Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series)

by Alaux, Jean-Pierre

  “Very good, then. Don’t change anything,” Benjamin said, waving at Denis Massepain, who was walking toward them from the château.

  The assistant disappeared into the thick white steam that was rising from the barrels being rinsed with the high-pressure stream of hot water. Cooker watched from the corner of his eye as the Moniales estate owner approached slowly. Virgile was demonstrating a lot of energy, precise gestures and concentration, showing natural authority that allowed him to give orders to the workers without being arrogant.

  “Your new employee seems quite good,” Denis said, giving him a tired handshake.

  “Yes, he’s a good recruit. He works hard and keeps smiling. That is becoming hard to find.”

  “Is everything OK, Benjamin?”

  “I think so. We’ll proceed with sulfiting tomorrow. Doing it today would have been ideal, but my lab manager has to finish something urgent and cannot make it earlier.”

  “Did you tell her?” Denis asked with a worried look. “Does she really need to be here?”

  “I had to. But you have nothing to fear. Alexandrine de la Palussière can be trusted. I need her here to adapt the sulfur dioxide dosage. She is the one who recommended that we use ozone to clean the barrels, and I think it’s the best technique. Chlorine could accelerate the formation of trichlorophenol, which would then break down into trichloranisole. Don’t ask me for the details. I don’t know anything more, but from experience I can guarantee that we will avoid any moldy aromas this way. And it’s better to forget any chemical detergents and fungicides such as quaternary ammonium compound, because they always leave a residue after rinsing.”

  “I’ll leave you to do what you have to do. I don’t have a choice, do I?” sighed Massepain. “I haven’t slept since this whole thing began, and I prefer not to talk too much about it to Thérèse. She worries enough as it is.”

  “You’re right. The best thing to do for now is to stand by your team and wait until the end of next week. I think that in a few days I’ll be able to tell you where things stand.”

  Benjamin and his friend took a few steps around the building, making small talk that was not entirely futile. It relaxed the atmosphere. The winemaker took advantage of the moment to get a closer look at the new cabernet franc stock that had just been planted on a small parcel. Tender sprouts were starting to bud; they would not give clusters for another two or three years. He glanced over the meticulous rows of vines, quickly judging the state of the soil composed of thick Gunz gravel, sand and clay and noted with pleasure that the vineyards had just been plowed. His eyes stopped for a moment on the Haut-Brion estate hilltop that dominated the neighborhood. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and called out to his assistant, “Are you almost finished? We’re off in five minutes, Virgile!”

  THE two men dropped the most recent samples at the lab and by some miracle found a parking spot between two construction-site fences, near the Place de la Bourse. Then they walked up the Cours du Chapeau Rouge, passing in front of the Grand Théâtre’s massive columns and then turning to reach the Allée de Tourny and stop at Noailles. Benjamin had the near-daily habit of lunching at this elegant brasserie, where he was greeted with somewhat affected nods from some Bordeaux citizens of note, although they never dared to disturb him.

  The respectable Mr. Cooker’s table had been held for him, as usual, and the two men were welcomed with the polite friendliness given to long-time regulars. They were ravenous and opted for two quick starters followed by grilled fish served with a dry Pessac-Léognan white. Benjamin let his assistant choose the wine, which took quite some time as he hesitated between a Château Carbonnieux and a Château Ferran before finally deciding on a 1998 Château Latour-Martillac.

  “You deserve it, Virgile!”

  “I have to admit that there’s no time to get bored with you!”

  They talked about this and that, trivial things and insignificant memories that are nonetheless important when two people are getting to know one another. At the end of the meal, Cooker offered the young man a cigar, but he declined politely in favor of an espresso. Then Cooker suggested a digestive walk under the Jardin Public’s blue cedar trees. Before going to the park, Virgile asked to stop at his studio apartment on Rue Saint-Rémi, so they made a quick detour along the top of Rue Sainte-Catherine. Benjamin waited outside, and his assistant came back down quickly, holding a large plastic bag.

  “What are lugging around in that sack?” asked Cooker.

  “Stale bread. I keep it to feed the ducks and the fish in the park.”

