by Peter Mayle
By the time the story had been told, the glasses were empty. The waiter came with more pastis and a fresh jug of iced water. Andreis nibbled on an olive and waited in silence until he had gone.
When he spoke, his voice was low and cautious. “I don’t have to tell you what a powerful man Reboul is in this town. One doesn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. Also, he’s not a bad guy-a bit of a showman, it’s true, but I’ve heard good things about him over the years.” Andreis dabbed a finger in the tiny puddle of condensation that had formed around the base of his glass. “And, from what you say, we don’t know for sure that he’s done anything wrong.” He raised a hand as Philippe leaned forward to speak. “I know, I know. Checking those prints is one way to find out. If it turns out that they match, well…”
“That would suggest a crime. Wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so. Yes, you’re right.” Andreis nodded and sighed. This was not something he wanted to get involved in. Poking your nose into the affairs of powerful and influential men had a way of ending badly for the owner of the nose. On the other hand, he didn’t see how he could ignore it. It obviously had the makings of a big story. And the man sitting opposite him was a journalist; he wasn’t going to let it go. Andreis sighed again, the virtuoso sigh of a man faced with a decision he’d rather not make.
“OK. I’ll tell you what I can do. I can let you have a print man for a couple of hours, but only if you guarantee that Reboul and his people are kept out of it, at least until we’ve checked the prints. Can you promise that?”
“I think so. Yes.”
“The last thing I need is Reboul calling his old friend the préfet de police to complain about the inappropriate use of official resources. So don’t screw up.” Andreis took a pen from his pocket, jotted down a name and number on a beer mat, and pushed it across to Philippe. “Grosso. We’ve worked together for twenty years. He’s reliable, he’s quick, and he’s discreet. I’ll have a word with him tonight. You can call him in the morning.”
“It might work,” said Sam. “If it were Reboul, I’m sure it would work. But with Vial? I don’t know. Does he have a twinkle in his eye?”
Sophie took another piece of bread from the basket and used it to polish the last rich drops of bourride-Marseille’s pungent fish soup-from her plate. They were having dinner in a fish restaurant by the port, and the topic of the evening was Florian Vial: how to get him out of the cellar while the bottles were being checked for prints.
Sophie’s suggestion was simplicity itself: she would take him to lunch, a special lunch, to thank him for his help. Sam would be left in charge of the cellar, officially to catch up on the white wines he’d missed on the first visit; unofficially, to point out the suspected stolen bottles for the man who would be taking the prints.
It was true that the idea depended on Vial’s being susceptible to a pretty woman, but here Sophie was optimistic. After all, Vial was French. And as she explained, Frenchmen of Vial’s background and age had been brought up to appreciate the opposite sex, to enjoy their company, and to be gallant when dealing with them. She knew several men of a similar type in Bordeaux-charming, attentive, pleasantly flirtatious. They were gentlemen who liked women. Perhaps they would never go quite so far as to pinch a woman’s bottom, but they’d certainly think about it. And they would never pass up the chance of a good lunch with an attractive companion.
There was an amused expression on Sophie’s face as she looked over at Sam. He’d been wrestling with calmars à l’encre, tiny squid cooked in their ink, and judging by the dark stains on the napkin tucked into his shirt collar the squid had not surrendered without a fight.
“The problem is, Sam, that you don’t understand French men. You’ll see. It will be fine. Let me call Philippe to ask him if there’s a good restaurant not far from the Palais.” She took her napkin, moistened a corner of it with water from the ice bucket, and passed it over to him. “Here. You look as if you’re wearing black lipstick.” She left Sam to clean up and order coffee while she called her cousin.
