Requiem in Yquem

by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen

  It was a unique microclimate that governed the two thousand hectares of the Sauternes appellation, which was some forty kilometers southeast of the city of Bordeaux. The estates here tended to be small—under twenty hectares. Many growers, in fact, had fewer than five hectares.

  Virgile had studied this region at length, and he was quite familiar with the climate and the fungus. Benjamin was also thoroughly versed in the region, but he was more than a scientist. He was a spiritual man, and he maintained that the holy spirit descended on these hills to transform the grapes into wine for the angels.

  “You’re such a mystic, boss,” Virgile said. “I’ve never heard anyone else talk about it that way.”

  “Even Albert Einstein, who didn’t believe in a personal God, acknowledged the God of Baruch Spinoza—a God ‘who reveals himself in all that exists.’”

  “I’ll leave Albert Einstein and questions of God’s existence to you. By the way, did you know that in the nineteenth century the owners of Château Haut-Brion asked Yquem for some vines so they could produce a sweet wine of their own that would be as prestigious as their red? It was a resounding failure.”

  Benjamin chuckled. “Einstein also said, ‘We have to content ourselves with imperfect knowledge and understanding.’ That was when Haut-Brion began to produce a superb dry white, perhaps the best in Graves. So, the failure experienced by those with imperfect knowledge led to another miracle—the creation of an excellent new wine.”

  Virgile enjoyed this jousting with his employer. Driving around France with the famed winemaker gave him one opportunity after another to learn something. He always felt more intelligent when they ended a trip than when they embarked on it.

  They had taken off from the Cooker & Co. offices on the Allées de Tourny early in the morning to be on time for the Lacombe funeral. The winemaker wasn’t about to let the fog compromise his legendary punctuality. The decision to attend had been made the night before, when Virgile recounted his meeting in Cahors with his friend Jeremy. René and Éléonore Lacombe, as it turned out, weren’t total strangers. Although Virgile tended to avoid funerals, he thought he should pay his respects, if only in memory of the stormy evening the couple had opened their door to Jeremy and him. Of course, the presence of Benjamin Cooker at the Lacombe service would raise eyebrows and intrigue the local media, but he had insisted on going.

  “I know how you feel about funerals,” Benjamin had said. “I’ll attend with you. I suggest that we even accompany the poor souls to their final resting place. A few hours of worship won’t hurt us. I suspect, though, that you’re a little rusty when it comes to praying.”

  Virgile parried the verbal thrust. “Now boss, how would you know how much praying I do? Didn’t Queen Elisabeth I say, ‘I would not open windows into men’s souls’?”

  Benjamin grinned. “Now look at you. Maybe you’re picking up some good habits, after all.”

  In truth, Virgile was eager to visit his old stomping ground. He wanted to see La Tour Blanche, the Bommes belfry, and the old washhouse near the Ciron River. He wondered if he would be able to say hello to Mrs. Dubord. She had always been fond of him. Once, during a dinner at the Dubord home, she had asked Virgile why his parents had given him such an unusual name.

  “It comes from the Roman poet Publius Vergilius Maro, the author of the Aeneid. I know—you don’t find many people named Virgile these days. It was more popular in the early nineteen hundreds. I guess my parents had literary aspirations for me.”

  “Well, here’s to your parents, Virgile,” Jeremy’s mother had said, ladling more chicken stew into his bowl. “They wound up with an outstanding young man.”

  If he was fortunate enough to see Mrs. Dubord today, he would tell her that he had recently met with Jeremy, and he was fine.

  When the winemaker pulled his vintage 280 SL up to the church, the area was already filled with mourners in black. All of Bommes, it seemed, was there. Virgile immediately noticed some police cars, as well as several reporters, photographers, and cameramen. The funeral and the search for the killer would be on that evening’s news.

  Benjamin and Virgile got out of the car and merged into the crowd making its way into the building. Benjamin gave several people a nod. These were most likely château owners from Pajot, Haut Peyraguey, Saint Amand, Haut Bergeron, Rieussec, Fargues, and Bersac. And the higher-ups from Yquem would be there, of course.