  “Do you do that a lot?”

  “I’m a country boy, and where I come from nothing goes to waste. I can’t get myself to throw bread away.”

  “I feel 20 years younger in your company, my dear Virgile,” Cooker said, clearly moved. “I often brought my daughter to the park, and every time, we had our stash of stale bread.”

  “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

  “Ah, Virgile, if you only knew Margaux. She is pretty as a picture, 24 years old and is now living in New York.”

  “What is she doing there?”

  “She is in the import-export business, specialized in regional products.”

  Benjamin said nothing more on the subject. He didn’t like his life to be an open book, and he made it a habit to never give himself away in the first chapters. Virgile asked no other questions, and they walked in silence to the gilded gates opening onto the public park’s bouquet of trees.

  Gravel crunched under their heels. They passed a bronze bust of the French writer François Mauriac, sculpted by the Russian-born artist Ossip Zadkine. The sculptor had given the writer an eagle’s profile, high cheekbones, a sharply carved chin, an excessively hollowed neck and the face of a mystic ascetic, showing a deep understanding of the Malaga writer’s dual nature. At the end of the central walkway, they passed the small Guérin family puppet-show stage with its wooden shutters closed. They stopped on a metal footbridge that crossed over one of the branches of the large pond.

  “When I was a kid, I was scared to death of falling in among the carp,” Benjamin said, looking dreamily at the water. “Later, I was even more frightened when Margaux leaned over the railing.”

  “Well, it is teeming with fish!” Virgile said, tossing in some stale crumbs.

  Hundreds of fish rose to the surface in a single movement and then launched into a violent combat. Benjamin and Virgile observed this sticky carpet of open jaws, bulging eyes and knife-like fins with distaste. The carp made a ghoulish clicking sound as they swallowed the pieces of bread. Some ducks tried their luck in the fray, in vain. They floundered in the whirlpool of viscous scales without managing to collect anything but the crumbs of the feast.

  The two men then crossed the playground to reach the other part of the pond, where they spread out breadcrumbs for the numerous sparrows that nested near the spillway. Two blond mothers appeared on a walkway. They had the elegant air of the well bred from the Quinconces neighborhood. They were shouting among the flowerbeds, sounding as desperate as they looked sophisticated, “Jean-Baptiste! Eugénie!”

  A uniformed park patrol with a wild mustache followed them and looked through the bushes. Other mothers in straight dark-blue skirts and white blouses had joined the search, followed by a stream of children in English-style clothing. There was something terribly chic about the chaos.

  “Can I be frank with you?” Virgile asked suddenly as he scattered crumbs on the grass.

  “I don’t expect anything less of you,” Cooker answered deliberately.

  “Well, OK, so, uh, I really think that, well, you might think I’m paranoid, but this spoilage thing, it just doesn’t make sense. Not in an estate like Moniales Haut-Brion. Particularly Brettanomyces. Especially not in a cellar that is maintained so well. I’ve been hanging around with the team for a few days now, and I assure you that they are very serious.”

  “I know,” Cooker said.

  “And Denis Massepain knows
the business. He doesn’t let anything get by him, has an eye on everything. He’s a real winemaker, and I don’t see how he could have let a contamination of this scope happen.”

  “I think the same.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, there is only one possibility, but it’s hard to voice such a thing.”

  “Go ahead, Virgile. Don’t beat around the bush. Say what you have to say.”

  “Someone had to slip those spores into the barrels,” the assistant said, tossing a small slice of bread to a turkey with a low-hanging wattle. “I’ve thought it over and over, and I can’t think of any other possibility.”

  “You are not alone. I’ve been thinking that for a while now.”

  “Do you know if he has any enemies? Someone who is angry enough to ruin his life?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Denis is loyal, calm and correct. But I am not a good judge. He’s my friend.”

  “Who knows? Maybe something happened with a member of his staff?”

  “His workers and cellar master have been there for years, and the atmosphere at the estate is relatively serene. He is surrounded by motivated people. No, I doubt it’s an inside job.”

  “Maybe one of his competitors wants to throw him off balance? Someone who is jealous and wants to cast a shadow on the estate? Someone full of envy who wants to put him on his knees?”

