“Do you know the owner of the overmantel, Mademoiselle?” he asked, visibly excited.
“It belongs to Doctor Bladès, an ear-nose-throat specialist who works in the Saint-Gènes neighborhood. I think his office in on the Cours de l’Argonne.”
“I’m curious to see this overmantel. Can you see the little chapel near the manor house?”
“No, and it is just that detail that gives character to yours. Particularly the edge of the facade, which is especially delicate,” Julie said.
“It is the Mission Haut-Brion chapel. Monks dedicated it to the Virgin Mary toward the end of the 17th century. There is no mistaking it, and I agree with you, it gives the painting character.”
“I took a picture of your overmantel before restoring it, if you are interested,” said Pascale Dartigeas. “I’ll lend it to you, but you’ll have to remember to bring it back for my records. In the meantime, what do we do with this repainted face of your cellar master?”
“I don’t know. Do your best, as always!”
“In that case, I have a proposition for you. We could do a portrait of you and replace the man’s face with yours. This was what people used to do, and I’m sure that this man has taken on the various identities of each one of the painting’s owners.”
The winemaker found the idea amusing and promised to come back with a picture for the restorer to use as inspiration. Then he asked to consult one of the eight volumes of the Benezit Dictionary of Artists to find out who was behind the painting’s signature. It was a certain T. Roussy, whom he found quickly on page 395 of volume seven covering artists with names between “Poute” and “Syn,” as shown in gold lettering on the spine of the book, which was the color of wine lees. Benjamin removed the cap of his fountain pen, took hold of his spiral notebook and leaned over the table to jot down the information.
“Toussaint Roussy, born in Sète (Hérault) in 1847 (French School). Studied at the School of Fine Arts. Curator at the museum in Sète. His career began at the 1877 Salon. The Sète museum has the following works: The Fiddler’s Lunch, The Swiss Church, Entry to the Port of Sète, Beer Hour. The museum in Béziers has The Cooper’s Refreshment Stall.”
The winemaker closed the thick volume and took leave of the two women with a courteous deference that exhibited his traditional upbringing and good British manners. When he stepped out of the workshop, he crossed the Place Saint-Michel and bought a lamb kebab from a tiny take-out. Then he went to sit at the base of the bell tower facing the church.
Around him, a group of acne-faced teenagers were playing with a soft-drink can. Young Kabyles from northern Algeria formed another group under a basketball hoop near the Gothic bell tower. On the steps in front of the church, a couple of lovers whispered to each other. Nobody paid any attention to Benjamin Cooker. The sun was warm, and no heads turned to see him savor his too-fatty, too-spicy overcooked sandwich that should have ended up in the first garbage can he found.
5
THE SKY SUDDENLY TURNED overcast in the early afternoon. The tide change swept in darker clouds, and a light, damp wind began to blow. The shrieking of the seagulls dissipated along the docks, a reminder that the ocean lapped right up to the city gates.
Before returning to Grangebelle, where he hoped to work on his manuscript, Benjamin Cooker made a detour to Moniales Haut-Brion. He found Virgile busy in the cellars with two of the estate’s workers. The contaminated barrels had been isolated, and they were preparing to decant them into stainless steel tanks. The winemaker’s arrival was not particularly appreciated when he announced that two other barrels needed to be set apart as quickly as possible. Alexandrine de la Palussière had left a message on Benjamin’s cell phone, indicating the numbers of the barrels in which she had detected worrisome quantities of the yeast.
“I haven’t yet fully realized what’s happening to me,” Denis Massepain said with a sigh.
“Keep your spirits up. We will find a solution,” said Cooker. “I can’t guarantee that we will save the entire production, but we will limit the damage.”
“Six barrels! Do you realize what that means? Six barrels are already ruined.”
