Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) (5 page)

There was already a serious dent in the second carton of wine when old Ferdinand began telling the story of the Haut-Brion domaine. Of course, Benjamin knew the basic outline, as he had become interested in this exceptional spot very early on, but he was dumbfounded by the fallen professor’s encyclopedic knowledge; the institution must have judged him as unrespectable as he was cumbersome. Ténotier was a smooth drunk. His hesitating elocution and crimson face showed his fatigue, but he babbled with panache and made theatrical gestures as if inspired. His presentation was littered with anecdotes, details, dynastic successions, historical perspectives, religious references, risqué episodes, obscure testimonials, legal cases, pertinent trade analyses, climate vagaries and vintages.

“Do you know
The Pessac March
? The Saint-Orens family wrote the song, the music by the father and the words by the son. A fine piece of idiocy,” he cried out as he began to sing with all his heart.

    
Pessac, jewel of the ’burbs,

    
Making Bordeaux ever more superb,

    
Eastward, on for some miles,

    
Can be seen its gleaming roof tiles.

    
All around its aging church

    
And the old town’s ancient birch

    
Dressed with pretty, stylish flowers

    
Are rising practical, modern towers.

His voice was quaking, both fluty and hoarse. He caught his breath between two stanzas.

    
Both farmers and winemaker manors

    
Pushed away by town planners

    
As outward grew the city,

    
With no nostalgia and no pity.

    
Yet Pessac held tight in its bosom

    
A gem worthy of its wisdom,

    
That source of ever-grand wine,

    
Moniales Haut-Brion and its vine.

He dragged the last note on, suspended in the air of sour wine.

“And it goes on like that for eight verses. Those were the days,” he said, looking into the distance. “Today, if you want to dabble in bagpipes, you have to confine yourself to the Pessac Accordion Club in a concrete music school. You’ll never make good musicians by locking them up in an old factory. They need to breathe, to fill their lungs. There’s also the Pessac ditty by Edouard Trouilh. The melody is not very complicated, only one flat in the key.

He blew his nose into his fingers, cleared his throat and began to hum an approximate melody.

    
Two things keep me alive,

    
The only reasons I survive,

    
Haut-Brion and my Belle

    
Nothing could be so swell,

    
One for its drunken charms,

    
The other to hold in my arms.

“It’s all bunk, trivial, but it was a time when you could still sing after a meal without being considered an idiot. The girls were trusting, and the boys as voracious as they are today, but things were less formal. There used to be education in this country, before we lost the colonies. Education is very important, Mr. Cooker. It has nothing to do with breeding. You are an educated man. It shows. You are capable of putting up with a washed-up old man like me for more than an hour, and you are not just pretending to listen. I could almost end up liking you, if I still believed in people.”

Benjamin remained silent. The old man’s cheap wine had started to go to his head and upset his stomach.

“I’m going to tell you something, Mr. Cooker,” Ferdinand murmured in a pasty voice blurred by alcohol. Your two overmantels, well, the truth is, there were three of them.”

Benjamin’s eyes widened.

“You mean it was a triptych?”

“Yes, three panels. Not one more, not one less. You weren’t expecting that, were you?”

“And the other painting completes the scene, I suppose?”

“Evidently. And the solution, well, you’ll find it in water. For once, that will be a change for you.”

“In water? What do you mean?”

“Today, Mr. Cooker, you shouldn’t invest in wine. If you want to become rich and hold everyone by the short hairs, sell water. Soon enough, you’ll have to beg to get a cup of water, and when it comes to that, well, we’re on our way out! Water’s a gift from God! It’s all going to hell, I tell you. It’s all going to hell!”

Ferdinand Ténotier yawned, belched several times and placed his hands flat on the greasy, wine-stained table. A black and white cat came and rubbed against his right cheek. The old man swiped at it, sending it to the other side of the room. Then he placed his purple face on his crossed arms and fell asleep.

