Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series)

by Alaux, Jean-Pierre

  “Sit down,” Ténotier muttered, pointing to a chair where a tabby, as scrawny as all the others, was sleeping.

  Cooker preferred to sit on a heavily clawed stool. The old man set two sturdy glasses down on the table, grabbed a cardboard pack and poured some red wine.

  “We’ll drink together. I’m sure it’s been quite some time since you tasted a wine like this one, ” Ténotier threw out, with a hint of provocation in his raspy voice.

  Without letting himself be disconcerted, Benjamin lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of revolting plonk that burned his throat.

  “That’s true. It has been a long time,” he said, making a face.

  “Everything is going to hell! I drink something that doesn’t deserve to be called wine from square packs and cardboard kegs. I drink shit because I’m poor, sir, but I’m not ashamed to be poor. I’m only ashamed of the times we live in, of what people throw to guys like me. I’m ashamed that people actually dare to sell crap like this on the pretext that others like me can’t afford anything else. It’s shit, I’m telling you!”

  Despite his advanced state of alcoholism and his dirty fingernails, the havoc on his face and the feverish look of a man at the end of his rope, Ferdinand Ténotier had a lyrical disillusionment like that of a wise man who had probed humanity until he reached self-disgust and hatred.

  “This is the first time I’ve been here. I had no idea that the development was so spread out,” Cooker noted, thinking it best to change the subject.

  “It’s a ghost town, a concrete cemetery, that’s what it has become! And the middle classes get off on moving into a historical area. It’s all being bought up by architects, doctors, lawyers—people who think they know something. They invest in cultural heritage. Some heritage. Just junk!”

  “It is a surprising place, though. Have you lived here for a long time?”

  “Fifty years. A little more even. My parents lived here before me. They were real working-class people. Good people. Nothing in their heads, but huge hearts. We’re all screwed. The working class is all gone.”

  Ferdinand Ténotier downed his glass in one shot, and served himself another, a lost look in his eyes, his head down.

  “It was a pioneering idea in the 1920s,” Cooker threw out. “This concrete housing development with large picture windows, private bathrooms and gardens.”

  Benjamin regretted his words as soon as they came out. The old man threw him a ferocious look and spilled his wine on his shirtsleeve.

  “Le Corbusier was just a bunch of theories. He was an ideological con artist, a communist asshole who sold his body to patrons to build dumps for the proletariat. I shit on those illusionists who preached social justice, humankind and all that crap, who filled their pockets until they burst. And above all, sir, they continue to sermonize, to give us lessons about how to live.

  “Mediocrity killed off all the real thinkers. Nobody ever listens to people who really think, because thinking is harmful. You understand, nobody will lend an ear to anyone who says what we really are and where we are really headed. We should blow up all the universities and schools where they don’t even know how to speak Latin anymore, where everyone thinks that Roland Garros was a tennis player. They harbor soft asses, ignoramuses, little neat and clean people, career-minded shit eaters who will go on strike only when it doesn’t interfere with their schedules and their vacation leave. They want to pretend to carry out a revolution, but only if it doesn’t threaten their mortgages, their lawnmowers and their savings accounts. They are dying of comfort, with empty heads and full stomachs.

  “Le Corbusier loved glory, medals and money. The bastard hated the people. He knew nothing about the little people. Because they stink, they smell of sweat, they shit out kids by the truckload, they use bad words, the people! Mind you, Le Corbusier had at least one thing going for him, his first name was Charles Edouard, and that nobody could take away from him. He had a very French first name, a small saving grace.”

  He drank two glasses of wine, one after the other, wiped off his mustache with the back of his hand and stared at his visitor. His eyes were bright, very black, and it was impossible to make out the pupils.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, rubbing his stubble-covered cheeks.

  Cooker took out the picture of his overmantel and held it out to the old man, who slid it under a ray of warm light.

  “Ah. You too,” Ténotier chuckled.

  “You certainly know that Pierre Baldès has a similar painting. I guess he also came to see you.”