Benjamin quickly calculated the extent of the disaster. That represented around 1,800 bottles, as each barrel held just over 59 gallons. If they didn’t find an effective parry, this would be a serious loss for the winery, which had only 12.85 acres of vineyard. He was not the full-time winemaker at this estate, but he knew its ins and outs perfectly. They left nothing to chance here, and the Moniales could have served as an example for any winemaking school. They set their planting density correctly at 9,500 plants per 2.5 acres. They grew grape varieties that corresponded to the Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée for Pessac-Léognan, with 40 percent merlot, 15 percent cabernet franc and 45 percent cabernet sauvignon. The average age of the vines was 30 years. They neglected none of the necessary steps in caring for the vines’ development, with experienced personnel removing shoots, pruning buds and thinning out leaves and plants. Hand harvesting meant that each parcel got the greatest care. Each batch spent a reasonable period of 15 to 24 days in tanks. Barrel aging lasted around 18 months, favoring the most traditional malolactic fermentation. And nobody could reproach sanitation on the premises.
“I just can’t figure out what’s gone wrong. This is very strange indeed,” Benjamin said.
“What can we do?” Denis asked, running a nervous hand through his hair.
“OK, so we have three new barrels and three others dating from last year. Is that correct?”
“Yes, you know that I renew half of the barrels each year. That is exactly what I can’t explain. It can’t come from the wood!”
“I know your supplier. It’s impossible that he would produce inferior barrels. My secretary called the cooperage, and they checked their orders and delivery dates. No problems have been signaled in other estates. But I don’t agree that it doesn’t come from the wood.”
“Why? What’s your idea?”
“Wood is the only vector to facilitate such a quick contamination. You know as well as I do that it harbors and protects all kinds of contaminants. One slip in monitoring or a sulfur dioxide addition that’s a little shy and …”
“Let me stop you right there,” Denis Massepain interrupted dryly. “If the wood were contaminated, it would not be limited to a specific number of barrels. The whole production would be polluted, if only because of handling and the cross-use of cellar equipment.”
“Virgile!” Benjamin cried out in the direction of the fermenting room. “Come here. I need to ask you something.”
The assistant appeared without delay, his face sweating.
“Do you think you are able to decant the six barrels?”
“Right now?” the assistant asked, a little taken aback.
“Why? Are you in some hurry? Do you have a date?”
“No, sir, but, uh, that could take some time. We won’t finish before the middle of the night.”
“In this line of work, you need to know how to stay up late, young man. And I think that today you are going to experience your first night nursing the sick.”
“I can ask my two workers to stay,” said the owner. “And I’ll change, because I think that four will not be too many to manage the task.”
So Denis Massepain returned to the manor house to change out of his city clothes, and Cooker took his assistant aside to talk to him in a soft voice. He reviewed each of the steps involved in decanting the barrels and asked him to make sure he eliminated the lees and deposits, to do it sheltered from air and to reference the metal tanks using the barrel numbers. He also asked that each of the empty barrels be set outside the cellar and covered with tarps.
“Do you have any questions?” the winemaker asked, looking at his watch.
Virgile promised that he would follow his instructions exactly and reminded Cooker that it was a bad time to take the beltway or the main streets. He would end up stuck in traffic with everyone coming home from wo
rk.
“You’re right,” Benjamin said, making a face. “I had better not return to Médoc right away. I’ll drop in on someone who is not expecting me.”
DR. Pierre Baldès had cleverly distributed the folds of his shirt in a vain attempt to hide a slight paunch. He had a plain elegance found in men who have been established for some time and a certain bearing despite his growing portliness and skin exposed too often to the sun. Benjamin nodded a greeting as he entered the office, feeling a little sleepy after spending two hours in the waiting room browsing the mundane gossip in the magazines and listening to annoyed patients snort.
“Please sit down, sir. What can I do for you?” The ENT doctor asked with that particular indifference found in older clinical practitioners.
“Well, I’m quite healthy. My nose is intact, and my palate still alert. I do not have any problems to speak of, Doctor.”
