Espresso Tales (25 page)

68. A Petrus Opportunity

Shortly before twelve, Bruce shut up the shop and made his way to the Bailie Bar at the end of the road. He was pleased with what he had achieved in the two hours or so that he had been working. He had dusted down all the shelves, swept the floor, and washed the front display window. That afternoon he would take delivery of furniture, including supplies of stationery and a filing cabinet. Then all he would need before he started selling would be the stock, which he was now about to arrange with Harry, his acquaintance from the rugby club and wholesaler of fine wines.

“Walked past your place,” said Harry as he came and joined Bruce at the circular bar. “Nice position. You're going to clean up there, Bruce. No doubt about it.”

“You think so?” asked Bruce. He was pleased to receive this verdict from somebody in the trade. Of course he never really doubted it, but it was good to have it confirmed.

“Yes, but you've got to have the right stock,” said Harry. “You know what they say about retail? Position, position, position. Yes, that's right, but you could also say: stock, stock, stock.”

Bruce listened carefully. “Could you?” he asked.

Harry reached out and punched him playfully on the arm. “That's where I come in, Bruce, my friend! I'll fix you up with deals that you just won't believe. I'm telling you.” He paused. “But let me buy you a drink? What will you have?”

Bruce smiled. “A glass of Chateau Petrus 1982,” said Bruce.

“Ha, ha,” said Harry. “Very funny. But you obviously know what you're talking about. That 1982 vintage was amazing. Really amazing.”

They were served their drinks and went to sit down at one of the tables. Harry had with him an attaché case, out of which he took a red folder. “Here's the list,” he said. “It's arranged geographically. Shall we start with France?”

“I'm more of a New World man,” said Bruce. “California. Oz. New Zealand.”

“Very discerning of you,” said Harry. “And I couldn't agree more. But you mustn't forget the Old World, you know. People still like French wine, and you'll have to sell it. That's where I come in. I can get you the stuff that sells. I know what people want.”

Bruce liked Harry. He liked his directness and his confidence. He was the sort of man who let you know exactly where you stood. There would be no shadow-boxing with him over price–Harry would come right out with it, man to man, and you would know that the price he was asking was a fair one.

Harry began to page through his list. “France,” he said. “Main choices: Bordeaux and Burgundy. I can do both for you at very good prices–including, since you mention it, Chateau Petrus. I did tell you about a Petrus opportunity, didn't I?”

Bruce nodded. “I must confess I've never had a bottle of that,” he said.

“Bottle!” said Harry. “Most people would count themselves lucky to get a glass! But…” He lowered his voice, although the bar was quite empty. “But I have my sources, and I can get you three cases, yes, three cases of the 1990! It'll drink well in a few years, but it will keep for at least thirty. Not that it'll be keeping on your shelves, Bruce! You put that stuff on your shelf, word gets round, and in no time at all you'll have half of Scotland beating a path to your door.”

“What makes it so great?” asked Bruce.

“Oh, please Louise!–as our non-rugby-playing friends would say. That stuff is perfection. Balanced just right. Subtle aromas. Deep purple. Bags of complexity. Everything, all in one bottle. You taste it, Bruce, and you'll think that you've died and gone to heaven. It's the stuff the Pope drinks. Fantastic!”

“So that's why it's expensive?”

Harry nodded. “Look at the wine auction records. That wine goes through the roof. Two thousand pounds a bottle–easy!–if it's the right vintage. The 1990 goes for eight hundred a bottle. That's not per case, Bruce, that's per bottle. So nine thousand quid a case, for starters. Unless…”

Bruce, who had been looking at the floor, now looked up. “Unless…”

Harry lowered his voice again. “Unless you have contacts. And I do. I have friends out there in Pomerol. Old friends. They see me right.”

“You're very lucky,” said Bruce. “Contacts are important.”

“Well, you have contacts yourself, Bruce,” said Harry. “You've got me. I'm a contact of yours. I've got contacts of my own. My contacts are your contacts. And that's how I can get you your three cases of Petrus. Simple.”

Bruce looked doubtful. “I'm just starting,” he said. “I'm not sure if I've got the money.”