A
CEMENT TRUCK RUMBLED in the near distance, covering up the chirping birds that had nested in the trees on the grounds. As Benjamin walked, he looked to the top of the century-old cedar tree, where a turtledove was shaking itself. He followed the thin flow of water in the Peugue that ran between patches of herbs. The creek slowly made its way around large roots that had grown out of the ground, blocking its passage and forcing it to make detours.

Cooker was exhausted after his meeting in the Cité Frugès. The old Ténotier’s awful cheap wine had left his mouth cottony, the smell of cat piss was still stinging his nostrils, and after spending so much time in the shadows, he had to keep blinking his eyes. Those two hours were enough to wipe out a tasting career and compromise his reputation as a winemaker. People were busy at work near the Moniales Haut-Brion cellars, which brought him quickly back to reality. He greeted the assembled crowd from a distance so as not to burn himself in the steam that was coming out of the barrels. They had started washing the contaminated casks early that morning. Virgile left the team to pursue the work while he reported to his boss.

“Everything went perfectly, sir. We finished decanting around 1 a.m. We attacked disinfecting at 7 and we should be finished soon.”

“Is everyone following the instructions?” Benjamin asked without showing concern for his assistant’s fatigue.

The young man was clearly strong and well built, spoiled by nature even, yet his face was pale and wrinkled from a lack of sleep. He had deep purple bags under his eyes.

“I followed your instructions closely,” the assistant said. “I added the same amount of ozone to each barrel, and I raised the water temperature to 200 degrees.”

“Did you use constant pressure?”

“Yes, but then I prolonged the treatment time and spent a quarter of an hour on each barrel. I think that should do it.”

“You still have to beware of ozone: It’s an effective disinfectant, but it causes oxidation that could promote certain volatile substances that influence the wine’s aroma or the wood’s quality.”

“We rinsed at high pressure, sir. Long enough. I really followed your recommendations to the letter.”

“Very good, then. Don’t change anything,” Benjamin said, waving at Denis Massepain, who was walking toward them from the château.

The assistant disappeared into the thick white steam that was rising from the barrels being rinsed with the high-pressure stream of hot water. Cooker watched from the corner of his eye as the Moniales estate owner approached slowly. Virgile was demonstrating a lot of energy, precise gestures and concentration, showing natural authority that allowed him to give orders to the workers without being arrogant.

“Your new employee seems quite good,” Denis said, giving him a tired handshake.

“Yes, he’s a good recruit. He works hard and keeps smiling. That is becoming hard to find.”

“Is everything OK, Benjamin?”

“I think so. We’ll proceed with sulfiting tomorrow. Doing it today would have been ideal, but my lab manager has to finish something urgent and cannot make it earlier.”

“Did you tell her?” Denis asked with a worried look. “Does she really need to be here?”

“I had to. But you have nothing to fear. Alexandrine de la Palussière can be trusted. I need her here to adapt the sulfur dioxide dosage. She is the one who recommended that we use ozone to clean the barrels, and I think it’s the best technique. Chlorine could accelerate the formation of trichlorophenol, which would then break down into trichloranisole. Don’t ask me for the details. I don’t know anything more, but from experience I can guarantee that we will avoid any moldy aromas this way. And it’s better to forget any chemical detergents and fungicides such as quaternary ammonium compound, because they always leave a residue after rinsing.”

“I’ll leave you to do what you have to do. I don’t have a choice, do I?” sighed Massepain. “I haven’t slept since this whole thing began, and I prefer not to talk too much about it to Thérèse. She worries enough as it is.”

“You’re right. The best thing to do for now is to stand by your team and wait until the end of next week. I think that in a few days I’ll be able to tell you where things stand.”