The doctor stared at Cooker, wondering if he was dealing with a joker or a depressive.
“Please excuse me. I have not introduced myself. Benjamin Cooker here. I have come to discuss something that is, well, uh, personal.”
“I’m reassured. For a minute there, I thought I had a crazy one on my hands.” Pierre Baldès smiled, pinching his lips a little.
“I would like to talk to you about a painting,” Benjamin said, getting straight to the point.
“A painting? Correct me if I’m wrong, you are Cooker, from the Cooker Guide?”
“Yes, and as it turns out, we both bought the same painting. Well, nearly the same. Let’s just say that we have two paintings that look very much the same.”
“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” said the doctor. “We have two paintings that are the same, but they’re not really the same painting? And what work of art are you referring to?”
“A late 19th-century overmantel that you had restored on Rue Notre-Dame. It is a rural scene showing grape harvesting under a blue sky, with a building in the background.”
“Yes, I have that painting. And you are telling me that you own the same one or nearly the same one? I won’t hide that I am very surprised. It is a rather minor work. Well done, yes, but fairly naive. I do not think that it could have been interesting enough to copy.”
“That is what I think, as well,” interrupted Benjamin. “And that is why I have come to see you. Would it be too much to ask to have five minutes of your time to see your overmantel? I won’t be long. The time of an appointment, no longer.”
“An appointment that’s not covered by your insurance?” the doctor joked. “In that case, it could end up costing you a lot.”
“I don’t want to impose on you. I could stop by another day.”
“No, not at all. Follow me.”
They went through a hidden doorway and climbed the stairs to Baldès’ apartment. It was well appointed, elegant but conventional. It looked like a spread in an interior decorating magazine, with just that touch of originality, that fanciful detail and hint of color acceptable and necessary to justify the decorator’s fee.
The overmantel reigned over a white marble fireplace in front of two large purple sofas. The frame had been restored with gold leaf, and the original mirror seemed to be just as mottled as Cooker’s. There was no doubt about it, they were made by the same artist. The same soft light, subdued by dark leafy vegetation, bathed the scene. The rows of vines formed waves descending toward the bottom of the hill, giving an identical perspective, with the sole difference being that the people here had their backs turned to the painter and were harvesting in small groups of two or three. In the distance, it was easy to make out the stout silhouette of the manor house, whose roof could belong to none other than the Haut-Brion château.
“Just what I thought,” Benjamin murmured, moving closer to the painting.
“And that is?”
“You see those two square towers on the left and the projection on the right wing, with its two pointed-roof turrets? It can be none other than Haut-Brion.”
“I confirm,” Baldès said in a near whisper, as if he did not want to disturb Cooker’s thoughts.
“That is a very fine surprise. Very fine, indeed! I own your painting’s twin, except that mine represents Mission Haut-Brion.”
“And it is a harvest scene, as well?” the doctor asked.
“With just a few minor differences. It has the same perspective, the same tones, the same characters and the same trees. I have a snapshot from before it was cleaned and restored.”
Benjamin stepped back a couple of feet and took out the picture that Pascale Dartigeas had lent him. He closed one eye and held it at arm’s length toward the overmantel.
“Yes, I’m under the impression that these two painting form just one, Dr. Baldès. Look closely. Yours is on the right, and the trees on the left side fit perfectly with the trees on mine.”
The doctor took the photograph and lifted it to see it in perspective. He half-closed his left eye and looked perplexed.
“Focus on the left side of the painting,” Benjamin advised. “After awhile, it will jump out at you.”
“You’re right. The two scenes go together. It’s incredible. There is a perfect continuity between the poplar trees, the cloud, the little pond and the rows of grapevines.”
“Do you know where yours came from?” Cooker asked.
“I bought it from an antique dealer in Maynac. For next to nothing, I must admit. But the restoration cost me quite a bit.”