  “Yes, he came, and he refused to drink my poison. Spineless!”

  Benjamin took this as a compliment.

  “Come on, let’s drink to all those delicate doctors! Bottoms up! Raise your glass to all those savant monkeys who can’t read Hippocrates in the original.” Ferdinand burped and filled up his glass.

  They clinked glasses loudly.

  “Your painting is Mission Haut-Brion. The doc’s represents the Château de Haut-Brion. I have nothing else to tell you.”

  “That I knew already,” Cooker said, without showing any impatience. “But what is most astonishing is that they go together. The right side of my painting joins up perfectly with the left side of Baldès’. They must be part of a two-paneled work made for some sort of mural.”

  “Probably,” grumbled Ferdinand.

  “And I would be curious to know where they come from, since the theme is rather rare.”

  “Your lousy paintings aren’t famous. They’re hackwork.”

  “I think they are rather well done for that kind of painting,” Benjamin said. “A little naive, yes, and rather broadly drawn, but they are not lacking in character. And the lighting is well mastered, particularly where the sky meets the trees. They have a nice brushstroke to them.”

  “Well, sir, my basic principle is that one should account for one’s taste. Only the spineless say the contrary. But I don’t have time to lose on two worthless sketches just because they were painted locally.”

  Cooker caught the reference as it flew by.

  “You are sure that these works were painted by an artist in the region? Perhaps a painter from Pessac?”

  “When the doc came to see me, he brought his painting, and I admit I had the feeling I had seen it somewhere before. But at the time, I couldn’t for the life of me remember where.”

  “And has it come back to you since?” the winemaker asked, trying not to look too insistent.

  “I think so.”

  Ferdinand Ténotier filled up their glasses again. He threw the empty cardboard carton to the back of the room and leaned over to grab another one from the floor.

  “These overmantels were in the reading room at the Château de Vallon,” the old man said, clicking his tongue. “I saw them at the beginning of the 1950s, when they were still hanging in the back of the room, above the chimney made of Pyrenees marble.”

  “The Château de Vallon?” Cooker said, surprised. “I seem to recall seeing a label with that name on it on an old bottle.”

  “If you still have that bottle, guard it with vigilance. It’s a relic!”

  “I don’t have it in my wine cellar, but I certainly saw it at an auction or something like that.”

  “Those damn urban planners made their way through there!” barked the old man. “The Château de Vallon was totally destroyed in 1966, and you’ll find a housing project where it stood. Isn’t the republic a beautiful thing! Always ready to trash what belongs to us! The châteaux in Pessac that have been torn down in recent years all belonged to us, to you, to me, to everyone! We all own our history! The people of France. I tell you, it all belongs to the people of France! What a wretched shame. A handsome château like Vallon. It was built in 1777 by Victor Louis, the same architect who built Bordeaux’s Grand Théâtre. It had a sloping roof, a large flight of stairs, huge grounds, and then there were the vineyards. Several acres that produced a fine red Graves. If my memory still serves me, I believe
it got a silver medal at the Bordeaux fair in 1895.”

  “I can check my archives, if you’re interested,” Cooker offered.

  “You want archives. I’ll show you some you’ll never see again.”

  Ténotier had trouble standing up, then staggered to the greasy buffet and brought back a shoebox full of sepia-colored photographs and ancient postcards. He hands trembled.

  “Look at that! Château Fanning-Lafontaine, torn down in 1980. The grounds were remarkable, with rare tree species, including some Louisiana cypress that the Baron Sarget imported. There were acres and acres of vineyards right next to the Haut-Brion estates. There was a workers clinic there before it got sold off. Now, if you go there, you’ll find a housing development. Here, this is a picture of the Château Condom, which belonged to Dr. Azam, the father-in-law of the great historian Camille Jullian. Another housing development. In 1921! They drew a road right through the middle of the estate, right there where you see the orange trees. It’s sickening. What a waste!”

