Then their ranks parted, and Madeleine, looking elegant and lovely in a cream linen suit with a blue Hermès scarf at her throat, sailed through them smiling, her eyes on the newcomer.

“Welcome, Bruno,” she said, greeting him with a kiss on both cheeks. He was surprised that she seemed to be wearing no scent. Of course, he told himself; it might interfere with the bouquet of the wines. “Marco asked to see you the moment you arrived.”

She led the way into the
chai
and pointed him to the steps that led down into the dimly lit cave where the Patriarch was standing between long rows of large oak barrels. Hubert, the St. Denis wine merchant, was at his side along with two middle-aged men in dark suits. The bung from the nearest barrel had been removed, and a plank had been stretched across two more barrels to hold some wineglasses and a silver spittoon.

The Patriarch plunged a dipper into the opened barrel and poured some of the fresh wine into a clean glass. Before handing it to Bruno he put the glass on the plank of wood, shook hands and introduced him to the two strangers, one from the Hachette wine guide, the other an English buyer. Hubert then explained that Bruno was one of his partners in the St. Denis vineyard, which was stretching the reality of Bruno’s modest investment as a shareholder but gave him a status the two men seemed to find acceptable. He wondered how they might have reacted if he’d arrived dressed as a policeman.

“It’s a very promising wine indeed, lots of fruit but unusual depth for a Bergerac and for a wine so young,” said the man from Hachette. “But there’s something in here I’m trying to identify beyond the usual merlot and cabernet.”

“What do you think, Bruno?” asked the Patriarch, handing him the glass. Bruno raised the glass to assess the color, holding it against the glow of a candle that had been placed on a nearby barrel. It was clear but slightly darker than he’d expected. He swirled the glass a little to see the healthy crown as the liquid trickled back down the sides of the glass. He swirled it more and then sniffed, cocking his head as he’d been taught to give each nostril a chance to savor the bouquet. He smelled dark fruit, a fresh earthiness like a plowed field after rain; that would be the merlot. It might have been a young St. Émilion, but there was something else, elusive and slightly unusual. He swirled the glass again and sniffed once more, recognizing the freshness of the cabernet sauvignon. He took a sip, let it settle in his mouth to reach those less-used taste buds at the back of his tongue. He recognized something mineral in the flavor, like that hint of iron he found in a good Pécharmant.

“I’ll give you a clue,” said the Patriarch, with an almost-sly smile. “In the
chai,
we have a private nickname for this cuvée: Eleanor. That should help you.”

Bruno was no great connoisseur of wine. He could tell the Gamay grape of a Beaujolais from a Syrah that came from the Rhône, and he could usually distinguish between a Médoc and a Pomerol. He could tell a fresh young wine from one that had matured, but identifying the individual estates and vintages was far beyond him. For this unexpected test of the Patriarch’s, however, Bruno knew that Clothilde had given him the essential clue.

“You’ve added some
côt,
” said Bruno, suddenly understanding the darkness of the color and the elusive taste he couldn’t quite identify. “The wine that was served at the wedding of Eleanor of Aquitaine, to whom this vineyard can trace its family origins.”

“Absolutely right,” said the Patriarch, looking delighted. “The black wine of Cahors, gentlemen, usually known as Malbec, but around here the local name is
côt.
It was the traditional wine of Aquitaine, served at the great royal wedding in Bordeaux in the year 1152, when Eleanor, duchess of Aquitaine, married one of her two husbands. She was the only woman ever to have married both a king of England and a king of France, and she was an ancestor of my daughter-in-law. This cuvée is sixty percent merlot, thirty percent cabernet, and the rest is Malbec.”

“Eleanor of Aquitaine was also the only queen to have gone on Crusade to the Holy Land,” said the English buyer. “She was the mother of our Richard Lionheart and of his wicked brother King John, the one who gave us Magna Carta. Our clients do love a wine that comes with a legend; it gives them something to talk about. Are you selling this
en primeur
?”

“If you’re buying, we’re selling, even in the barrel,” replied the Patriarch, with a smile. He was wearing corduroy slacks and a checked tweed jacket over a turtleneck sweater that looked to Bruno like cashmere. “We plan to taste it again in the spring, see if it’s ready for bottling.” He poured another glass for Bruno, this time from a bottle that carried the familiar label with a drawing of the Patriarch’s face. “Now try this, the new Réserve du Patriarche.”

Bruno sniffed carefully and tasted. It was a much more serious wine than the standard product of this vineyard that he’d been given at Raquelle’s lunch party. He found it to be a straightforward merlot-cabernet blend but beautifully balanced. It was deep and rich, full of fruit but with a slight hint of spice, almost peppery in the aftertaste, the flavor he always relished in a good Pomerol.

He said so, and added, “It’s very drinkable now. But after five years it should be something very special. When does it go on sale?”

“As of today,” the Patriarch replied with a smile. “This is the coming-out party, the wine I always wanted to make and to drink before I die. Since I’m ninety years old, I probably don’t have long, so I’m glad we agree it’s drinkable already.”

“All the same, I’ll look forward to opening a bottle with you in five years’ time,” said Bruno.

The Patriarch laughed and addressed the two men in suits. “One thing I learned in my years in the military was always to listen to the sergeants. They usually know more than the officers, usually drink better wine, and Bruno was a very good sergeant. He and I have something very unusual in common. We were each awarded the Croix de Guerre while serving under non-French command, me with the Red Army on the eastern front and Bruno with the United Nations peacekeepers in Bosnia.”

Hubert replaced the bung in the barrel, tapping it home with a rubber-tipped mallet, and the Patriarch led the way from the cellar back to the tasting room, where people had now spilled out onto the cobbled courtyard to enjoy the sun and attack the plates of cheese, pâté, ham and smoked fish that covered the long tables. There were no spittoons here, Bruno noticed, just ranks of opened bottles. The tasting was over, and the guests were now entitled to drink with their lunch. From the smiles and friendliness of the chatter and the way Victor was being clapped on the back, the event had evidently been a success.

Madeleine seemed to be everywhere, charming the guests with warm smiles and tinkling laughter, a fond squeeze of this one’s arm, an attentive hand on that one’s back as she steered him to the food. She was the star of the show, the ringmaster of this circus, at least until the Patriarch climbed up some stone steps and tapped a spoon on a glass to silence his guests. Curious, thought Bruno, that Madeleine’s equally attractive daughter had been allowed to duck out of this family event to play tennis. But perhaps Madeleine was the kind of woman who preferred to shine alone in such an assembly.