by Peter May
Now he bounded up the steps to the door as the joiner emerged carrying his bag of tools. ‘All done, Monsieur Macleod. I’ll send the bill to the château, shall I?’
‘No, I’ll settle in cash. How much do I owe you?’
The menuisier thought for a moment. ‘Two hundred.’
‘Euros?’
‘Well, it would hardly be francs now, would it?’
Reluctantly, Enzo counted out the notes. It was more than he had expected, and he only had a small, unofficial budget from the university.
When the joiner had gone, Enzo stood and surveyed his board, mounted squarely on the far wall. The Lefèvres appeared at his back, anxious to see what damage had been done. But the menuisier had been tidy and left no mess, and whatever damage there was to the wall was hidden from view. Enzo strode across the room, took out a blue marker pen and wrote “Gil Petty” in the top left corner. In the middle of the board he wrote “Ordre de la Dive Bouteille,” circled it and drew an arrow to it from Petty’s name.
It was a start. But he needed help.
He fumbled in his trouser pockets for his cell phone and cursed softly when he saw that the battery indicator was flashing. He turned to Paulette and Pierric. ‘Is there any chance I could use a phone in your office?’
III.
The old stone farmhouse on the hill above had been empty as long as Nicole could remember. As a child she had played inside it, until her father had hammered wooden boards across the door. It was dangerous, he had said.
She climbed the track towards it now, glad for a breath of air, past the wood her father had cut and stacked to dry. The collies ran about her legs, chasing each other, barking at the wind. Where the track turned into the old, abandoned farmyard, she stopped and looked out across the rolling, tree-covered hills of the Auvergne. Crystal clear streams cut deep through the rich, red soil so that it seemed the land was repeatedly folding over on itself. She loved the random nature of it; the way it changed through the seasons. The colour of the trees. A field ploughed one year, given over to pasture the next. She loved in equal measure the hot, summer wind that blew up from Africa and the icy winter blasts driven in from the Atlantic.
But most of all she loved her mother and her father, and her heart was filled with fear for them both.
She sat on an old tree-stump, and the collies frolicked around her, pushing against her legs as she tousled their heads in turn. She had spent most of the morning in her mother’s darkened room, just holding her hand for comfort, then made her father’s lunch when he brought the sheep down from the high grazing. Now she had a little time to herself. Time to think about the future. To fret about it. To fear for it. University would start again in just a few days, and she didn’t know how her father was going to manage without her.
Even worse, she had no idea how he would manage without his wife. It had been a long, depressing summer since the doctor had diagnosed terminal cancer. It could be weeks, he’d said. Months, if she was lucky. Lucky! Nicole didn’t think so.
The sound of the car came to her on the wind before she saw it, sunlight catching its roof as it wound its way up the track from the valley below, past the great pile of old tyres holding down the bâche that covered the silage. She watched as it drew up in the yard below, and her aunt got out to greet her elder brother, Nicole’s father. They held each other for a long time before he took her case from the trunk and they went into the house. She would be there now until the end, and Nicole had pangs of guilt at the relief she felt. It was like being let out of prison. Or like a runner, exhausted and failing, passing on the baton for someone else to run the final leg.
The dogs crowded around her, peering up anxiously into her face, sensing her distress. She spoke to them softly, running her hands back over upturned heads, and felt a comfort in their untiring love.
‘Nicole!’
She looked up as she heard her name carried on the breeze. Her father stood on the stoop, the telephone held up in his hand. He was a big man, his ruddy complexion visible from here, beneath the ubiquitous cloth cap pushed back on his bull head.
‘A call for you!’
IV.
Enzo watched as the tractor backed into the shed, maneuvering the blue Rock trailer up to the pressoir. It rose on pneumatic cross-levers until its funnel slipped into the mouth of the press, and the giant screw inside the trailer started turning, gently mashing the grapes into their constituent parts of juice, skin, seed, and stalk. Somehow, somewhere in the machine, the stalks got separated from the grapes and were spat out into large plastic bins, while the juice and skins and seeds were pumped under pressure through a plastic tube leading into the next shed. A man crouched beneath the pressoir, gently feeding clear liquid from a plastic bottle into the mix.