  Cooker took the final chunk of bread from the bottom of the plastic bag and threw it near a swan, which barely stretched its neck before continuing on its way with disdain.

  “If the profession had to resolve its differences with biological warfare, where would we be, my dear Virgile? You know the wine world. It’s a milieu where people observe and watch each other, sometimes with fear but always with respect, and everyone knows how to recognize his colleagues’ value. Estate owners even help each other to a certain extent. You have to admit that the professional groups set up for each appellation bring the harvesters together and make them stronger. Or at least that is what we all pretend to believe! When there are hostile feelings, they play out in the trading halls. Nobody gives any gifts when it comes to selling one’s stock. But everyone is always courteous. May the best man win!”

  “I want to believe you, but I am convinced that there is someone around the Moniales who visited the cellar and who knows perfectly well how to taint a barrel of wine. I don’t know how he managed, but he knows the premises and how to get in. There must not be that many people who have the keys and know the alarm code. Denis Massepain is the only one who can tell us for sure.”

  The two worried mothers had wound up finding their children. A crowd had formed around a bush where the little Jean-Baptiste and Eugénie were hiding, trying to strangle a mallard.

  “Your reasoning is sound. Have you read Montesquieu?”

  “No, I haven’t read any Montesquieu, nor have I touched Montaigne, and I never finished a single book by Mauriac. I’ve done none of the local writers. I guess I should be a little ashamed, living in Bordeaux and all.

  “Mostly, it’s too bad,” said Cooker.

  “And what does he have to say, your Montesquieu?”

  “If my memory serves me, he says, ‘I prefer the company of peasants, because they have not been educated sufficiently to reason incorrectly.’”

  8

  VIRGILE STEERED THE CAR with his left hand and scratched his head with his right. He looked preoccupied. His lips were scrunched, and his eyebrows were knotted.

  “That Montesquieu wrote some bullshit.”

  “Who hasn’t?” Cooker sighed.

  “I remember one of my French teachers telling a not-so-glorious story about him.”

  “Is that so?”

  “In one of his books he wrote that King François I had refused gifts offered by Christopher Columbus, but François I wasn’t even born when Columbus discovered America!”

  “Just goes to show you, my dear Virgile, that you should always check your sources. That said, I’ve always been suspicious of that philosopher. In fact, Montesquieu seriously gets on my nerves. I shouldn’t tell you that, because in this town it is not looked well upon to criticize local heroes, particularly when that glory reaches beyond the nearby Libourne hills.”

  “Mum’s the word, I promise!” Virgile smiled.

  “Lesson givers have always exasperated me. Montesquieu spread all kinds of holier-than-thou theories about slavery, none of which kept him from stuffing himself when Bordeaux’s slave traders invited him over. The world is filled with moralizers who forget to sweep in front of their own doors. Are you interested in history? You know, in those things that often bore young people your age?”

  “When you’re born in Bergerac, you can’t escape the past. Take my word for it,” Virgile responded. “I’ve always found it fascinating, but sometimes I feel crushed by all those old stones and a little overshadowed by the illustrious dead and memories of grand battles.”

  “Battles that had no reason for being,” added Benjamin, “But we have to know about them to keep history from repeating itself. Yesterday, I met an amazing fellow. One day I’ll take you to see him. If you like the little stories that make up the big picture of history, you’ll spend an enriching, albeit slightly frightening, time with him.”

  Benjamin told Virgile about Ferdinand Ténotier, sparing no detail, including the overpowering cat smell, the cheap wine, the sorry state of the apartment, the singular atmosphere that reigned in the small Cité Frugès streets, the postcards and the terribly destiny of Pessac’s châteaux. Virgile listened carefully, and the drive seemed short, despite the traffic on the boulevards and the inevitable bottleneck as they neared the Barrière de Pessac intersection. He asked a few questions about Le Corbusier, whose name he vaguely recognized, although he had never seen any of his work. Cooker offered an explanation that he tried to make impartial, without any value judgments. The young man would have to make up his own mind, and he did not want to influence him on a topic about which he was no specialist. Le Corbusier had left his mark in the Aquitaine region, from the first experimental houses he built in Lège-Cap-Ferret in 1923 to the futurist buildings constructed in Pessac two years later. The winemaker did not feel especially moved by these structures, but their innovative spirit commanded respect.

