by Peter May
‘Not much point in us even trying then, is there?’ Nicole was skeptical.
‘Well, let’s see,’ Enzo said.
Bertrand spread the tasting information sheets from the Maison du Vin across the kitchen worktop and handed them each a glass. ‘Okay, this is how we do it. We hold the base of the glass between thumb and forefinger, and tip it away from us, preferably towards something white. We’re looking for the colour here, and how the light strikes through it.’
In silence, they all did as they were told, peering at the wine through tilted glasses.
‘Okay, so this is the Sarrabelle syrah. Petty described the colour as being tile red. Like terracotta tiles on a roof. You can see what he means. It’s a good, strong red, but if you look around the edges of it, there’s a slightly brownish quality that gives it a sort of brick colour. That comes with age and oxidation. This wine’s five years old now, so it’ll be browner than when Petty looked at it.’ Bertrand glanced up at Enzo’s whiteboard. ‘He also suggested that it would have a drinking life of five to eight years. So it should be perfect for drinking right about now. Let’s see if he was right.’
He dipped his head, putting his nose right into the glass, and breathed deeply.
‘This is important. The first smell. Don’t shake the glass or disturb the wine.’ He watched as the others followed his example. ‘So what do you think? What do you smell?’
No one had any immediate thoughts to offer. Nicole looked disappointed. ‘I don’t really smell anything. I thought I was supposed to be a supertaster.’
Bertrand shook his head. ‘No, you smelled something. You just haven’t identified it. Try again.’
They all tried again.
‘Fruit,’ Enzo said.
‘Yeah, fruit,’ Sophie agreed.
‘Yes, but what kind of fruit?’
‘Plums.’ Nicole looked pleased with herself. ‘Red plums.’
‘No, I’m getting strawberries,’ Sophie said. ‘And maybe something a little more tart, like black currants.
‘Could be rasperries there,’ Enzo said.
‘Yeh, and ripe melon.’ Nicole was on a roll now.
Bertrand sighed in exasperation. ‘Sounds like you’ve found a whole fruit salad in there.’
‘Okay, smartass, what do you smell?’ Nicole thrust her jaw at him.
Bertrand sniffed again. ‘Strawberries certainly. Raspberries, maybe. Red fruit, for sure. But we need to swirl the glass and smell again?’
‘Why?’ Sophie asked.
‘To get oxygen into the wine and release more of the smell molecules.’
So they all swirled their glasses and hung their noses over the rims once again.
‘Big fruit,’ Enzo said. ‘And something meaty, maybe. Gibier. Like game. That…what was it, umami smell?’
Bertrand canted his head doubtfully. ‘I don’t know. I’d say it was more…woody. Oak, maybe.’
‘Liquorice!’ Nicole looked pleased with herself. ‘I can smell liquorice.’
Sophie breathed deeply from her glass. ‘Me, too.’
Enzo began counting on his fingers. ‘Okay, so now we’ve got strawberry, raspberry, red plum, ripe melon, black currant, meat, liquorice and oak. That’s eight different smells.’ He looked up at the whiteboard. ‘Petty lists five.’
‘I thought you said we could only smell four things at the same time,’ Nicole said.
It was Bertrand who responded. ‘Yes, but we’ve had two tries at it, the second time after oxygenation. So we’re picking up different things.’
‘Too many things,’ Enzo said. ‘I’m not sure this is going to work, Bertrand.’
But Bertrand was not to be deterred. ‘We’ve still to taste it, Monsieur Macleod.’
‘About time.’ Nicole raised her glass with relish.
Bertrand lifted his own glass to his lips. ‘Just take a small mouthful, then let it flow back over your tongue. The front of the tongue is more sensitive to sweet tastes, the back of it will pick out the sharper notes. And while the wine is still in your mouth, suck in a little oxygen to help the wine release its flavours.’
They all gurgled and slurped, and Nicole nearly choked.
Bertrand kept up his commentary. ‘The first thing you experience is the attack. That initial flavour and texture in the mouth. Then as the complexity of the wine develops, you should start being able to distinguish all the flavours. And after you’ve swallowed, there’ll be an aftertaste-what’s called the finish. The longer that lasts, the better. Provided, of course, that it’s a pleasant taste. Then, really, we should spit it out.’