‘SO2. Sulphur dioxide,’ Laurent de Bonneval shouted above the roar of the motors. ‘Kills the bad bacteria without damaging the yeasts, and protects the wine from oxidation.’ He was wearing a wine-stained tee-shirt, ragged shorts, and a pair of green Wellington boots.
He turned back to sheafs of paper he was examining on a table pushed up against the wall. A table littered with charts and weather forecasts and handwritten notes, test tubes and pipettes. A bin beside it was full of empty tins labelled Lafase He Grand Cru. Idly, Enzo picked one up to read that it had contained “purified pectolytic enzymes” for increasing the “selective extraction of compounds from grape skins”.
Bonneval grinned. ‘There’s a lot of science in winemaking, Monsieur Macleod. We balance sulphites against Ph. We measure sugar and acidity and alcohol. We use cold to inhibit fermentation, heat to accelerate it. But, really, it’s much more than that. It’s about instinct, and flair, and sophistry. A kind of alchemy. Magic, if you will.’ He turned towards the mixture being squeezed out of the pressoir. ‘Two winemakers can take the same grapes, from the same vintage, and produce entirely different wines. One might give you soft, vanilla fruit, the other tannic green pepper. It could even be argued that a wine reflects the personality of the winemaker.’
‘And what do you make, Monsieur de Bonneval? Soft vanilla fruit, or tannic green pepper?’
Bonneval smiled, brown eyes full of mischief and amusement. ‘Oh, soft vanilla fruit, of course. These days winemakers must pander to the tastes of critics who grew up drinking Coca Cola and root beer.’
‘Which says what about your personality?’
He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Probably just that I’m a man keen to sell his wines.’
Enzo followed him through to the adjoining shed where red flexitubes, like giant worms, lay about the floor, attached to motorised pumps, moving grape juice under pressure between tanks. Workers were dragging tubes from one black bucket full of foaming pink juice to another, then hauling them up ladders to grilled walkways overhead which provided access to the tops of two rows of huge stainless steel vats. The air was filled with the distinctive smell of mashed grapes and alcohol, thick and heady. And all the time the roar of the pressoir and the pulse of the pumps assaulted the ears.
Bonneval led Enzo up a steel staircase to the network of walkways above. He pointed to the tube feeding the incoming mix from the pressoir. It was tied to the rail beside the top of the nearest vat, and you could see the grape juice pulsing through its semi-translucent skin as it thundered up and then out and down again into the vast, black emptiness of a container that held one hundred and fifty hectolitres. Enzo did a quick calculation. That was fifteen thousand litres. Or twenty thousand bottles. A lot of wine.
‘Once the cuve is filled, we let the juice settle,’ Bonneval said. ‘The skins and seeds rise to the top. So we extract the juice from the bottom and pump it back into the top, re-mixing the must to get the maximum flavour. Sometimes at high speed. Sometimes transferring the entire contents of one cuve to another. Which also helps to oxygenate it, which in turn combines with the yeast to produce more heat, and therefore more alcohol.’ He grinned. ‘Another reason why we wa
nt to pick the grapes at maximum maturity. Sugar plus heat equals alcohol. And wine wouldn’t be quite the same without the alcohol now, would it?’
‘So you measure the sugar content of the grapes before you pick?’
‘Daily, as we get near harvest time. We also taste-test them for sweetness and flavour. And when the seeds have turned brown, and you can crush them between your teeth, you know they are ripe.’ He turned back towards the cuve. ‘Of course, we also need to control the heat that gets generated during fermentation. Too much heat equals too much alcohol, and you ruin the wine.’ He pointed to large black tubes running around the outer walls of the chai. ‘Cold water. We run smaller tubes down into each tank to feed cold water through filaments like radiators that hang down inside them. That way we can stop the mixture from overheating.’
They went back down to the floor of the chai and walked through to a third shed. ‘We have twenty stainless steel cuves now,’ Bonneval said. Enzo did another calculation and blew a silent whistle through pursed lips. That was four hundred thousand bottles of wine! Bonneval was still talking. ‘Before that we used resin tanks, made from fibreglass.’ He indicated a row of half a dozen tan-coloured tanks with lids that were raised and lowered by an old-fashioned pulley system. ‘But we don’t use them for primary production any more. Before that, the cuves were made of concrete. We store some of our rosé in those now.’ He turned to Enzo. ‘But enough of that. Let’s go and taste some of the finished product.’