  Through this winding discussion, Virgile discovered his employer’s passion for antiques and painting. The assistant’s attention sharpened when Benjamin talked to him about the two paintings of the Château Haut-Brion and the Mission Haut-Brion, especially when he mentioned the mysterious third painting. The young man did not comment, though. He finally admitted that he didn’t know exactly what an overmantel was. Cooker was happy to explain.

  “It’s a painting or a decorative panel. At the beginning of the 17th century, these panels were often set in moldings and had mirrors. Overmantel used to refer to the decorative woodwork that went along with the artwork, but now it has come to mean the entire piece, which often hangs over a fireplace. Painted canvases most often have a frame with a small mirror underneath. In French, it’s called a trumeau, which comes from the Old French trumel, which meant leg fat, or for a butcher, a beef shank. The word evolved to mean the part of the wall between two windows.”

  “That’s wild,” Virgile said. “You could make a fortune on game shows!”

  Cooker smiled and asked him to slow down when they entered Pessac. They crept along the Avenue Jean-Jaurès, a ribbon of pavement bordered on both sides by waves of vineyards whose undulating movement broke the monotony of the suburbs.

  “Turn at the next gate to your right,” Benjamin said.

  “Are we going to …”

  “Yes, we are,” Cooker said, suddenly curt.

  Virgile skillfully maneuvered the car and drove slowly under a brown stone archway, stopping in the shadow of Château Haut-Brion. His hands were still grasping the steering wheel when he looked up like an incredulous and timid child, visibly impressed to find himself in the heart of an estate whose prestige had long been
the thing of dreams. Benjamin was barely out of the car when a tall, thin man, who was wearing a twill suit and appeared to be in his 40s, greeted him with notable respect. Benjamin asked if it was possible to disturb the steward.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Cooker. He is absent, but you are always welcome at Haut-Brion. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I won’t be long. I just need to make a topographical check for the next edition of the guide, and I need to take some notes from the top of the plateau.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  “Thank you. That will not be necessary, I know the way.”

  The winemaker and his assistant took off on foot amid the rows of grapevines, climbing the hump of greenery without saying a word. It would have been like being in the countryside, were it not for the incessant dull humming from the north. It sounded like a distant storm brewing in the heat, but in reality it was the barely muffled sound of Bordeaux, mixed with the peripheral grumblings that spread across the suburbs.

  They reached the top of the hill in no time. Benjamin caught his breath while he scanned the urban landscape that extended below. He knew immediately that his intuition was correct and that he had finally found what the old Ténotier was referring to. Why didn’t he figure it out sooner? Virgile observed his employer’s satisfied stiffness without understanding what was going on.

  “Of course,” Cooker mumbled. “It jumps out at you!”

  He approached the water tower that stood in the middle of the Haut-Brion estate, an enormous concrete wart planted right in the vineyards, like a constant reminder that here nature was on shaky ground, barely accepted and on borrowed time. Benjamin looked up. It was not so much the structure’s ugliness that caused him to despair, but all those cubic meters of water standing over one of the most prestigious wines in the world, like a vulgar form of provocation.

  “This is the water the old man was talking about!” Cooker said, touching the tower’s roughcast.

  He took out the picture of his overmantel and looked toward Mission Haut-Brion dozing at the foot of the hillock. It was all there: the dormer windows in the slate roof, the chapel with its stone cross, the two columns at the front gate, the barn transformed into a cellar flanking the building. Of course the trees had changed. Some were gone, others had grown. The lines of the vineyard had also evolved somewhat, and now the surrounding area bristled with buildings and electric poles. Modern housing encumbered the horizon, but the perspectives fit perfectly, only slightly transposed and compacted by the artist. More than a century earlier, a local painter had set himself up with his easel in this very spot, prepared his paints, drawn his sketches and placed his spots of color amid a group of grape harvesters.