‘I’m not wasting wine this good.’ Sophie rolled her eyes dreamily. ‘It’s fantastic. Smooth and silky. And I’m not getting any of that meat that you were smelling, Papa. But I’m still getting strawberries.’
‘And liquorice,’ Nicole chipped in.
‘And soft, soft tannins,’ Bertrand said. ‘And vanilla from the oak.’ He smacked his lips noisily several times. ‘And the finish just goes on forever.’
But Enzo was looking at the board again. ‘Petty lists codes for six flavours. We’ve come up with three.’
‘Yes, but he’s also describing textures, tannins, acidity, complexity, finish,’ Bertrand said. ‘Just look at any of his reviews. And those pluses, and plus-pluses alongside the codes probably translate as something like very and extremely, or words to that effect.’
Enzo shook his head. ‘All of which means, we’re wasting our time here. There are too many variables. We’ve hardly agreed on a single smell, or flavour.’
‘Can’t we even just try the other wines?’ Sophie said, disappointed.
‘Or even just finish this one.’ Nicole held out her glass for Bertrand to fill it up.
‘Apart from drinking them for the pleasure of it,’ Enzo said, ‘I don’t see the point. Like Bertrand said, you can’t just walk in off the street and be a professional wine taster. It would take an experienced professional to identify the smells and flavours we’re looking for.’
Bertrand sipped thoughtfully at his syrah. ‘And I know a man who might be able to do just that, Monsieur Macleod.’
Chapter Fourteen
I
The old man shuffled slowly across the grande salle. Ancient wooden floorboards, supported on centuries-old oak beams, creaked and dipped beneath his feet. An enormous cheminee of white sandstone was set in a blackened wall, rising to a ceiling transected by yet more oak beams.
The last golden light of the day was fading to pink, seeping in through porte-fenetres that opened onto a covered terrasse perched high up on the gable elevation of this fifteenth century gothic residence. Enzo and Bertrand and Sophie followed the old man out on to the terrasse, Braucol trotting obediently at their heels.
The climb, in fading light, up through the steep, cobbled streets of the thirteenth century bastide town of Cordes en Ciel, had left Enzo breathless and perspiring. What little breath remained was taken away completely by the view that opened out before them from the terrasse. To the north, Puech Gabel rose high above the valley of the silver-pink Cerou river. To the east and west, the Saint Marcel heights extended towards the horizon and the brooding dark line of the Forest of Gresigne. A patchwork of green fields smudged dark by trees and villages, lights twinkling sporadically in the fading day. Immediately beneath them, a jumble of tiled roofs fell away to the market square two hundred feet below. Woodsmoke rose in the still air, carrying with it the first portents of winter.
Shortly before his retirement, Jacques Domenech, had been awarded l’ Ordre National de la Legion d’Honneur, by President Chirac, for his services to the French wine industry. In his day he had been, quite possibly, the best known sommelier in France. When, finally, he had sold his string of Michelin-starred restaurants and bought this extraordinary house, he retreated here to gothic retirement, perched high up above the rolling hills of the southwest.
‘For centuries,’ he said, ‘this town was known only as Cordes- a word of Indo-Euro
pean origin, by the way-meaning rocky heights. It was only recently that they changed the name to Cordes in The Sky. But it’s not until you live here that you see why. In spring and autumn the surrounding valleys fill with mist, and one wakes to the illusion of floating in the sky above the clouds. It is almost as heady as good wine.’
He regarded Bertrand with affection, and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘My boy, you haven’t changed a bit. Except for those bits of metal in your face. Is this your girlfriend?’ He peered at Sophie.
‘My daughter,’ Enzo said.