“I found mine in Blaye. The price was not particularly excessive either, but there is quite a bit of restoration work to fix some serious tears and fly specks, and the sky needs touching up.”
“They must have been stored under terrible conditions.”
“I have to admit that I would be curious to find out where they came from.”
“Probably a local château or some bourgeois home. You’ll need to ask an art specialist or historian. I know of only one person who could tell you, if he were willing to talk to you.”
“And where would I find him?”
“In Pessac. His name is Ferdinand Ténotier, and he lives in the Cité Frugès. He’s easy to find, and you can’t mistake him. A strange fellow, but he has a brilliant mind. He used to teach at the university, which apparently fired him for some serious fault. He’s been retired for as long as I’ve known him, and there is no telling how old he is.”
“A historian?”
“Better than that. He has no specialty but is an expert in everything. You can always try to see him, but I wish you luck with that.”
Before taking his leave, Benjamin offered to buy the doctor’s overmantel, clearly admitting that he was willing to pay a nice sum for it. The doctor gave an evasive and polite response of, “Perhaps. I’ll have to think about it.” Benjamin could tell from Pierre Baldès’ voice that he would never sell his painting. He hid his disappointment and agreed to autograph a copy of the latest edition of the Cooker Guide, which the doctor had on his shelf.
6
COOKER DROVE SLOWLY THROUGH the town of Pessac and then parked his convertible in the shade of a scraggly pine tree. It did not take him long to find the old Ferdinand Ténotier in the Cité Frugès, a working-class neighborhood designed in 1925 by Le Corbusier at the request of industrialist Henri Frugès. The homes were made of reinforced concrete and had angular facades and suspended decks. A few had been renovated over the years, their original blue and green hues covered up. On the whole, however, the modernist garden housing development was a chaotic landscape, with blocks of eroded buildings emerging from sickly vegetation.
When Benjamin asked around to find Ténotier’s address, some people tensed up, while others joked. All agreed that the former professor was crazy and dangerous. He lived at 12 Rue Le Corbusier in a ramshackle building where the dreams of the great visionary architect were showing a number of cracks. Benjamin planted himself in front of the structure and observed the leprous walls, the original wooden shutters all askew, the rusted dr
ainpipes, sheet-metal roofing that was falling in on one side and the large patches of mold that marbled the gray cement.
He knocked several times before a red, somewhat bitter-looking face deigned to appear in the half-open doorway. Benjamin Cooker introduced himself, smiling pleasantly and saying his name in a clear voice that didn’t seem overly ingratiating.
“I know who you are,” the man said curtly.
“Thank you for seeing me. I need your insight, Mr. Ténotier. I was told that you are the only …”
“Who’s talking about me?”
The interview was going to be touch and go. The man was suspicious, but Benjamin had expected this. Ténotier had an extremely piercing look and poor teeth behind thin lips. He had gone several days without shaving. His greasy hair fell under the collar of a grimy shirt. He neglected his nails. His nose was spongy, his cheeks hollow and full of blotches, his back was hunched and his breath was bad enough to asphyxiate a herd of buffaloes. He reeked of solitude and hatred, intelligence and abandonment. A man to avoid.
“Dr. Pierre Baldès told me that you most certainly could …”
“That one still thinks about me, does he?”
“He had nothing but good to say about you.”
“Compliments are cheap.”
“I assure you …”
“Will it take long?” the old man spat out in a wine-dripped hiccup.
“I’ll be quick, no more than a quarter of an hour,” Benjamin said with a composure he often called upon in prickly situations.
“In that case,” Ténotier grumbled, disappearing to let the winemaker pass.
As soon as Cooker entered the main room, a violent smell of ammonia stung his throat and nose. A cat brushed between his legs, followed by two others, and then came a whole drove of raw-boned felines he could vaguely make out in the darkness. A shredded blanket covered a picture window, and weak rays of light filtered through the torn fabric.
Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) Page 4