  The area just in front of the altar was filled with flowers and wreaths, evidence of just how much the area’s residents respected and loved this couple. Benjamin and Virgile slipped into a pew and waited for the procession.

  Finally, it began. The choir, pallbearers with the two coffins, priest, and altar boy swinging an incense thurible marched down the aisle. Virgile started coughing, and Benjamin, who was kneeling in prayer, reached into a pocket of his jacket and handed his assistant a neatly folded handkerchief.

  Virgile cleared his throat and quietly thanked his boss. No wonder he tried to avoid church. The smells were enough to kill a person.

  He tried to listen to the readings and homily, but they didn’t move him. Bored, he started looking around. He studied the stained-glass windows: Saint Michael slaying the dragon, the Angel Gabriel announcing the arrival of the son of God to Mary, and many other pious images that reminded him of his catechism lessons in Montravel.

  He turned his attention to the front of the church and noticed a woman wrapped in a dark raincoat in the first pew. Was it Cecile? Most likely.

  The sacrament was blessed. The worshippers took Communion, and at last the service was over. Along with everyone else, Benjamin and Virgile stood as the coffins, celebrants, and choir made their way back up the aisle. And once again, Virgile noticed the young woman. This time she was facing him, and although she was hiding behind dark glasses, he was sure it was Camille, the woman he had met on the Médocain ferry. Was it possible that the mysterious Camille was really the dead couple’s granddaughter Cecile? What reason could she possibly have for lying about her identity?

  “Are you all right, Virgile?” Benjamin whispered.

  “It’s nothing. A strange coincidence, that’s all.”

  The church emptied out, and the mourners headed off to the cemetery. Virgile watched silently as the coffins were lowered into a single grave. Later, after the ground had settled, the grave would have a headstone bearing the couple’s names and perhaps a brief inscription: “Beloved” or “In everlasting memory.” Who would assume responsibility for that? The granddaughter who had left her grandparents in the dust and fashioned an entirely different life for herself? Virgile shook his head. He felt sorry for the couple.

  Everyone threw a handful of dirt on the coffins, and Benjamin murmured a prayer. Cecile, meanwhile, pulled two flowers from one of the wreaths. With a flick of her hair, she tossed them into the grave and turned around to leave. As she walked toward the cemetery gate, she gave Virgile a quick glance. Not knowing what to make of it, he looked away.

  At the exit, a young man was waiting, perched on a large motorcycle and smoking a cigarette. When he saw Cecile, he threw his cigarette to the ground and passed her a helmet. She tightened the strap and climbed on behind him, leaning her head against his leather jacket.

  Virgile was just close enough to hear what she said before they took off.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  12

  Her hair was neat, and her coat, though a bit too long, looked fresh from the drycleaners. It was her lively step, however, that Virgile immediately recognized. Mrs. Dubord hadn’t really changed since the days when she stood at the front door, ready to welcome him with open arms. She always made him feel at home when he arrived for dinner, bringing out her best pâtés, foie gras, and cherry clafoutis that made the kid from Bergerac swoon. It was pointless for Virgile to insist that he was just a guest. As far as Hélène Dubord was concerned, Jeremy’s friend was a member of the family.

  Spotting her at the cemetery, Virgile called out t
o her.

  Benjamin Cooker stepped back as she rushed over to greet the young man she hadn’t seen for a very long time.

  “My goodness, what are you doing here?” she asked, throwing her arms around his neck as if he were her own son. “Oh, Virgile, I’m so happy to see you. What have you been up to? Jeremy told me you were working for a certain Mr. Parker at a big winemaking company.”

  “No, Mrs. Dubord. It’s not Parker. It’s Cooker. Allow me to introduce you.”

  Her face flushed, Mrs. Dubord nodded and shook Benjamin’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Virgile didn’t put off telling her the news. “I saw Jeremy in Cahors yesterday.”

  “Well, you’re luckier than we are. We never see him anymore, not even on the holidays. We’d love to see him at Christmas, but we understand. He has his own life now, and his wife’s family comes first. If only we could visit little Valentin more often. He’s our only grandchild. Sometimes I think Jeremy’s ashamed of us.”