  He gulped another glass of wine as he continued to go through his documents. His commentary became harsher and harsher. There was sadness mixed with violence in the pathetic drunk’s voice. Benjamin couldn’t help feeling something himself in seeing these images of a time that had already been forgotten, lost in gravel and cement blocks. The Château Monbalon, an estate that spread over 120 acres, including 12 with vineyards, five with prairies, five more that were farmed and 89 of pinewood forest and private hunting grounds. There, in 1927, the Mirante housing development grew up like a wart, before the château itself was destroyed in 1982 because it had fallen into disrepair. The same thing happened to the Domaine de Macédo and the Château Haut-Bourgailh. Just like the great estate of Haut-Livrac, one of the oldest noble homes in Pessac, which produced 15 barrels of fine wine annually before urbanization devoured it. The same destiny was reserved for the Château Haut-Lévêque and its six barrels of red wine, the Château Bersol and its 15 barrels and Château Halloran, which gave 26 barrels of well-structured wine before being turned into a hospital. All these elegant monuments, surrounded by landscaped grounds and domesticated vines that disappeared at the dawn of the 1960s to create an industrial zone.

  Ténotier had a few words, a date, a reminder, a legend, a political allusion, a sharp comment or a mean statement to make for each photo. This man’s bad-mouthing and his endless knowledge began to seduce Cooker, who enjoyed listening to the point of sipping his cheap wine without balking.

  “Here is a postcard I always have a hard time looking at,” the old man continued. “The Château Saige-Formanoir pissed out 15 or so tanks of red wine at the end of the 19th century, and then the 15 acres of vineyards were pulled out in 1956, the same year the Garonne River froze over. That was the beginning of the end. Starting in 1970, they built eight 18-story buildings on the estate. All that so that 4,000 idiots could have hot water, an elevator, a tiny balcony and the opportunity to hear their neighbors fart.

  “But the worst was the university, with its 30,000 students who arrived in 1979. Are there really 30,000 kids capable of reasoning and writing a dissertation without any spelling mistakes? Do we really need all those fact-stuffed brains to keep the country going? They tore down the Château de Rocquencourt to set up a sports complex on the campus: nearly 620 acres of intellectual desert for brats who drink soft drinks and don’t give a shit that it wrecked acres of vineyards!”

  There was already a serious dent in the second carton of wine when old Ferdinand began telling the story of the Haut-Brion domaine. Of course, Benjamin knew the basic outline, as he had become interested in this exceptional spot very early on, but he was dumbfounded by the fallen professor’s encyclopedic knowledge; the institution must have judged him as unrespectable as he was cumbersome. Ténotier was a smooth drunk. His hesitating elocution and crimson face showed his fatigue, but he babbled with panache and made theatrical gestures as if inspired. His presentation was littered with anecdotes, details, dynastic successions, historical perspectives, religious references, risqué episodes, obscure testimonials, legal cases, pertinent trade analyses, climate vagaries and vintages.

  “Do you know The Pessac March? The Saint-Orens family wrote the song, the music by the father and the words by the son. A fine piece of idiocy,” he cried out as he began to sing with all his heart.

  Pessac, jewel of the ’burbs,

  Making Bordeaux ever more superb,

  Eastward, on for some miles,

  Can be seen its gleaming roof tiles.

  All around its aging church

  And the old town’s ancient birch

  Dressed with pretty, stylish flowers

  Are rising practical, modern towers.

  His voice was quaking, both fluty and hoarse. He caught his breath between two stanzas.

  Both farmers and winemaker manors

  Pushed away by town planners

  As outward grew the city,

  With no nostalgia and no pity.

  Yet Pessac held tight in its bosom

  A gem worthy of its wisdom,

  That source of ever-grand wine,

  Moniales Haut-Brion and its vine.

  He dragged the last note on, suspended in the air of sour wine.

  “And it goes on like that for eight verses. Those were the days,” he said, looking into the distance. “Today, if you want to dabble in bagpipes, you have to confine yourself to the Pessac Accordion Club in a concrete music school. You’ll never make good musicians by locking them up in an old factory. They need to breathe, to fill their lungs. There’s also the Pessac ditty by Edouard Trouilh. The melody is not very complicated, only one flat in the key.