The next morning, they arrived at the cellar a little after 10:30 to find Vial full of the joys of spring. A colleague in Beaune had just called to tell him that he had been selected to be the guest of honor at a dinner given by the Chevaliers du Tastevin. It was a considerable mark of respect, even more so because all the fine old traditions were going to be observed. The dinner-an intimate affair with invitations restricted to two hundred prominent Burgundians-would take place in the Clos de Vougeot, the headquarters of the Chevaliers du Tastevin. The Chevaliers would be wearing their ceremonial long red robes for the occasion. Music would be provided by the Joyeux Bourgignons, those masters of the drinking song. And the wines, needless to say, would be copious and exquisite.
Vial’s high good humor was tempered only slightly by the prospect of having to give a speech, but Sophie reassured him. “To hear you talk about wine,” she said, “is like hearing poetry. I could listen all day.” Before the flustered Vial could recover from the compliment, Sophie went on. “But Florian-if I may-this has fallen very well. I was going to ask you to lunch today, to thank you for all your help. And now we can celebrate at the same time. It’s such beautiful weather, I thought we might get a table on the terrace at Péron. You will say yes, won’t you?” This time, Sam was certain that she actually did flutter her eyelashes.
Vial made a point of consulting his diary, but he was clearly delighted, and he put up only token resistance and the merest semblance of regret when Sophie told him that Sam would have to stay behind to finish the work he still had to do among the white wines.
The next two hours passed slowly. Vial took Sophie off to introduce her to the glories of Reboul’s red wines, with particular emphasis, this morning, on the Burgundies, where he could gain some inspiration for his forthcoming speech. Meanwhile, Sam found a distant corner among the champagnes where he could use his phone.
“Philippe? Sophie tells me that you’ve found a guy to take the prints. A plainclothes guy, I hope.”
Philippe chuckled. “Of course. You know what they say, my friend: if you want something done, ask a journalist. I spoke to him this morning. He says he’s ready when we are.”
“Well, today’s the day. Lunchtime, around 12:45, and not before. Is that OK?”
“How do we get in?”
“The main gates are left open during the day, and you don’t have to go anywhere near the house. Come to the delivery area in front of the cellar. It’s marked, on the left of the drive. I’ll let you in. And Philippe?”
“What?”
“Just make sure you don’t turn up in a police car.”
It would be difficult to imagine a more agreeable place to have lunch on a fine sunny day than the terrace at Péron. High on the Corniche Kennedy, the restaurant offers an irresistible combination of fresh fish, fresh air, and a glittering view of the Frioul islands and the Château d’If. It is a setting to sharpen the appetite and bring on a holiday mood, and it had an instant effect on Florian Vial’s sense of chivalry. Waving aside the waiter, he insisted on pulling out Sophie’s chair and making sure she was comfortably settled before sitting down himself.
He rubbed his hands and took a deep breath of sea air. “Delightful, delightful. What an excellent choice, my dear madame. This is a real treat.”
Sophie inclined her head. “Please call me Sophie. I thought perhaps we might start with a glass of champagne? But then you must choose the wine. I’m sure you have some little local favorites.”
This set Vial off, as Sophie guessed it would, on a verbal tour of Provençal vineyards. “There have been vines here,” he began, “since 600 b.c., when the Phocians founded Marseille.” And from there, interrupted only by the arrival of champagne and menus, he took Sophie from Cassis to Bandol and beyond, going east to Palette and west to Bellet, with a lengthy detour to visit the underappreciated wines of the Languedoc. The man was a walking encyclopedia, Sophie thought, and he had an enthusiasm for hi
s subject that she found infectious and rather endearing.
They chose from the menu, and Vial selected a bone-dry white from Cassis to accompany the loup de mer. Sophie took advantage of the pause to ask Vial about himself, and his years with Reboul.
It was, as Vial said, a happy story with a tragic beginning. Thirty-five years ago, when Reboul was working on his early deals, he hired Vial’s father as the financial director of what was then a fairly small company. The two men became friends. The company flourished. Young Florian, an only child, was showing signs of promise at university. The future looked rosy.
