“Who even mentioned money?” the shopkeeper asked with a wily look in his eye. “Take a look, just for fun. And of course, if you have a little weakness for it, you can pay me later.”
“Who says I have weaknesses?”
The secondhand goods dealer unlocked a storage trunk lined with tarp and took out an old brightly colored enameled metal plaque depicting a wine from Saumur. Benjamin was among his best customers, or at least one of the most loyal, and the dealer knew he collected all manner of objects having to do with vineyards and wine. He had already sold him some fine pieces, notably still lifes full of bunches of grapes brightened with tin pitchers, well-made 17th- and 18th-century paintings, several mythological engravings of Bacchanalia and various antique corkscrews from all over, some of them very rare. Among Cooker’s finest acquisitions were two well-preserved posters from 1937, one drawn by a certain A. Galland for the Ministry of Agriculture, which touted French wines for “Health, Gaiety and Hope.” The other one was created by Jean Dupas and glorified the city of “Bordeaux, its port, its monuments and its wines.” It had a naked woman standing between the steeple of Saint-André Cathedral and a column generously endowed with clusters of grapes, from which emerged an ocean liner ringed with steam and an old sailboat. These posters brightened the winemaker’s offices at 46 Allée de Tourny in Bordeaux.
“I already have this plaque,” Cooker said, somewhat disappointed. “It is very beautiful and typical of the period between the two wars. It looks a little less rusted than mine, but one is enough.”
“Well then, I also have a magnificent tun barrel lock that could interest you.”
“Magnificent! A barre de portette. This was used to keep the small opening at the bottom of a large cask closed. It is really beautiful!”
Benjamin brushed the bronze plate lightly with the tips of his fingers. It was decorated with two stylized fish crossing their fins and rubbing their scales in a wave-like movement. The bolt was attached to a wooden support that had the patina of age, and it worked perfectly.
“Are you going to charge me too high a price for this, as usual?”
“I haven’t shown you everything yet,” the salesman whispered with a mischievous look.
He slid his tall, emaciated body between two armoires and came back out with an average-sized painting he placed in front of Cooker.
“And what do you say about this?”
Benjamin kept silent. There was much to say. He had been looking for this type of representation for quite some time. It was clear that the canvas dated to the end of the 19th century. A stocky winemaker armed with a glass pipette stood next to a line of oak barrels. A candle on a stool gave off enough light to brighten the cellar. The simple balanced composition, the fluidity, the blended colors and the steady strokes gave this work a timeless feel while placing it in a clear framework. The man’s clothing was the only element that spoke of the period, while the entire scene had the scent of eternity. How many times had Cooker found himself in exactly the same position, among the casks, pipette in hand, sampling wine in nothing but candlelight?
“Do you even dare put a price on this painting?” the winemaker inquired without looking up.
The antique dealer dared and even quoted an amount high enough not to need repeating.
“You know I don’t like to haggle. I have always found that to be somewhat vulgar, but nonetheless …”
“Neither do I, and there is no discussion,” the salesman said with a tact that Cooker appreciated, “and that is why I’ll give you the barrel lock if you take the painting.”
There would be no more bargaining. Benjamin left carrying both items and promised to send a check within the week.
The crossing home seemed longer than it had earlier, but as usual, the ferry only took 20 minutes to reach the Médoc embankment. Had he gone by land, he would have had to drive over to the Aquitaine Bridge, which would have cost him an hour and a half.
Benjamin was eager to show Elisabeth his purchases. She liked the painting but made a face when she saw the bronze lock. She was glad he did not come back with yet another grape-harvesting basket, wooden topping-up utensil or silver tasting cup.
The evening was pleasant. Bacchus recovered from the day’s excitement in front of the fireplace, where a fine blaze was crackling. The couple enjoyed a tête-à-tête with a meal that was simple and frugal enough to allow them to get to bed early.