“Money's not a problem,” said Harry quickly. “I'm going to sell you this at a price you won't believe. It'll be my gesture of support for your new business.”

Bruce caught a glimpse of himself in a brewer's mirror on the other side of the room. The sight encouraged him.

“How much?” he asked.

“All right,” said Harry. “Three cases of the 1990 at eight hundred quid a case. Three times eight hundred makes two thousand. No, it doesn't, ha, ha! Deliberate error! Two thousand four hundred. But…but there's an additional discount of four hundred since you're starting up. And then you take off the three hundred that I always take off when it's somebody from the rugby club on the other side. That makes seventeen hundred! Can you believe that? Seventeen hundred for three cases of 1900 Petrus!”

Bruce thought about it for a moment. He had hoped to keep his initial stock purchases as cheap as possible and then to branch out into more expensive wines later on, but this seemed to be too good an offer to turn down.

“When can I get them?” he asked.

“They're in the car,” said Bruce. “Round the corner in Royal Circus.”

Bruce hesitated. Harry looked at him.

“You're never going to get an offer like this again, Bruce,” said Harry gravely. “You know that, don't you?”

“You're on,” said Bruce.

69. The Best Laid Plans o' Mice and Men

Pleased beyond measure by the purchase of three cases of Chateau Petrus 1990 Pomerol at a price which could only be considered a steal, Bruce returned to the flat in Scotland Street that evening in high spirits. He saw that Pat's door was closed and knocked on it to offer to make her a cup of coffee. She was a strange girl, in his view, but she had proved to be a reasonably congenial flatmate and a reliable tenant.

She opened the door in her stockinged feet.

“I'll make you coffee if you like,” said Bruce generously. “Unless you've got any better plans.”

Pat accepted his invitation and followed him into the kitchen. She asked him if he had started his new business.

“Today,” said Bruce. “I collected the keys of the shop. And I bought some wine.” He paused. The thought had suddenly occurred to him that he might need some help from time to time. Pat might well be interested. He would not have to pay her too much and she was at least a known quantity. “You wouldn't by any chance like a part-time job, Patty-girl?”

Pat was taken by surprise. She could imagine nothing worse than working for Bruce. “That's kind of you,” she said. “But I think that I'm all right where I am. Matthew needs me.”

Bruce's face took on a sneering expression. “He can't cope, can he? What a disaster area that guy is. If it weren't for his old man he'd go to the wall. Believe me.”

Pat remained calm. “Actually, he made a profit in the first part of the year. Eleven thousand pounds.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Eleven grand? How did he do that?”

“Buying and selling,” said Pat. “That's what galleries do, you know.”

Bruce shrugged. “Running a gallery must be child's play–if Matthew can make a profit. Mind you, eleven grand is not all that much these days.”

“You'll make much more?” asked Pat.

“Sure,” said Bruce, spooning coffee into the cafetière. “Much more.” He turned to Pat. “You want to hear what I bought today? Well, I'll tell you. Three cases of Chateau Petrus at just over fifty quid a bottle. Can you believe that?”

“Fifty?” exclaimed Pat.

“Yes,” said Bruce, smirking. “Remember that this is not the sort of stuff you take to parties. This is wine for the serious connoisseur. This will go down well in Charlotte Square and Moray Place.”

The mention of Moray Place reminded Pat of her invitation. Should she tell Bruce about it? Would he merely laugh at her, or would he be able to give her advice?

“Moray Place?” said Pat.

“Yes,” said Bruce. “That's what I said. Moray Place. It's a posh part of the New Town. Posh people live there. Toffs, you know. They like Chateau Petrus in Moray Place.”

Pat decided to tell him about the invitation. “I've been invited to a nudist picnic in Moray Place Gardens,” she said. “I'm not sure whether I should go.”

Bruce stared at her in astonishment. “A nudist picnic in Moray Place Gardens? Oh, Patsy girl, that's really rich! Classic!”

Pat looked down at the floor. She might have known that he would not take it seriously. Now he started to let out strange whoops and began to take his shirt off, as if engaged in a striptease. “Moray Place!” he crooned. “Nickety, nackety, naked! Moray Place!” Dropping his shirt, he began to gyrate around the room, pausing to admire the reflection of his bare chest in the glass screen of the microwave.