That future disappeared, in shocking fashion, one winter’s night in Marseille. It was one of those rare years when freezing snow had fallen on the city. The roads were slick with black ice, conditions that very few Provençal drivers know how to handle. Vial’s father and mother had been to the movies, and were driving home when a truck skidded sideways into their car, crushing it against a concrete wall. The car’s occupants died instantly.
What happened then changed Vial’s life. Reboul took his friend’s son under his wing. He encouraged his early interest in wine and paid for him to attend a six-month course in viticulture at the wine institute of Carpentras, followed by a year’s apprenticeship working for négociants in Burgundy and Bordeaux. During the year, it became apparent that the young man had an exceptional palate. This was confirmed by a final six months in Paris under the eye of the legendary Hervé Bouchon, who at the time was the best sommelier in France. Acting on Bouchon’s recommendation, Reboul decided to take young Vial on as his corporate caviste, with a mandate to put together the best private cellar in France, and gave him a generous budget to help him do it.
“That was a long time ago,” said Vial, “nearly thirty years. I don’t know where I’d have been now if it hadn’t been for him.” His thoughtful expression brightened as the waiter came to take their orders for the last course. “If you permit, we might try with our dessert the closest thing Provence has to one of those Sauternes you Bordelais do so well. A glass of muscat from Beaumes-de-Venise. Can I tempt you?”
Vial’s story had left Sophie feeling a little confused, and she found herself beginning to hope that Reboul wasn’t guilty. Even if he was, a small voice was telling her, it would be a shame if he didn’t get away with it. She stole a glance at her watch and wondered how Sam was getting on.
• • •
Philippe and Grosso, a slight, neatly dressed man with a black attaché case that he described to Philippe as his box of tricks, had arrived in an unmarked car ten minutes before one o’clock, to find Sam waiting at the door. It was Philippe’s first visit to the cellar, and the sight of row upon row of bottles stretching away beneath the vaulted ceilings of rose-pink brick rendered him almost speechless. “Merde,” was all he could say. “Merde.” Grosso let out a soft whistle.
Sam led them over to the bin that contained the magnums of Pétrus. Grosso looked them over as he opened his attaché case and took out a halogen flashlight, a selection of brushes, a flat black box, and a small plastic canister. He sucked his teeth and flexed his fingers. “On fait toutes les bouteilles?” He looked at Sam. “All of the bottles?” Sam nodded. “And do you need DNA?” Another nod. Philippe was busy taking notes. He could see his scoop taking shape and, at this crucial stage of the story, the more detail he could pick up the better. He moved closer to Grosso to get a better view of what he was doing.
“Monsieur Grosso,” he said, “I don’t want to distract you, but I’m fascinated. Could you tell me a little about how you do this?”
Without looking up at Philippe, Grosso beckoned him closer. He had laid the first magnum on the ground and was shining his flashlight over it. “First, I do the visual examination,” he said, “to check the surface for prints.” He adjusted the angle of his flashlight. “Some of them can only be seen by the use of oblique light.” He grunted, put the flashlight down, and unscrewed the lid of his canister, tilting it to one side so that Philippe could see the contents. “Metallic flake powder. The flakes are aluminum-they’re the most sensitive, and they lift nicely.” He took one of his brushes, and began to dab on the powder, sparingly, and with a light circular motion. “This is what we call a Zephyr brush; carbon fiber, with a mop head, which is less likely to disturb the print deposit.” He finished with the brush and opened his black box, taking out some strips of clear adhesive tape. “Now I’m going to use this to lift the prints.” Fingers moving with delicate precision, he applied tape to the scattered prints and then peeled off the strips before placing them on a sheet of clear acetate. “Voilà. You see? With this technique, there’s no need to take photographs.” The first magnum was replaced. Grosso moved on to the second.
Sam had been watching the ritual. It seemed to him agonizingly slow. He tapped Philippe on the shoulder and said, in a whisper, “Is there any way you can get him to speed things up?”