They went out through huge sliding doors into the dying light. The air still carried the warmth of the day, and even outside was saturated with the smell of fermenting wine. The fields around the chai were full of ripening corn. Bonneval took them past a disused tennis court, weeds poking up through cracks in the tarmac, and a tall, brick pigeonnier built on arches.
‘You see these pigeonniers everywhere,’ Enzo said. ‘People around here must have liked pigeons.’
The lord of the manor chuckled. ‘In Gaillac, Monsieur Macleod, in the middle-ages, they used pigeon shit as fertiliser in the vineyards. So most vineyards had at least one pigeonnier. Of course, they also ate the birds, and a girl with a dowry of pigeons was considered to be a real catch.’
They passed a kitchen garden whose season was nearly over, and went through an arched gate into a courtyard bounded by the main château on the south side and long, low wings to the east and west. The west wing had been the chai, or wine cellar, since the nineteenth century, Bonneval said. The east wing had been the original chai, then later provided stabling for the horses. The château itself, a patchwork of new and old brick, cement and stone, had seen better days. It was impressive nonetheless, standing foursquare at the end of a long, straight, tree-lined drive, its walled gardens just metres from the banks of the river Tarn. The original house was built on three levels, and then extended on two at either side some time later.
They went up steps to the main door and into a dark, stone-flagged hall. At the far end of it, tall wooden doors stood ajar, opening into a circular room whose walls were lined with elaborately framed mirrors and paintings. It was a clutter of antique furniture and family heirlooms.
But Bonneval took them east, down a long corridor lit by north-facing windows. All the doors opened into south-facing rooms. ‘To harvest the summer sun, and protect us from the north wind,’ Bonneval said. ‘Our ancestors knew a thing or two about designing buildings.’
Enzo became aware now of the smell of good things cooking, and his host opened a door into the family apartment, where they were greeted by a soft, warm light and the gentle, welcoming smile of Jacqueline de Bonneval.
***
Enzo let the smooth velvety liquid fill his mouth, breathing in through his nose, and experiencing the wonderful flavours and aromas of toasted oak, rich red fruit, and spicy pepper. As he let it slip back over his throat, it left a slight acid freshness on his tongue, and long after his mouth was empty, there lingered hints of blackcurrant and liquorice. For several moments he was completely absorbed by it, before looking up to find Laurent de Bonneval watching him with wide-eyed anticipation. ‘Well?’
Enzo shook his head, trying to find words to describe his feelings about the wine. He swirled the deep, garnet-red liquid in a wide-bottomed glass that tapered up to a narrower lip. And in the end, he gave up. ‘Fabulous,’ was all he could find to say, aware of how inadequate that was.
Bonneval beamed nonetheless. ‘It’s our cuvée spéciale, 2002. Petty liked it, too. A blend of cabernet, braucol, duras, and syrah. Aged in oak, of course. You know, we decant the wine from the barrels from time to time and move it around. Every barrel is different, you see, so it helps with the consistency. And the oxygenation improves the ageing.’ He put a confidential finger to his lips. ‘But don’t tell anyone.’ He grinned and filled Enzo’s glass as his wife served up platters of confit de canard and cubed roast potatoes with garlic and cèpe mushrooms.
Jacqueline de Bonneval was not at all what Enzo had been expecting. She was a small, plump lady with an unlined, pretty face. Her hair was the colour of brushed steel, thick and luxuriant, and drawn back in a bushy ponytail at least six inches longer than Enzo’s. It had been hard to put an age on Bonneval. Early fifties, Enzo had thought earlier. But meeting Madame de Bonneval he had been forced to reassess his first impression. She was nearer sixty than fifty, and unless she was a good deal older than Laurent, Enzo must have been about ten years out in his initial appraisal.
‘I like your ponytail,’ she said to Enzo as she pulled in a chair to the table.