  The woman dabbed her eyes. “Forgive me. Such a sad day in Bommes. I’m not my usual self.”

  Virgile tried to find excuses for his friend. “Jeremy works very hard at that estate, you know. And you have reason to be proud of him. He makes a very good wine.”

  “Have you tasted it?”

  “I sure have! It’s one of the best of that appellation.”

  Mrs. Dubord turned to Benjamin. “And what about you, sir? What do you think?”

  “I think very highly of it,” he answered.

  “You don’t have to be polite. What is your honest opinion?”

  “I’m simply saying what I think,” Benjamin reiterated. “And what’s more, I don’t know your son. I sampled his wine at a blind tasting.”

  Mrs. Dubord seemed only somewhat reassured. She changed the subject. “Have you met his little Valentin, Virgile?”

  “No, ma’am. We got together at a place in town.”

  “So he doesn’t want you to spend any time at his in-laws’ estate either. I wonder how happy he is with that woman. Jeremy’s father was against the marriage, you know.”

  Feeling uncomfortable, Virgile cleared his throat.

  Figures in dark clothes were passing by as they returned to their cars. The burial was over, and life could commence once again. Soon, all that remained were their two vehicles and the police van.

  “Well, Virgile, let’s not stand here. You and Mr. Cooker must come to the house for a drink. That would make Mr. Dubord very happy. He often talks about you. He’s says you’re a fine boy!”

  Virgile turned to Benjamin for approval.

  “We don’t want to inconvenience you, Mrs. Dubord,” Benjamin said.

  “It’s no inconvenience. It would be our pleasure, believe me. You know, at one time, Virgile was like our very own son.”

  13

  The squat house peeked out at them from the rows of grape vines. The Dubord family had lived here for generations. The decorative clay frieze under the eaves was a reminder of more prosperous times, and other than that, the red and white geraniums in the window boxes were the home’s only embellishment. This had once been a cozy little place in a thriving vineyard. Now it wasn’t much more than a roof over the heads of its occupants.

  Benjamin blinked as he adjusted to the darkness of the living room, where Charles Dubord, in a baggy flannel shirt, was sitting in an old green leather chair. A red-and-black plaid blanket covered his legs. His gaze was vacant.

  “Charles, don’t you remember him?” Mrs. Dubord pointed to Virgile, who was nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “And this is Mr. Hooper, his employer.”

  Virgile didn’t correct her.

  “Oh,” Mr. Dubord responded.

  Benjamin removed his fedora. He noticed that the man had drool running down his chin.

  “Were there a lot of people?” he asked, his speech slurred.

  Mrs. Dubord picked up a kitchen towel and wiped her husband’s chin. “You should have seen the crowd, Charles. Everyone was there. They were such a sweet couple. The people at Yquem say they used to arrive at harvest every morning holding hands.”

  She looked at Virgile and Benjamin and gestured to two chairs. “Please, have a seat.”

  Benjamin sat down and waited for someone to say something. The ticking of the wall clock seemed deafening. He looked over at Mr. Dubord and saw that the man was just staring at it.

  Hélène Dubord filled two small glasses with a ratafia that would have been the color of Sauternes if it hadn’t been cloudy.

  “And what about me?” her husband mumbled.

  “Charles, you know the doctor strictly forbids it. Come now…”

  Mr. Dubord’s face reddened. “The sooner I kick the bucket, the better!”

  Mrs. Dubord shook her head. “You know him, Virgile. He hasn’t changed one iota. Always incorrigible.” She reached for another glass and poured herself a drop of the liqueur, which was considered an everyday aperitif in this part of France.

  Her husband was still scowling. “And what about the whore? Was she there?”

  “Charles, you shouldn’t call her that. Young sweethearts break up all the time, and we only know our son’s side of the story. To answer your question, yes, she was there. This has to be a terrible blow for her—losing both her grandparents this way, after being orphaned as a child.”

  “What a bunch of sap, Hélène.” His speech was no longer slurred. “You make it sound like a stupid women’s TV movie. And I don’t care what you say. The girl was a bitch!”

  “Charles, stop talking that way in front of Mr. Looper!”