When his wife had finally fallen asleep, and he felt her calm breathing, the winemaker got up quietly, put on a robe and went to his office. He checked the ink cartridge in his fountain pen, placed a blank piece of paper at a slight angle under his left hand and began to write about the Blaye citadel.
“History sometimes has an irony that’s worth recalling. The land of Bordeaux owes its salvation to a child of Burgundy. When King Louis XIV ordered Vauban, who was born in 1633 in Saint-Léger-de-Foucheret, to build a fortress, several projects had already been …”
Benjamin sighed. A bad start. Not entirely useless, but a little heavy-handed. The city of Blaye had already made it through several centuries before the man from Burgundy unrolled his plans. Yes, Vauban did leave behind a 94-acre fortress with a 2,640-foot-long wall around it and underground passages to protect 2,000 people, but the city’s inhabitants hadn’t waited for him to build rough-and-ready bastions when violent confrontations reddened both estuary and dry land.
He opened the cigar box at the corner of his desk and lit up a sweet San Luis Rey robusto, drawing in a deep puff with great pleasure as he leaned back on the headrest. The vitola immediately delivered spicy flavors of green pepper and cinnamon. The smoke, which was not too ample, rose up, round and light. The tobacco was not strong, but developed an aromatic richness in which he could easily discern honey, caramel and cacao. Benjamin remained in the same position for over half an hour, his mind elsewhere. Then he returned to his pen.
“Blaye is called Bordeaux’s first rampart. Much is said about this rocky headland. Many popular legends and a few invented stories surround it. Some say that its name comes from the Latin belli via (translation: war road); others affirm that a Gallic warrior named Blavos (Blavius in Latin) founded it; people also talk about Blavia, a Celtic word that landed here on the battle path. In any case, Blaye’s history is above all …”
Benjamin started yawing. The muscles in his back were sore, and his eyes were stinging. He set down his pen without capping it, crushed out his half-smoked Havana in the ashtray, turned out his lamp and joined Elisabeth, who, snuggled in the warmth of the comforter, grumbled when she felt his cold body.
4
AFTER ANSWERING SOME LETTERS from some persnickety readers, filling out a check for the antique dealer in Blaye, checking with his secretary to make sure that the invoice registry was updated and planning several meetings for fall with Beaujolais estate owners, Benjamin Cooker left his office on the Allée de Tourny and walked to the laboratory he had set up on the Cours du Chapeau Rouge. Virgile was early and had introduced himself to the staff. By the time his employer came in, the assistant was already deep in discussion with Alexandrine de la Palussière, who was in charge of biological testing.
“I see you did not waste any time getting to know each other,” Cooker commented, catching his breath.
“Hello, Mr. Cooker. You didn’t take the elevator?” asked the young woman.
Virgile Lanssien shook Cooker’s hand, taking care to control his grip.
“Don’t worry, Alexandrine, I’ll survive,” the winemaker said, still panting, his hands on his lower back. “It will be my only workout for the entire month.”
Alexandrine de la Palussière was one of those discreetly elegant Bordeaux women who always wear clamdiggers to show off their tanned calves. She was a stylish woman around 30, of average height and delicate, with a small upturned nose, green eyes and bob-cut auburn hair held back with a clear mother-of-pearl headband. She was wearing a white blouse with the first two buttons astutely undone and a pair o
f beige leather flats. She was the last child in a line of fallen aristocrats and was not afraid to depart from the rules of her rank by pursuing advanced studies and working like a common mortal. In times past, her family had owned several acres of vineyards in the Haut Médoc, dominated by an enormous château. Her grandfather had ended up squandering this inheritance in Biarritz casinos and the posh bedrooms of high-class prostitutes. Unlike some penniless petty nobles who clung to appearances, this young woman bore no resemblance to the “dying race” that could still be found in Bordeaux. She was bright, pragmatic and unpretentious, satisfied to contribute her scientific knowledge to the world of wine that had for so long enriched and nourished her family.
“Where do things stand, Alexandrine?” Cooker asked calmly, once his breathing had returned to normal.