Enzo said, ‘You know, when I was first in France, and my French wasn’t what it is now, I always used to mispronounce that, and I never knew why people were laughing.’ Neither Jacqueline nor her husband could guess at how me might have mispronounced it. So he demonstrated. ‘Cul de cheval,’ he said, and they both burst out laughing. It only took a slight mispronunciation for “horse’s tail” to become “horse’s ass”. Enzo smiled ruefully. ‘I’m older and wiser now.’ He paused, and looked appreciatively at Madame de Bonneval. ‘And you have a much more impressive ponytail than mine, madame.’
They started to eat. The duck was moist and fall-apart tender, with a crispy skin that melted in the mouth. And Enzo thought the potato, garlic, and cèpe mix was the best he had ever tasted.
A door opened from the hall, and a tall young man emerged from the gathering gloom of the château. His tee-shirt was torn and stained, his green boots blackened by red grape juice. ‘Papa?’
Enzo watched Bonneval’s face light up as he turned towards his son, dark eyes brimful of affection. ‘Come in, Charles, come in. Meet Monsieur Macleod. He’s a Scotsman. Come to find out who murdered Gil Petty.’
Charles glanced distractedly towards Enzo. He nodded and offered a cursory handshake. ‘Enchanté, monsieur.’ But his mind was on other things. He turned back to his father. ‘Michel Vidal claims you said he could have the harvester tonight.’
Bonneval roared with laughter. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think Vidal knows the rain’s on its way and he’s trying to pull a fast one.’
Bonneval grinned Enzo. ‘The boy’s not daft.’
Charles seemed embarrassed. His fresh, pink complexion darkened. Large-lobed ears poking out from a tangle of black curls glowed hot and red. He glanced self-consciously at Enzo.
But his father was oblivious to his discomfort. ‘Just completed a degree course in viniculture at Bordeaux University. He’s the future of the château, Monsieur Macleod. The future of the wine. But more than that, he loves driving that harvester. Am I right, son?’
‘I’ll tell Guillaume to send Vidal packing.’
‘Sit in at the table, Charles.’ His mother pulled out a chair. ‘There’s enough for four.’
‘I can’t, maman, I’ve got to get the machine ready.’
‘See?’ Bonneval cocked an eyebrow at Enzo.
‘It was nice to meet you, Monsieur Macleod.’ Charles
glanced at his watch. ‘Excuse me.’ And he beat a hasty retreat.
‘He’s going to be a much better winemaker than his father.’ Bonneval’s pride in his son was nearly palpable. Knows more about the science of it all than I ever did.’
Madame de Bonneval sighed. ‘Just one more in a long line of Bonnevals who’s going to sacrifice his life to the Château Saint-Michel.’
‘It’s his birthright,’ Bonneval said. ‘His inheritance.’ He paused for momentary reflection. ‘His duty.’
From where he was sitting at the big table in the kitchen, Enzo could see through a door into a sitting room dominated by a huge marble cheminée. ‘Is this the only part of the château you live in?’
‘Good God, yes,’ Bonneval said. ‘We could never heat the whole place. And in winter it’s damned cold, I can tell you. My ancestors had notions of grandeur, but they must have been hardy souls, too.’
‘How long has Château Saint-Michel been in your family?’ Enzo sipped more wine.
‘There have been Bonnevals on this land since the thirteenth century, Monsieur Macleod. More than seven hundred years. The château isn’t quite that old, but the original building dates back to the fifteenth century. It was my ancestor, Hubert de Bonneval, who was responsible for most of its enlargement in the late seventeen hundreds.’ He took another mouthful of wine, warming to his subject. ‘He had grand plans for the place. Bought a brick factory, just to make bricks for the expansion. But it also made him a lot of money, which helped pay for it, too.’ He paused, his face clouding at some unhappy memory. ‘Sadly, he never finished it, and in fact the east wing of the house was almost destroyed by fire. It was his son who took up the project again in the early nineteenth century, and he’s pretty much accountable for what you see today.’
‘It’s an enormous responsibility,’ Madame de Bonneval said. ‘I know that Laurent feels the weight of history on his shoulders. It’s important that the wine of Château Saint-Michel is successful just so that we can afford the upkeep of the building.’