Pat looked at him in disgust. “You're ridiculous,” she said. “You're…very immature, you know.”

“
Moi?
Immature?” crooned Bruce. “Who's the nudist, Patsy-Patsy? Who's the little blushing nudist? Hoop, hooop!”

Pat left the kitchen and stormed back into her room, slamming the door behind her. Bruce completed a few more steps of his dance and then completed his coffee preparations. Cradling his cup in his left hand, he sat down by the telephone and dialled his friend George.

“I've got the shop,” he said. “And it's great. You must come and see it.”

At the other end of the line, George sounded cautious. “And the rent?” Bruce told him the figure.

“That sounds a bit steep,” said George. “For that size of place.”

“Steep, George?” exclaimed Bruce. “Do you know what Edinburgh commercial rents are like? Because I do, and I'm telling you that's nothing–nothing, compared with what some people have to pay. We're quids-in with that rent, I'm telling you.”

George listened.

“And here's another thing, George,” Bruce went on. “I've already got a very good deal on some stock. Have you heard of Chateau Petrus?”

“As it happens, I have,” said George. “It's a very good French wine, isn't it? It sells for fancy prices.”

“It certainly does,” Bruce replied. “You can pay several thousand pounds for a bottle, if the vintage is right.”

“And you've found some?” asked George.

Bruce laughed. “It was more a case of the Chateau Petrus finding me. Three cases at an amazingly low price.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then George spoke again. “There's usually a reason for low prices. You get what you paid for.”

Bruce stiffened. George was an accountant, he thought, and they could be such pedants. “What do you mean by that, George?”

George sounded unusually assertive. “I meant just what I said, Bruce. I meant that if you get something at a knock-down price it's either stolen or it's not what it claims to be.”

“I know that this stuff's not hot,” said Bruce quickly. “The person I bought it from is in the rugby club. He doesn't go in for dealing in stolen property. And how could it not be what it claims to be? I've looked at it. The labels say Chateau Petrus–complete with a picture of the man himself, Saint Peter.”

George let him finish. Then he said: “Have you heard of wine frauds, Bruce?”

For a moment, Bruce said nothing. He swallowed. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Wine frauds? Forgery?”

“Yes,” said George. “Everybody knows about those fake watches and designer jeans. But not everybody knows that there are gallons of fake wine out there. There's been a big problem with it in the Far East. I've read all about it. There are gangs that make replica bottles and labels and slap them on bottles of French plonk. Then they sell it to the victim. The patsy, they call him.”

Bruce looked at his reflection in the microwave again. Do I look like a patsy? he asked himself. And then it occurred to him that he had just called Pat “patsy”. And he was the real patsy all along.

70. Cyril Howls

Matthew was the first to arrive at Big Lou's that morning. Big Lou, standing at her coffee bar, wiping the surface with a cloth, nodded a greeting to him.

“You know, Big Lou,” said Matthew, “you're a bit like Sisyphus with that cloth of yours. Wiping, wiping, wiping.” He paused, and smiled at her. “Do you know who Sisyphus was?”

Big Lou bristled. “As it happens, I ken fine well who he was. He had to push a rock up a hill until it rolled down again and then he pushed it up. And so on.” She gave the counter a furious wipe. “Do you know who Albert Camus was?”

Matthew shook his head. “Some Frenchman, I suppose.”

“Well, before you start condescending to me, Matthew, my friend, you might go and look him up. He wrote a book called
The Myth of Sisyphus
. Have you read it?”

Matthew held up his hands in surrender. “Nope. Never read it. But you have, Lou? You must have.”

“Aye,” said Big Lou. “I've read it. And it's all about finding meaning in life and getting through this world without committing suicide. Camus says that we can find meaning in a limited context and that is enough. He says we shall never be able to answer the really big questions.”

“I never thought we could,” said Matthew, taking his accustomed seat. “I've never even been able to find out what the really big questions are.”