  Benjamin wasn’t offended in the least. Actually, he wanted to know more. “What makes you call her that, Mr. Dubord?” he asked.

  “I’m simply telling the truth, my good sir! Nothing and nobody was ever good enough for that one. Not even our son. He fell into her clutches, and what did she do? She took off. She had her mind set on being a big-time model or movie star. She left her grandparents without so much as a by your leave. And she left our son, too.”

  Benjamin looked at Virgile, who was watching the flames dance in the fireplace. Virgile had told him about his friend’s confession. Clearly, Mr. Dubord didn’t remember the whole story, but Benjamin wasn’t about to contradict him.

  Jeremy’s father wasn’t finished. “Oh, you should see her now. She comes back, and it’s always with a different scumbag. One after another.”

  Mrs. Dubord spoke up. “Don’t be so harsh, Charles. Girls aren’t the way they used to be. They’re freer these days. That’s all. Live in the present, for goodness sake!” She turned to Benjamin and Virgile and offered them a second glass of ratafia.

  Benjamin shook his head. “No thank you, Mrs. Dubord. We don’t want to overstay our welcome.”

  In his anger, Mr. Dubord had let this blanket fall off his lap. He rapped the floor with his cane, wordlessly ordering his wife to cover his legs. His eyes were feverish.

  “Goddammit! You will not keep me from saying what I think! That girl is a slut! Remember how she used to sunbathe in their garden wearing nothing on top? How Éléonore let her get away with that is beyond me. She had all the neighborhood men gawking. Free admission to the topless show!”

  Benjamin looked at Virgile, and he could read his mind. The boy wanted Jeremy’s father to shut up. But Benjamin knew Dubord wouldn’t. Once a man like that got going, there was no stopping him. They’d just have to wait until he had spent himself. Benjamin understood why Jeremy had taken off. It wasn’t just because his father had sold the vines. Jeremy couldn’t stand him any longer.

  “You should have seen some of those boys she brought back from Paris. Guys with hair all over the place or puny little things in jeans that were all ripped up. Do you believe it? Most of them had those wires hanging from their ears. They were hooked to their phones.” Mr. Dubord turned to Virgile. “What is it you call them?”

  “I believe you’re talking about earbuds, sir.”
<
br />   “Whatever. The Lacombes didn’t seem to mind. Éléonore was probably so happy to have the girl back, she was willing to put up with anything. That granddaughter always had her hand out, too.”

  Mrs. Dubord interrupted her husband. “Charles, we’re boring our guests to death.”

  “I’m not done, Hélène! I’ve heard the stories. Éléonore Lacombe was always giving her granddaughter money. It’s a wonder the girl didn’t suck them dry. And the whole time, Éléonore was telling everyone that Cecile was a big actress in Paris!”

  Benjamin turned to Mrs. Dubord. “From what I understand, the Lacombes were far from wealthy people. Were they still supporting their granddaughter?”

  Mr. Dubord snorted. “They gave her money, all right. You’d look at that old couple, and you’d think they were paupers, but who knows? Looks can be deceiving.”

  Benjamin put down his glass and straightened in his chair. “What do you mean, Mr. Dubord?”

  “He doesn’t mean anything, Mr. Hooper.” Hélène Dubord glared at her husband. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Charles.” She looked back at Benjamin. “I swear, he sits here all day and makes up things in his head.”

  His face flushed, Mr. Dubord started to sputter. His wife stopped him before he could say another word. “Charles, be kind.”

  Benjamin and Virgile exchanged a look, and the room fell quiet.

  “Isn’t our ratafia good?” Mrs. Dubord said, finally breaking the silence. “Can I pour you another glass?”

  “It certainly is good, Mrs. Dubord!” Virgile said, sounding overly enthusiastic.

  Benjamin could feel Virgile’s discomfort. Their host’s stroke had probably turned him from the taciturn authoritarian that Virgile remembered to a downright disagreeable and verbose old man. He had never been the kind of person who was capable of a tender gesture, a compliment, or a word that might bring pleasure. These had always been beyond him. But now he was just plain angry—at his wife, his son, his neighbors, and himself. He clearly had no use for the world anymore, but he still feared death.