He looked at Enzo and nodded. ‘Lucky man.’ Then turned towards Bertrand. ‘Best pupil of his year, you know. Could have been a professional sommelier, had he chosen to.’ He sighed. ‘But that would have been a long, hard road, Bertrand, eh? And you were too impatient.’ And to Enzo, ‘He’s like all the youngsters these days. They want everything now. And who knows, maybe they’re right.’ He raised a finger in the air and quoted, ‘All things come to those who wait, I say these words to make me glad, But something answers soft and sad, They come, but often come too late.’ He chuckled. ‘I had a long and very successful career as a sommelier. But it wasn’t until I retired and got bored and agreed to do a little teaching at Toulouse, that I discovered the rewards of imparting wisdom to others. Too late.’ He waved a hand towards the chairs set around a long, wooden table. ‘Take a seat.’
Half a dozen bottles of fine Bordeaux were set out with a dozen or more tasting glasses. A Chateau Cheval Blanc, Enzo noticed, and a Chateau Lafite Rothschild. His eyes widened. These were wines you tasted rarely in a lifetime, if ever. There was a large basket of hard-crusted bread cut into thick chunks, and three bottles of still mineral water. Several yellowed and well-thumbed editions of Petty’s The Wine Critic, lay open, pages separated by pink Post-its.
‘Have you brought the Gaillacs?’
Enzo put his carrier bag on the table and lifted out the three bottles.
Old Domenech examined them each in turn. ‘Syrah, eh? Classified as a vin de pays because it doesn’t contain the minimum quantities of the proscribed grapes to qualify for the Gaillac Appellation Controlee. Stupid system. Making French wines uncompetitive in a changing world.’ He looked at the faces turned towards him in the twilight. ‘You know, ten years ago France exported three times as much wine as the so-called New World countries. Today we sell fifteen percent less than they do. We’re making wine we can’t sell. Even in Bordeaux there are tankers queuing daily outside distilleries to take advantage of government subsidies for turning unsold wine into industrial alcohol. What a waste!’
He moved on to the next bottle. ‘Domaine Vaysette. Cuvee Lea 2001. Don’t know it.’ And the next. ‘Chateau Lastours, Cuvee Special 2001. Ah, yes. A fine wine. You have Petty’s codes?’
Enzo placed the computer print-outs on the table. ‘It’s a matter of trying to identify flavours and smells and cross-referencing them between different reviews.’
‘I understand the principle, monsieur. But I can’t make any promises. I met Petty a few times. Didn’t know him well and didn’t like him much. His tastes and mine were somewhat different. But it’s a challenge. Since young Bertrand called, I’ve been going through some of Petty’s old newsletters from my files, and I went down to my cellar to dig out some of the Bordeaux he reviewed. That way we can make a direct comparison between what I taste and what he’s already described.’ He beamed. ‘But first, a few glasses of wine amongst friends for pleasure, eh?’
He reached for the Cheval Blanc, and Enzo’s heart nearly stopped. It was a 2005, and probably cost somewhere in the region of five hundred euros.
As old Domenech went through the ritual of opening the bottle and pouring a little of the wine into each of their glasses, he said, ‘You know, it’s odd how few female sommeliers there are. Most wine critics are men, too. Yet, all the research shows that women are better tasters than men and have a particularly heightened sense of smell during ovulation.’ He passed a glass to Sophie. ‘So our young lady should have the honour of tasting first.’ He grinned. ‘Although it’s not compulsory to tell us whether you’re ovulating or not.’
Sophie blushed deeply, and took a sip of the wine to cover her embarrassment. In an evolution of only two or three seconds, her expression changed completely. ‘Oh, my God!’ Her voice was almost a whisper. ‘I’ve never tasted wine this good.’ She immediately revised her statement. ‘I’ve never tasted anything this good.’
Domenech beamed his pleasure.
II
Nicole tried to avoid the scowling face of Madame Marre as she used her bread to mop up the last of her sauce. Roast veal sliced and served in its own jus, accompanied by sliced potatoes fried in duck fat and garlic and lathered in cream. What Fabien’s mother lacked in the social graces, she more than made up for in culinary skills. Nicole had been disappointed to discover that Fabien was not eating with them tonight, and so they had partaken of dinner in a depressing silence surrounded by floral wallpaper and lace doilies and large pieces of dark, antique furniture squeezed into a room too small to accommodate them. Madam Marre, it seemed, was intent on perpetuating the tastes of a generation long since passed away.