“I need five to eight days to get a reliable colony count.”
“That is way too long!”
“But that is the time needed to correctly isolate the yeast and take a count.”
“You have gotten me used to miracles. We need to find a quicker solution. Even some sort of emergency response, if possible!”
“I can’t make any promises, but we could possibly get quicker results by combining plating with a direct colony hybridization. We’ll need to use a specific sporulating Brettanomyces probe coupled with peroxidase. After membrane filtration and culture, in 48 hours I should be able to tell you if I can detect the micro-colonies.”
“Please, Alexandrine, make things simple!” Benjamin cut in.
The young woman widened her large green almond-shaped eyes, which would have appeared sweet, were it not for a sudden dark trace of irritation.
“Mr. Cooker, you know well enough that it is never simple to make things simple!”
“I’ll grant you that,” Benjamin said in a softer tone.
“What I can tell you is that there is no doubt about the nature of the contamination.”
“There’s no mistaking that smell of horse piss,” said Virgile.
Alexandrine ignored the comment and continued. “The smell of ethyl phenol becomes clearly perceptible once you reach 600 micrograms per liter. I believe there’s an even greater concentration in the samples you brought.”
“Do you need more samples?”
“It would be interesting to follow any changes on a daily basis while we are waiting for the first results.”
“Virgile will take care of that.”
“With pleasure,” the assistant murmured without turning his attention away from Alexandrine.
“If I use a consistent approach, I should be able to get a rather reliable quantification, although I won’t be able to discriminate perfectly between the living and dead cells, but it would be a good start. An increase in the concentration of phenols would certainly allow me to determine the threshold of alternation, and we could come up with a response strategy,” she said.
She perceived worry underneath Cooker’s imperturbable stiff upper lip, and to reassure him, she shrugged her shoulders and gave him an intentionally innocent look, as if to excuse herself for not being able to say more.
“The only decision you can make today is to isolate the contaminated wine.”
“Thank you, Alexandrine. I would like you to be the only person working on this case. Handle it personally, and make sure that it stays confidential.”
“Of course, Mr. Cooker. You can count on me. I do not know the owner of this estate, but tell him that we will find a solution.”
“I will try to reassure him.”
“In any case, insist that he do nothing until I have defined the exact pH of the wine, the oxidation and the colonies. He needs to avoid sorbic acid at all costs. It is totally ineffective in red wines, because it is very unstable in the presence of the high levels of lactic acid bacteria found in reds.”
“Call me as soon as you have something new,” the winemaker concluded.
Then he quickly made the rounds in the offices to greet the other staff members and introduce Virgile Lanssien. He couldn’t help pausing for a moment at the windows that opened onto the port, and then he reviewed the results of urethane-concentration tests that had been done on stone-fruit brandy. He scanned the report without going into the details, which covered the carcinogenic risk linked to urethane and fruit purees.
When it came time to leave the lab, he found Virgile doing his best to engage Alexandrine. He signaled that it was time to leave and walked out to the landing. His assistant was quick to join him.
“I understand your attraction, Virgile,” Cooker said in a low voice. “But you would be wrong to pursue her.”
“Is that so?”
“I think that boys have little effect on her.”
“Are you saying she’s …”
“I think that she is more moved by my secretary.”
“I never would have thought it. And I usually have a nose for detecting that kind of woman.”
“Virgile, think about getting your nose out of the glass from time to time.”
THE Rue des Faures smelled of lamb. A heavy aroma of spices and grilled meat rose up in thick swirls from the hodgepodge of Arab shops, suitcase salesmen and faded bistros. Benjamin pretended he was lost in the small streets weaving through the Saint-Michel neighborhood, lingering a little to take full advantage of the moment and enjoy these few stolen hours away from the upscale atmosphere in the Quinconces quarter.
Virgile had returned to Moniales Haut-Brion with instructions to carefully monitor the sample-taking process. They would meet around 10 a.m. the next day to come up with a battle plan to fight the yeast, whose presence the winemaker was having trouble explaining.