Benjamin and his friend took a few steps around the building, making small talk that was not entirely futile. It relaxed the atmosphere. The winemaker took advantage of the moment to get a closer look at the new cabernet franc stock that had just been planted on a small parcel. Tender sprouts were starting to bud; they would not give clusters for another two or three years. He glanced over the meticulous rows of vines, quickly judging the state of the soil composed of thick Gunz gravel, sand and clay and noted with pleasure that the vineyards had just been plowed. His eyes stopped for a moment on the Haut-Brion estate hilltop that dominated the neighborhood. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out to his assistant, “Are you almost finished? We’re off in five minutes, Virgile!”

THE two men dropped the most recent samples at the lab and by some miracle found a parking spot between two construction-site fences, near the Place de la Bourse. Then they walked up the Cours du Chapeau Rouge, passing in front of the Grand Théâtre’s massive columns and then turning to reach the Allée de Tourny and stop at Noailles
.
Benjamin had the near-daily habit of lunching at this elegant brasserie, where he was greeted with somewhat affected nods from some Bordeaux citizens of note, although they never dared to disturb him.

The respectable Mr. Cooker’s table had been held for him, as usual, and the two men were welcomed with the polite friendliness given to long-time regulars. They were ravenous and opted for two quick starters followed by grilled fish served with a dry Pessac-Léognan white. Benjamin let his assistant choose the wine, which took quite some time as he hesitated between a Château Carbonnieux and a Château Ferran before finally deciding on a 1998 Château Latour-Martillac.

“You deserve it, Virgile!”

“I have to admit that there’s no time to get bored with you!”

They talked about this and that, trivial things and insignificant memories that are nonetheless important when two people are getting to know one another. At the end of the meal, Cooker offered the young man a cigar, but he declined politely in favor of an espresso. Then Cooker suggested a digestive walk under the Jardin Public’s blue cedar trees. Before going to the park, Virgile asked to stop at his studio apartment on Rue Saint-Rémi, so they made a quick detour along the top of Rue Sainte-Catherine. Benjamin waited outside, and his assistant came back down quickly, holding a large plastic bag.

“What are lugging around in that sack?” asked Cooker.

“Stale bread. I keep it to feed the ducks and the fish in the park.”

“Do you do that a lot?”

“I’m a country boy, and where I come from nothing goes to waste. I can’t get myself to throw bread away.”

“I feel 20 years younger in your company, my dear Virgile,” Cooker said, clearly moved. “I often brought my daughter to the park, and every time, we had our stash of stale bread.”

“I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

“Ah, Virgile, if you only knew Margaux. She is pretty as a picture, 24 years old and is now living in New York.”

“What is she doing there?”

“She is in the import-export business, specialized in regional products.”

Benjamin said nothing more on the subject. He didn’t like his life to be an open book, and he made it a habit to never give himself away in the first chapters. Virgile asked no other questions, and they walked in silence to the gilded gates opening onto the public park’s bouquet of trees.

Gravel crunched under their heels. They passed a bronze bust of the French writer François Mauriac, sculpted by the Russian-born artist Ossip Zadkine. The sculptor had given the writer an eagle’s profile, high cheekbones, a sharply carved chin, an excessively hollowed neck and the face of a mystic ascetic, showing a deep understanding of the Malaga writer’s dual nature. At the end of the central walkway, they passed the small Guérin family puppet-show stage with its wooden shutters closed. They stopped on a metal footbridge that crossed over one of the branches of the large pond.

“When I was a kid, I was scared to death of falling in among the carp,” Benjamin said, looking dreamily at the water. “Later, I was even more frightened when Margaux leaned over the railing.”

“Well, it is teeming with fish!” Virgile said, tossing in some stale crumbs.

Hundreds of fish rose to the surface in a single movement and then launched into a violent combat. Benjamin and Virgile observed this sticky carpet of open jaws, bulging eyes and knife-like fins with distaste. The carp made a ghoulish clicking sound as they swallowed the pieces of bread. Some ducks tried their luck in the fray, in vain. They floundered in the whirlpool of viscous scales without managing to collect anything but the crumbs of the feast.