  He blew his nose into his fingers, cleared his throat and began to hum an approximate melody.

  Two things keep me alive,

  The only reasons I survive,

  Haut-Brion and my Belle

  Nothing could be so swell,

  One for its drunken charms,

  The other to hold in my arms.

  “It’s all bunk, trivial, but it was a time when you could still sing after a meal without being considered an idiot. The girls were trusting, and the boys as voracious as they are today, but things were less formal. There used to be education in this country, before we lost the colonies. Education is very important, Mr. Cooker. It has nothing to do with breeding. You are an educated man. It shows. You are capable of putting up with a washed-up old man like me for more than an hour, and you are not just pretending to listen. I could almost end up liking you, if I still believed in people.”

  Benjamin remained silent. The old man’s cheap wine had started to go to his head and upset his stomach.

  “I’m going to tell you something, Mr. Cooker,” Ferdinand murmured in a pasty voice blurred by alcohol. Your two overmantels, well, the truth is, there were three of them.”

  Benjamin’s eyes widened.

  “You mean it was a triptych?”

  “Yes, three panels. Not one more, not one less. You weren’t expecting that, were you?”

  “And the other painting completes the scene, I suppose?”

  “Evidently. And the solution, well, you’ll find it in water. For once, that will be a change for you.”

  “In water? What do you mean?”

  “Today, Mr. Cooker, you shouldn’t invest in wine. If you want to become rich and hold everyone by the short hairs, sell water. Soon enough, you’ll have to beg to get a cup of water, and when it comes to that, well, we’re on our way out! Water’s a gift from God! It’s all going to hell, I tell you. It’s all going to hell!”

  Ferdinand Ténotier yawned, belched several times and placed his hands flat on the greasy, wine-stained table. A black and white cat came and rubbed against his right cheek. The old man swiped at it, sending it to the other side of the room. Then he placed his purple face on his crossed arms and fell asleep.

  7

  A CEMENT TRUCK RUMBLED in the near distance, covering up the chirping birds that had
nested in the trees on the grounds. As Benjamin walked, he looked to the top of the century-old cedar tree, where a turtledove was shaking itself. He followed the thin flow of water in the Peugue that ran between patches of herbs. The creek slowly made its way around large roots that had grown out of the ground, blocking its passage and forcing it to make detours.

  Cooker was exhausted after his meeting in the Cité Frugès. The old Ténotier’s awful cheap wine had left his mouth cottony, the smell of cat piss was still stinging his nostrils, and after spending so much time in the shadows, he had to keep blinking his eyes. Those two hours were enough to wipe out a tasting career and compromise his reputation as a winemaker. People were busy at work near the Moniales Haut-Brion cellars, which brought him quickly back to reality. He greeted the assembled crowd from a distance so as not to burn himself in the steam that was coming out of the barrels. They had started washing the contaminated casks early that morning. Virgile left the team to pursue the work while he reported to his boss.

  “Everything went perfectly, sir. We finished decanting around 1 a.m. We attacked disinfecting at 7 and we should be finished soon.”

  “Is everyone following the instructions?” Benjamin asked without showing concern for his assistant’s fatigue.

  The young man was clearly strong and well built, spoiled by nature even, yet his face was pale and wrinkled from a lack of sleep. He had deep purple bags under his eyes.

  “I followed your instructions closely,” the assistant said. “I added the same amount of ozone to each barrel, and I raised the water temperature to 200 degrees.”

  “Did you use constant pressure?”

  “Yes, but then I prolonged the treatment time and spent a quarter of an hour on each barrel. I think that should do it.”

  “You still have to beware of ozone: It’s an effective disinfectant, but it causes oxidation that could promote certain volatile substances that influence the wine’s aroma or the wood’s quality.”

  “We rinsed at high pressure, sir. Long enough. I really followed your recommendations to the letter.”