Cooker was holding the painting he had bought in Blaye against his chest. He had wrapped it carefully in brown paper and was on his way to Pascale Dartigeas’ restoration workshop near the Passage Saint-Michel. He pressed the doorbell and was greeted by the recorded croaking of a tree frog, which had replaced the original chimes.
“Come in, Mr. Cooker!”
Pascale Dartigeas appeared in a long white smock, a dainty paintbrush in her hand and a rebellious lock of hair hovering on her forehead. She was a beautiful 40. When she smiled, crow’s-feet appeared at the corners of her blue-gray eyes, and pretty dimples emerged in her cheeks. She showed the signs of a woman who had experienced a lot of unrestrained, selfless love, along with intense joy and periods of abandonment. She had certainly been disappointed by the thoughtlessness of men.
“Hello, Pascale. You look well today.”
“Thank you,” she said, brushing the hair off her forehead. “I hope you are not here for your overmantel panel. It won’t be ready before the end of the month, if all goes well.”
“Don’t worry. Take your time. I only came to show you my latest extravagance.”
“Extravagant people feel very much at home here.”
Benjamin carefully removed the brown paper and showed his painting with a satisfied smile.
“What do you think of that?”
“I have nothing to say, Mr. Cooker. It is more than charming. It is …”
“ …just what I love,” the winemaker interrupted.
“I have no doubt about that, but mostly, it’s surprising. I mean, it’s very curious. Have you noticed the man’s face?”
“What’s in the man’s face? Is something wrong with it?” Cooker grumbled, suddenly worried.
“Nothing serious, but it doesn’t look like it was part of the original painting. I think it has been repainted. It’s a rough job and not very recent, but it was added by another painter.”
“Are you sure?”
The art restorer called out to her intern, who was working in the back room, and asked her to bring a black light.
“Let me introduce Julie, who is doing her apprenticeship.”
Benjamin nodded at the young blond with big blue eyes. The cleavage of her small breasts and her long legs molded into a pair of tight jeans would certainly have driven Virgile wild
. She held an ultraviolet lamp and flashed an ambiguous smile that threw the winemaker off a little. Pascale Dartigeas ran the Wood’s lamp above the canvas, and a dark stain suddenly appeared. All three of them were leaning over the painting as she repeated the operation several times.
“There is no doubt. It has been repainted. I propose we clean it up and see what’s underneath. Julie can start on that later today. Of course, that is if you will allow her to get a little behind on your overmantel, because she is the one who is working with solvents right now. For the time being, I’m touching up the wings of this Baroque angel you see over there, and I don’t have time to do the cleaning myself.”
“No problem, Pascale, I trust your judgment. And my overmantel appears to be in good hands.”
The apprentice, who was either timid or just reserved, ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth. She seemed to hesitate about something.
“What is it, Julie? I get the impression you’d like to say something,” Pascale said.
“Have you talked to Mr. Cooker about the second overmantel?” the intern asked in a soft voice.
“Oh, of course, what was I thinking?” said the art restorer. “I almost forgot to tell you that Julie worked on an overmantel that was identical to yours when she did her internship with my colleagues on Rue Notre-Dame.
Benjamin appeared irritated by this news. He had been certain that it was unique. He would demand an explanation from his antique dealer in Blaye soon enough, but Julie’s steady voice and blue eyes calmed him. There was grape harvesting, with people in the rows of grapevines, a small creek and rather tall, very green trees on the side, along with a manor with ocher-colored walls at the bottom. Yet, even though the cracking and snail-shaped scaling were similar, the paintings were not exactly the same. No doubt the same painter had done both overmantels. The aging, impasto, traces of mold, gaps and colors she had to regenerate all corresponded.
When she finished talking, Benjamin had trouble detaching himself from her blue eyes, which seemed to become brighter and brighter as her face became animated.
Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) Page 3