Ten minutes before, Nicole’s spirits had lifted briefly as Fabien came in from the chai. But he had merely nodded before heading on up the stairs. She had heard him moving about in his bedroom, the floor creaking overhead, like footsteps in wet snow.
‘Is Fabien not eating with us?’ she’d asked.
Madame Marre had glared at her. ‘He’s going out.’ Conversation over.
Nicole sighed, and wished she had gone with the others to the sommelier’s house at Cordes en Ciel. As soon as she was finished, she excused herself from the table and hurried upstairs to her room, in the hope perhaps of bumping into Fabien in the hall. What she had not been expecting was the sight that greeted her through the half-open door of his bedroom.
Fabien stood in front of a full length mirror, flowing crimson and black robes draped from the shoulders of his ample frame almost to the floor. He was adjusting his red triangular Rabelaisian hat with white-gloved hands. Nicole was unable to suppress a gasp of astonishment, and he turned at the sound, only for his face to flush as red as his robes. They stood staring at each other for several long moments.
Nicole finally found her voice. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to a meeting of the Ordre. A chapitre at the abbey.’
‘I didn’t know you were a member.’
Fabien shrugged, still cowed by the weight of his embarrassment. ‘It’s a family tradition.’
Nicole smiled. ‘Have you any idea how ridiculous you look?’
Fabien blushed again. Only now there was a defensive tone in his voice. ‘It was good enough for my father, so it’s good enough for me.’
‘Is that his outfit?’
‘No. His stuff would never have fitted me.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘No, you cannot. It’s a private meeting.’
‘Oh, go on. I’ll wait for you in the car.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve nothing else to do all evening. I’ll just be sitting on my own in my room.’
‘You could sit with my mother.’
Nicole gave him a look, and the point was conceded without a word passing between them.
‘It could be a long wait.’
‘I don’t mind. I could take a wander around town.’ She put on her most appealing face. ‘Please, Fabien. It’s really depressing here on my own.’
‘What about your friends?’
‘Oh, they’re off tasting wine somewhere.’
Fabien straightened the collar of his shirt. ‘So how’s Monsieur Macleod’s investigation going?’
His enquiry was just too casual, and Nicole became suddenly guarded. She remembered Enzo’s admonition: ‘Fabien Marre has made it perfectly clear that he had nothing but antipathy towards Petty. And since both bodies were found on his vin
eyard, he has to be considered a suspect.’ Not that she believed it for a moment. But she was determined she would not commit any further errors of indiscretion. ‘Fine,’ was all she said. ‘So I can come with you, then?’
His sigh of resignation told her she had bullied him into submission.
It was more than twenty minutes since Fabien had disappeared through the arched gateway into the complex of offices, with its salle de degustation and wine museum, that comprised the Maison du Vin. The abbey next door had lost its pink quality in the dying light and huddled darkly now on the banks of the river until floodlights snapped on to throw it into stark relief against the darkening sky in the east.
Nicole was bored. She watched the faithful coming and going to confession through a small doorway in the entrance to the abbey. Whispering dark secrets to a hidden listener behind a latticed screen, then emerging minutes later muttering Hail Marys, absolved of all responsibility for life.
It was a long time since she had been to church. It brought back memories of her childhood. Squirming on uncomfortable pews next to her mother and father, listening to the cants and criticisms of the cure. Words that meant nothing to her then or now. But it made her think of her mother, and she felt a sudden stab of guilt. For two days she had barely given her a second thought. Except for a call the previous night to her father to ask how she was. He had been his usual uncommunicative self, and their brief conversation had left her depressed, bringing back the memory of sunlight splintering around the closed shutters of her mother’s bedroom, the air hot and heavy with the scent of impending death.
She decided to go into the abbey to light a candle and say a prayer for her.
The vast, vaulted space of the Abbey Saint-Michel was gloomily lit. She passed down the central aisle and crossed to the Madonna and Child, where candles burned and spilled their wax. She dropped some coins into the box, took a fresh candle, and lit it from one already burning. Then she knelt in front of the Virgin Mary and closed her eyes. She had no idea what to do. It was so long since she had prayed, she had forgotten how. She concentrated her thoughts and hoped with all her heart that her mother would be delivered from her suffering quickly and without further pain.