Big Lou tossed her cloth aside and began to prepare Matthew's cup of coffee. As she did so, the door opened and Angus Lordie walked in, accompanied by his dog, Cyril.

“Lou, my love, make one for me too,” said Angus. “Very strong. I have to paint a tricky sitter today, and I need my strength.”

“And what's wrong with him?” asked Lou.

“Actually, it's a woman,” said Angus. “And that's the problem. She's got three chins too many and I don't know what to do about them.”

“Leave them out,” said Lou. “No woman would object to that.”

“I could do that,” said Angus. “But then will it look like her at all? People expect one to get a fair likeness.”

“You'll think of something,” said Lou. “Here's your coffee. And don't let that dug of yours drink out of my saucer. I don't want any of his germs to end up on the crockery.”

“There's nothing so healthy as a dog's mouth,” said Angus Lordie defensively. “Cats' mouths are full of all sorts of dreadful beasties, but a dog's lick is positively antiseptic. That's well-known.”

Angus moved over to the table where Matthew was sitting and took the seat opposite him. Cyril, released from his leash, lay down at his master's feet, his tail curled about him, his nose tucked into the hair of his stomach, but one eye half-open, looking at Matthew's right ankle, which was just a few inches away.

“You went for that dinner with your father?” asked Angus. “Weren't you rather dreading it?”

“I was dreading it,” said Matthew. “But I went along.”

“And?”

“And it wasn't a roaring success. He brought his new…” it was an effort for him to say the word, but he said it nonetheless, “…mistress.”

“How interesting!” said Angus.

Big Lou raised an eyebrow. “Mistress? What do you mean by that, Matthew?”

“Well, that's what she is,” he said. “She's his mistress.”

“But he's a widower, isn't he?” Big Lou persisted. “You shouldn't call her that! That's downright insulting.”

Angus Lordie shook a finger at him. “Yes, Matthew! You should be ashamed of yourself! She's his
partner,
that's what she is. That's the approved term these days. Tut, tut!”

Matthew shrugged. “Whatever you say. But I think of her as his mistress.”

“Well, you need to think again,” said Big Lou. “What's she like, anyway?”

“A gold-digger,” said Matthew.

Big Lou stared at him. “How do you know she's a gold-digger? Did she say or do anything that made you think that?”

“It's pretty obvious,” said Matthew. “There she is, at least ten, maybe fifteen years younger than him, probably more, and she's all over him. She must know that he's not short of the readies.”

“Maybe she likes him,” said Big Lou. “Ten years isn't all that big a gap.”

While this discussion was raging back and forth, Cyril had edged slightly closer to Matthew's ankles. He was now no longer curled up, but was lying flat on the ground, his front paws extended before him, his chin resting on the ground between his legs, his eyes fixed on the exposed flesh above the top of Matthew's socks.

Cyril was a good dog. Although he liked to drink beer in the Cumberland Bar and to wink at girls, he had few other vices, and in particular he was not aggressive. He liked people, in general, and was always happy to lick any hand which was extended to him in friendship. If people insisted on throwing sticks, Cyril would always fetch them, although he found this tedious and pointless. But he liked to oblige, and he knew that it was obliging to do the things that people expected dogs to do.

But there was something about Matthew's ankles that was just absurdly tempting. They were not fat ankles, they were average ankles. Nor were they any different in colour from most of the other ankles that dogs usually saw. In smell, they were neutral, and so there was no olfactory clue to their attractiveness. It's just that they were immensely attractive to a dog, and at that moment Cyril could think of nothing else that he would prefer to do than to bite them.

But he could not. He knew the consequences of succumbing to the temptation. There would be the most awful row and he would be beaten by his father, as he thought of Angus. There would be raised voices and words that frightened him. And worst of all there would be disgrace, and a feeling that the human world did not want him to be part of it. There would be rejection and exclusion in the most unambiguous sense.

Suddenly, Cyril stood up. He turned away from Matthew's ankles–put them beyond temptation–and began to howl. He lifted his head in the air and howled, pouring into the sound all the sadness of his world and of the canine condition. It was a howl of such regret and sorrow as to melt ilka heart, ilka heart.

And none of those present knew why he cried.