Philippe knelt on the floor next to Grosso to ask him. Sam couldn’t hear what he said in response, but it sounded more like a growl than an answer, and Philippe was grinning as he looked up at Sam.
“He said, ‘I can’t dance faster than the music.’ I think that means we should leave him alone to get on with it.”
Sam told himself that Grosso’s painstaking progress would seem even slower if he just stood there watching, and so he wandered off, down to the far end of the cellar. His eye was caught by a big pile of cartons neatly stacked in a corner and half-hidden behind Vial’s golf cart. The cartons were marked with the ornate script he always thought of as vineyard copperplate: Domaine Reboul, St. Helena, California. He remembered Vial referring without any great enthusiasm to a property in the Napa Valley, and opened one of the cartons to see what kind of label he used for his American wine. But the carton was empty. So was the next one, and the one after that.
He called the hotel to see if he’d received a delivery from FedEx. Nothing yet. Doing his best to be patient, he retired to the impressive surroundings of the Rue de Corton-Charlemagne and turned over once again the questions that had been occupying a corner of his mind for the past few days: If the prints matched, what would he do? Confront Vial? Get the police officially involved? Pass the problem on to Elena and the people at Knox Insurance? All of the above? None of them?
The minutes passed; on leaden feet, but they passed. The next time he looked at his watch it was still not quite two o’clock. He went back to see how Grosso was getting on among the magnums. Only four to go.
Sophie had said she’d duck into the ladies’ restroom and call when she and Vial were about to leave the restaurant.
Grosso continued; cool, calm, methodical.
“But this is quite delicious,” said Sophie, after her first sip of Beaumes-de-Venise. “Halfway between sweet and dry. Lovely.” She raised an appreciative glass to Vial, who was nodding and smiling at her reaction. Not surprisingly, he had some comments to make about the wine’s pedigree.
“The name of the grape, so the historians tell us, comes from the Italian moscato. That is to say, musk. Now, musk is very highly thought of among deer.” Vial permitted himself a roguish twitch of the eyebrows. “It is the scent with which they-how shall I put it?-issue an invitation to deer of the opposite sex. Indeed, musk is also used as an ingredient in perfumes which, when worn by us humans, are supposed to have a similar effect.” He picked up his glass, held it up to his nose, and took a long, considered sniff. “Delicate, very feminine-and yes, a hint of musk. Many sweet wines are fortified, but Beaumes-de-Venise is not. This gives it a gentler, more subtle taste than, for instance, the muscat of Frontignan.” He took a sip and leaned back in his chair, his eyes going from Sophie to the view, and back to Sophie. With a shrug of reluctance, he looked at his watch.
“I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed our lunch,” he said. “But I had no idea of the time. How it has flown by. I’m afraid we should be getting back.”
“A quick coffee before we go,” Sophie said. “I’ll order it o
n my way to the ladies’ room.”
Closing the door of the stall behind her, she checked the time as she waited for Sam to answer her call. Just past 2:15. “Has he finished?”
“Packing up now. Five minutes more, and they’ll be out of here. Have a cognac or something.”
“Five minutes, Sam. No longer.”
In fact, dealing with the remains of the Beaumes-de-Venise, the coffee, and the bill took the best part of ten minutes, and by the time they arrived back at the cellar it was as they had left it, empty except for Sam. As they went through the door, they could hear him whistling “ La Vie en rose.”
Nineteen
Sophie and Sam were setting off to walk back to their hotel. Behind them, the figure of Vial was framed in the cellar doorway. He waved as he watched them go down the drive and through the iron gates.
“How was lunch?” Sam asked.
“I think he enjoyed it.” Sophie stopped to rummage in her handbag for her sunglasses. “Actually, I’m sure he did-I don’t think I’ve ever been thanked so many times. But the whole thing made me uncomfortable. You know? He’s a sweet man. And basically, lunch was a trap.”