The two men then crossed the playground to reach the other part of the pond, where they spread out breadcrumbs for the numerous sparrows that nested near the spillway. Two blond mothers appeared on a walkway. They had the elegant air of the well bred from the Quinconces neighborhood. They were shouting among the flowerbeds, sounding as desperate as they looked sophisticated, “Jean-Baptiste! Eugénie!”

A uniformed park patrol with a wild mustache followed them and looked through the bushes. Other mothers in straight dark-blue skirts and white blouses had joined the search, followed by a stream of children in English-style clothing. There was something terribly chic about the chaos.

“Can I be frank with you?” Virgile asked suddenly as he scattered crumbs on the grass.

“I don’t expect anything less of you,” Cooker answered deliberately.

“Well, OK, so, uh, I really think that, well, you might think I’m paranoid, but this spoilage thing, it just doesn’t make sense. Not in an estate like Moniales Haut-Brion. Particularly
Brettanomyces
. Especially not in a cellar that is maintained so well. I’ve been hanging around with the team for a few days now, and I assure you that they are very serious.”

“I know,” Cooker said.

“And Denis Massepain knows the business. He doesn’t let anything get by him, has an eye on everything. He’s a real winemaker, and I don’t see how he could have let a contamination of this scope happen.”

“I think the same.”

“As far as I’m concerned, there is only one possibility, but it’s hard to voice such a thing.”

“Go ahead, Virgile. Don’t beat around the bush. Say what you have to say.”

“Someone had to slip those spores into the barrels,” the assistant said, tossing a small slice of bread to a turkey with a low-hanging wattle. “I’ve thought it over and over, and I can’t think of any other possibility.”

“You are not alone. I’ve been thinking that for a while now.”

“Do you know if he has any enemies? Someone who is angry enough to ruin his life?”

“Not to my knowledge. Denis is loyal, calm and correct. But I am not a good judge. He’s my friend.”

“Who knows? Maybe something happened with a member of his staff?”

“His workers and cellar master have been there for years, and the atmosphere at the estate is relatively serene. He is surrounded by motivated people. No, I doubt it’s an inside job.”

“Maybe one of his competitors wants to throw him off balance? Someone who is jealous and wants to cast a shadow on the estate? Someone full of envy who wants to put him on his knees?”

Cooker took the final chunk of bread from the bottom of the plastic bag and threw it near a swan, which barely stretched its neck before continuing on its way with disdain.

“If the profession had to resolve its differences with biological warfare, where would we be, my dear Virgile? You know the wine world. It’s a milieu where people observe and watch each other, sometimes with fear but always with respect, and everyone knows how to recognize his colleagues’ value. Estate owners even help each other to a certain extent. You have to admit that the professional groups set up for each appellation bring the harvesters together and make them stronger. Or at least that is what we all pretend to believe! When there are hostile feelings, they play out in the trading halls. Nobody gives any gifts when it comes to selling one’s stock. But everyone is always courteous. May the best man win!”

“I want to believe you, but I am convinced that there is someone around the Moniales who visited the cellar and who knows perfectly well how to taint a barrel of wine. I don’t know how he managed, but he knows the premises and how to get in. There must not be that many people who have the keys and know the alarm code. Denis Massepain is the only one who can tell us for sure.”

The two worried mothers had wound up finding their children. A crowd had formed around a bush where the little Jean-Baptiste and Eugénie were hiding, trying to strangle a mallard.

“Your reasoning is sound. Have you read Montesquieu?”

“No, I haven’t read any Montesquieu, nor have I touched Montaigne, and I never finished a single book by Mauriac. I’ve done none of the local writers. I guess I should be a little ashamed, living in Bordeaux and all.

“Mostly, it’s too bad,” said Cooker.

“And what does he have to say, your Montesquieu?”

“If my memory serves me, he says, ‘I prefer the company of peasants, because they have not been educated sufficiently to reason incorrectly.’”